The scene of the crime.

Yesterday, I got a lunch invitation. Where do you wish to go, I pray? asked my invitor. Many places came to mind, but most were either expensive or, uh, weird. Whilst showering before said meeting, I could hear the faint whisper of that small white teapot. It was singing to me.

So wild, standing there, with her hands in her hair
I can’t help remember just where she touched me
There’s still no face here in her place
So cool, she was like jazz on a summer’s day
Music, high and sweet, then she just blew away
Now she can’t be that warm with the wind in her arms

Valerie, call on me-call on me, Valerie
Come and see me-I’m the same boy I used to be

Love songs fill the night, but they don’t tell it all
About how lovers cry out just like they’re dying
Her cries hang there in time somewhere
Someday, some good wind may blow her back to me
Some night I may hear her like she used to be
No it can’t be that warm with the wind in her arms
So cool, she was like jazz on a summer’s day
Music, high and sweet, then she just blew away
Don’t tell me you’re warm with the wind in your arms

Unlike Odysseus, who had (apparently) a ready supply of beeswax with which he could entomb his crew's ears, I got nuthin'. I called my friend and told him that we would be going to Chow Bar.

*audible gasp*

I had to know! I had to know if it really was the tea or not! Brooke HAD, I thought, tried a spoonful of my Indonesian fried rice, and since she is like a quarter of my weight, it would have gotten her all effed up first. So I went. I got the Indonesian fried rice. From the kitchen, the teapot crooned sweetly to me to suckle upon its evil teat of goodness. I thought to the delightful conversation I was having, and I realized suddenly: I bet he can't hear that teapot. If he did, he wasn't saying anything. So I ignored it, I didn't get incredibly, 1970s hash-bong-filled-with-rum high. As I walked out into a bright sunny Saturday, I thought I could hear a muffled weeping.

The highlight of my day today (Sunday) has been, so far, watching the Blair Witch Project in my darkened room under a flannel blankie with some pine-nut couscous. It was divine. Well, except for the part where I shriek, every time I watch the damn movie, at the end. You all know the part. If you don't, I'm not going to be the one to spoil THAT surprise. Once, when I took my lungfish Elizabeth to see the Sixth Sense in Bangor, these two very loud women sat behind us and commented quite extensively at every single goddamn thing that happened. About twenty minutes into it, one of the girls turned to the other and said:

G1: "Girl, ain't you be knowin' the secret yet?"
G2: "Bitch, tell me!"
G1: "Damn, ho, what? Choo been eatin' brain tumors for breakfast?"
G2: "I'm gonna cut'choo real bad it you don't front up."
G1: "Bitch, he dead!"

My proposal about this kind of thing is as follows. I believe that, when I become President (VOTE DOM 2016!), I will pass a law that allows people who spoil movie secrets in public to get toilet swirlies in truck-stop bathrooms that haven't been swabbed since Harry Truman's administration. There will be a special van parked outside every movie theater, you know, like one of those vans that animal control uses, with a sad-face with poo in his hair emblazoned on the side as a warning. My crack teams would scout out the foulest bathrooms and the guilty would be taken in twist-tie handcuffs for their sentencing. Same goes for people who talk the whole way through movies. They would be taken, instead, to "Etiquitte Farms", where they would sit in a mock-movie theater with electrodes attached to very private parts, and everytime they would even crunch their popcorn obnoxiously enough electricty to light a giant redneck Christmas tree for an hour would be passed through them.

I also have very...special...feelings about people who use "Old English" for their store/establishment names. Instances of the use of "ye" and "olde" and "shoppe" seem to be on the rise, much like rise in criminal activity (social degeneration at work? food for thought). My proposal is thus: for each use of an "Old English"-ism, I will tax the property owner $25,000 as a flat-tax: I'll call it the "Officious Use of Antiquated Spelling", or the OUAS, tax. (That's WASS prounounced, by the way.) So, in practice:

Ye Shop: $25,000
Ye Olde Shop: $50,000
Ye Olde Tyme Shop: $75,000
Ye Olde Tyme Barne Shoppe: The proprietor would be removed by force from the establishment and would be summarily executed in front of it. Four "Old English" words are quite enough, don't you think?

Oh, come now, you think me fascist, don't you? Repressive, Draconian? People, understand this:

You don't know the half of it.

*Dom laughs as one might imagine Stalin laughed as he raped most of Eastern Europe*

Well, I am off. I promise you this, my devoted few, I shall endeavor to be more post-y this week; last week was quite a rank one. My bum is still tender.

Good night, Bloomington.

Dom