So, once upon a time, there was a porn shop across the street, well-stocked with candy-colored marital aids and oversized video boxes bearing such titles as Forced to Lactate: Volume XVII. Later, the porn store branched out, adding a case full of smoking paraphernalia in glass and bronze, all of it to be used only for smoking tobacco, of course. One night, though, we heard a sound, and NovySan looked out and said, “Why are they pressure washing the porn store?” and the next day, it was gone, carried off in a mighty torrent of water.

A couple of doors down, though, sits a business built on water – The Roman Holiday. It has no windows, but it’s open 24 hours. Some of its clientele walk proudly through the front door, while others slink through the back, shoulders hunched and hoods pulled low over their blushing cheeks.

Whoever it was who walked past my house on his way back from the bathhouse yesterday was, I suspect, one of the former, unless he dropped this packet in his fumbling haste to get back in his car without being recognized.

To The Roman Holiday – kudos for encouraging safer sex, though I’m amused by your recent rebranding as a health club.

To Joe Lube – custom-printed condoms and lube? That’s seriously kind of cool.

And to the guy who dropped his lube – I better not find the matching condom out there. Especially if it’s been used.

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This week, though, was meant to be a vacation, and it has been. NovySan and I spent Monday at the art museum and the beach; Tuesday, while he was at work, I did a bit of cleaning and a bit of reading and a bit of gardening and a bit of knitting, and it was glorious; yesterday, I planted a few more things and watched Crimson Rivers while he worked on my car.

And then today, I got the news that I’ve been accepted as a contributor over at Pop Bunker – which doesn’t mean you’ll never be treated (and/or subjected) to one of my movie posts, but does give me another outlet for them.

And now, I’m taking Boneshaker outside for a bit, then planning to come back in and do some dishes and maybe watch some movies and knit some more. (I’m making myself a Doctor Who-type scarf, with this gorgeous tweed yarn from Knit Picks. Which reminds me – I still owe the world pics of NovySan in his Doctor Who scarf.)

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This morning, though, my dreaming mind presented me with a thriller in which Canada attempted to destroy American rye production by introducing a black fungus that would wipe out the crop. They had ordered the assassination of a Congressional committee member who was blocking the importation of Canadian rye – and with his death, the clock began to tick.

“No,” I said to myself when I woke up from the dream. “No one wants to read a thriller about Canadian agriculture.”

The dream persisted. An hour later, I woke up again. “Seriously,” I said. “No. There’s just nothing sexy about a black rye fungus.”

It tried a third time, too, with a vivid depiction of the cover of a scholarly journal warning of The Misuse of Black Rye Mold in International Agriculture.

I wonder if I can get Michael Bay to direct?

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The proceeds go to benefit Haiti. You can pre-order here, though the US purchase site doesn’t appear to be set up yet.

Incidentally, Christy Moore had something interesting things to say about benefit gigs in the Christy Chat I received this morning.

John Spillane and I have been putting a few chords together… “Haitian Girl” is the current working title of a song that is emerging. We will perform a gig in Vicar Street, Dublin on Tuesday, 23rd March. All proceeds will go to GOAL in Haiti. Ticketmaster have waived their commission and Vicar Street their rental fees.

An increasing number of people seem to be becoming critical of benefit gigs. They question the motives and claim that tragic situations are being exploited. One Dublin journalist wrote a scathing attack on those who do benefit gigs. (Presumably getting well paid for the piece) I have heard stories of NGO’s in areas of war and catastrophe, of aid workers behaving inappropriately … But I have also witnessed the courage and commitment of volunteers giving their time and sometimes their very lives to help others. I am in awe of their commitment. I believe that the courage and compassion of thousands far outweighs the errant behaviour of a few. Also I know that certain performers cannot resist any PR opportunity, sometimes cynically, more times unwittingly, but I believe they too are in a minority. Then there are the political arguments, the ethical dimensions, the opportunism of donor nations, the fashionable ladies and gents who lunch for charity … I simply don’t have the time to work it all out, I need to keep it simple. If I can give a dig out I will, and if some want to put a slant on that … so be it.

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I went to OSH for supplies – a rosemary bush, some stripper (for the cabinets, you perv), a tube of epoxy, and a pitchfork.

I walked out with a tulip, some stripper (still for the cabinets – what is wrong with some people?), a tube of epoxy and, yes, a pitchfork.

Going to OSH was not the mistake.

Going to OSH at 4:30 on a weekday – that was the mistake.

The drive there was fine, but coming home? Yeesh.

I got so fed up with the traffic on Bundy that I turned off, planning to take Pico to 23rd and come home past Santa Monica Airport.

Never, ever take 23rd past the airport during rush hour.

A couple of miles north of the airport, I posted this to Twitter.

(Before you chastise me for tweeting while driving – I wasn’t driving. I was sitting through two light changes, in the middle of a blocks-long tailback, waiting for the cars in front of me to move. They finally did – after the light turned red for the third time.)

Some time later, I made it home with my pitchfork. (And my tulip, and my epoxy, and my stripper. Which is still for the cabinets.)

And NovySan said that we just don’t use pitchforks often enough in this modern world.

He had an idea for how we could change that, though.

Not by pitchforking people in traffic, but by escorting trick-or-treating groups armed with pitchforks and torches.

Imagine it – a cluster of princesses, mutants and monsters, flanked by a sizeable group of (possibly tipsy) adults waving the implements of B-movie riots proudly aloft.

Halloween may never be the same.

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