There is nothing quite so fine as smoking the first cigar of the year. Even if that cigar has been in someone’s garage for several months, and is dried-out and brittle because of it.

Spring will soon be here, however, so I can look forward to smoking other, hopefully better cigars on future bright and sunny days. Cigarettes don’t do a thing for me, but man-oh-man do I love me some cigars.

Cigars: For when you want to give a courtly tip of the hat to mouth cancer.

Last Friday, Nate and I went to the Air Force Museum to indulge ourselves in school-style food at their cafeteria, a place we’ve been frequenting for ten years.

After a delicious if expensive lunch, surrounded by throngs of painfully young-looking high school students, we walked through several of the exhibits, including a gallery devoted to the Cold War. In the midst of this dark and gloomy exhibit was a hall laden with various phrases and images, which shone down onto the floor from overhead lights. One in particular read: BERLIN — CITY HELD HOSTAGE. It was very melodramatic in its presentation and I was quite taken with it, so of course we posed Kennedy with it.

Even bathed in a hellish red glow, she is so cute it makes me sick.

March is here, supposedly the herald of Spring and hope and sunshine and flowers, yet still there is snow on the ground and, according to Weather.com, the temperature is a paltry 35 degrees. By the end of the week, it supposedly is going to get into the low 40s, but I am skeptical to say the least.

According to Twitter and Facebook, March is also the home to something I had never heard of before, an event called “Mustache March.” According to what I believe is the official website:

Moustache March is the most wonderful month of the year, celebrated by thousands and thousands of men (and a few special women) around the world who have a true respect for the most elegant of all facial hair types, the moustache. Real men wear the moustache year round but we felt that taking one month a year would be our contribution. It doesn’t matter if you spell it moustache or mustache, we just want you to make March what it is supposed to be, a month long enjoyment of upper lip hair. One of our goals is to bring all the factions of Moustache March together in one place online to continue to grow together for our common goal.

I dunno. A Mustache March sounds like something a civil rights group called the Mustachioed Brethren might do to protest the discrimination against men — or women — who proudly wear the ’stache.

So despite my respect and empathy for the Mustachioed Movement, I think I am going to sit this Mustache March out. However, in January I did shave my goatee off, and went around for a day with just a ’stache. The results were thus:

Eh, it’s not bad, but most people going around sporting just a mustache tend to look like creepy pedophiles — myself included.

Alas, maybe next year.

I met Sarah downtown for lunch earlier at 5th Street Wine & Deli. While we were eating, she said, “That guy over there looks like the dude from the Barenaked Ladies.”

I glanced over my shoulder at the dude in question. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

A few minutes later, we overheard another customer say: “Holy shit — you’re him aren’t you? You’re from Barenaked Ladies.”

The guy replied with something modest, like, “Yep, that’s me.”

Sarah looked at me. “I told you.”

He was with another member of the band, and some other random guy. Further eavesdropping revealed that they were in Dayton to do an interview at the radio station, and stopped in to get a sandwich.

It was very odd, but I am happy to report that neither Sarah nor I got all fannishly creepy like some of the other customers. That’s us: too cool for school.

Templesmith really is an amazing artist:

The above is the cover for the upcoming POPGUN Vol. 4 anthology.

(Via BoingBoing.)

Was supposed to go to the Pub with Brandon tonight for some good old-fashioned trivia, but then Gaia decided to once again fuck the Midwest U.S. in the ass with her massive frozen strap-on . . . and thus there was no trivia tonight.

So instead, I stayed in, read a book — LIVE AND LET DIE, by Ian Fleming — and made some dinner. There was baked fish and seasoned mashed potatoes — instant, of course — to be eaten, followed by the delicious sugar cookies my sister made over the weekend. In the process I kind of got drunk, which was unexpected, but honestly, not unwelcome.

Think now I might throw in THE ROAD WARRIOR, then maybe do some writing, assuming I’m still awake. All-in-all, not a bad night, considering the snow. SEE GAIA? I ISN’T AFRAID OF YOU. PEOPLE CAN HAVE FUN EVEN WHEN THERE IS SNOW. WHO IS FUCKING WHOM NOW?

‘Night . . .

I finished reading Warren Ellis’s SHVERING SANDS yesterday, a collection of essays and various writings Ellis has spewed onto the Web over the last seven years.

What I enjoy about Ellis’s writing is that not only does he entertain me as a dancing monkey would, but he also brings to my attention interesting and weird things I might otherwise never have known.

For instance, in one entry he was discussing how drug use can sometimes fuel stories writers might otherwise not have come up with. In particular he mentioned Terence McKenna, a writer/philosopher who used psychedelics in part to form his view of the world. One of Ellis’s favorite McKenna stories was about a time bifurcation that posited a world where Jesus Christ had never been born, and the positive effects this had therein.

I had never heard of McKenna before, but the story sounded interesting, so a quick google later and I was able to locate a copy of the essay in question, “The Great Timestream Bifurcation”:

The soliton of improbability which interacted with our world occurred two thousand years ago in the phenomenon of the Immaculate Conception. An event that I think you and I can agree is highly improbable! But let us take it at face value and see if we can work with it. When the Immaculate Conception occurred through the collision of the soliton of improbability with this Galilean village girl called Marian or Mary, in one world she became impregnated with a figure destined for a great religious and political future: our world. The world in which Christ was born, became a young man, taught his message, and went to his execution around 27 AD. Another world sprang into existence at the moment of the Immaculate Conception and in that world nothing whatsoever happened to this young Galilean girl. She continued to live with Joseph. He continued to make fine furniture. Eventually they were able to move to the better side of Nazareth. And that was their story.

So you see I’m suggesting that at the time of Christ, a parallel world came into existence that knew nothing of Christ. And consequently the forces which shattered Roman civilization never came into existence in that parallel world.

The essay isn’t very long, and if you’re into this sort of thing, it’s definitely worth a couple of minutes of your time to read. McKenna’s take on the Tunguska event is particularly cool.

And if you like having a middle-aged Englishman shout at you (or you enjoy HOUSE), you should definitely buy SHIVERING SANDS.

2010 — and that’s pronounced Twenty-Ten, just to be clear — though we’re not yet a full two weeks into it, is already off to an auspicious start.

Despite the fact that I just got over being sick a month ago, some kind of flu-like thing came back to rape me last Friday, and did so with a vengeance. Thusly I’ve spent the last sixty hours or so doing almost absolutely nothing except watching television and wishing I were dead. Over the weekend I managed to watch the excellent fifth and final season of BOSTON LEGAL, a couple of the HARRY POTTER movies, and a terrible film called DEATH SENTENCE (which was a new adaptation of the book that was originally adapted in 1974 as the Charlie Bronson masterpiece, DEATH WISH).

Today finds me feeling a little bit better. Not good enough to really do anything that might risk setting back my recovery, but at least good enough to be getting bored from all this laying around. Always a good sign, in my opinion. So I shall dick around on the Internet for a bit, and contemplate being well enough to see friends again soon.

Until tomorrow, then . . .

Head is hurting so bad I wish it would fall off, but I wanted to share with you the Quote of the Day:

“A gentleman’s todger should never be larger than the fine cigar he smokes.” –Winstonchurchil

Sage wisdom, indeed.

Ah, New Year’s Day. A day when many Americans indulge in watching football, and a day when I try to catch as much as I can of the Sci-Fi Channel’s marathon of THE TWILIGHT ZONE.

It’s odd: even though it’s fifty years old, the special effects are dated, and some of the acting is a little on the nose and over the top, THE TWILIGHT ZONE is still an incredibly effective and entertaining show. I’d be blathering during a commercial break one moment, but when the show would return, I’d shut up and just stare rapt at the television. I probably watched four or five hours straight tonight, and could easily have done more had I not started to get a headache.

SyFy — still a truly moronic name change — kept advertising the complete DVD collection during the commercials, but it’s not something that I’m tempted to buy. Part of the fun of TZ is watching it late at night, or during these holiday marathons. I think it would lose some of its charm if you could watch it on DVD whenever you like. I know I’m already looking forward to the next marathon over the Fourth of July.

Edited to add: This post was somehow set to “Draft” status when I wrote it early yesterday morning and didn’t initially appear on the main page. Total web fail, me.