I had a lovely, relaxed day with Chris. Over coffee he gave me a mushy card and a crazy Indonesian mask, whose picture I will have to post soon. Then we had lunch at Piccadilly Cafeteria (From "Crown of Thorns": [Dr. Brite] wouldn't take himself anywhere nice; he'd drive out to the Piccadilly Cafeteria on Jefferson Highway and have a Spartan four-vegetable plate, poking sadly at his corn niblets while some poor fucker played the hits of the forties, fifties, sixties, and seventies on a Hammond organ. There would be a smattering of other lonely souls in booths around the room's bleak perimeter, and inevitably some old bat would be celebrating her ninetieth. The organist would segue from "It's A Wonderful World" to "Happy Birthday," trolling for a tip. Altogether, it was about the most depressing thing Hank could think of. I happen to like it better than self-righteous young Hank, including the corn niblets) and Chris treated me to a shopping spree at Lowe's, where I got my romantic hose reel, exactly what I wanted. I watered the whole garden with it today and I love it; it will be my poor old back's friend.

We didn't feel like going back out later, so Chris fixed us steaks and twice-baked potatoes and birthday cake. That's what a man likes to eat! Now I don't feel so bad about forgetting Steak & A Blowjob Day this year.

Still later in the evening, I lamented that I was now 42 and still didn't have the answer. Chris looked up and said offhandedly, "Maybe it's just love." Exactly like him to cut through the Gordian knot of life, the universe, and everything in four words!

For some reason, Dr. Brite is in the mood to write about himself in the third person tonight. He has recognized in himself a need to work on his dinnertime conversation. Last night, he took his beloved husband of twenty years to Commander's Palace for a birthday dinner. As they sat in the romantic main dining room, sipping champagne and gazing into one another's eyes, Dr. Brite said, "I wonder if they pay people who volunteer to get rectal exams from medical students." He deplores the crestfallen expression this brought to his beloved's face and promises to avoid such topics whenever possible at future nice dinners. Today, his shriveled, raisin-like stomach is rebelling at the gluttonous surfeit of the night before, and his valve has been declared its own private disaster area.

He also wishes to inform the general public that the crackers he subsisted on during the Gustav power outage are called Nekot, and they are actually made by Lance, but in his faraway childhood, all such sandwich-type vending-machine crackers were referred to as "Nabs."

I seldom comment on the passing of celebrities, but today I am reminded of my pre-Doctor B. restaurant critic alter ego, William B. Fuckley, who enjoyed tilting to the right and speaking with a stiff lower jaw.

In other news, I recently received an odd piece of correspondence from one Scott Barnes: a Paypal payment of $30 with the header "For Dust Baby" and the message, "Loved the story. It'll be up on March 1." I don't recall having any previous correspondence with Mr. Barnes and have not written a story called "Dust Baby" (and if I had, I sure as hell wouldn't have sold it for $30). Barnes hasn't responded to my two e-mails asking for clarification, so I'll be passing the matter along to my agent. Of course I'm hoping it will all turn out to be an innocent mistake with no evil intent on Mr. Barnes' or anyone else's part, but if somebody is attempting to publish work under my name, I obviously need to know about it (though it seems most peculiar that they'd have payment sent to me). In the meantime, if anyone comes across a story called "Dust Baby" purporting to be written by me, would you please let me know? (Sending me a message through my eBay store is probably the best way of getting in touch, or of course members of prime_liquor and nextroundsonme can post in those communities.) Thanks much.

[Addendum: I've received a couple of links to the online venue New Myths, which pays $30 for fiction, and have contacted editor Scott T. Barnes at the e-mail address on the site. No response as yet.]

I just wanted to let my book-doctoring people know I am taking today off to mourn the passing of my state into the hands of Greg Stillson. Today I'm farting around online and rereading Stephen King's On Writing to remind myself of some fundamentals I believe will help me with this new job. Tomorrow I'll answer e-mails, start printing out manuscripts if anybody has sent them yet, and get to work.

In case anyone has ever wondered how I fart around online when I need to blow off steam, this utter ridiculousness is one of the ways. It's funny: I hate engaging in flame wars and arguments as myself, but "DoctorB" is at least 50% fictional construct and they don't seem to bother the Doc at all; he's apparently quite amused by them, not to mention overly taken with his own rather cruel wit. I thought this was a particularly entertaining one, but I'm bored with it now and need a dose of intelligence, so I shall return to On Writing.