I did say I would be ready to "blast off" the Substack. GET IT? That's the sort of quality, high-octant yuks you'll find at the new site. Link at the bottom along with the Diner and the link to the Matchbook updates and oh I don't know, here have six chapters of a novels and some ice cream

Sunday we went to buy rocks. My wife has the idea of putting some rocks in the front landscaping to give it more visual appeal. Of course I think this is a capital idea and say I will research rocks and google local rocks and such, but it seems she want to do this now. Why, when we can put it off? I had just finished mowing the lawn - a taxing job, given the terrain and the ridiculous quantity of lawn that makes up the green expanse of Jasperwood - and I had vacuumed the house. I would like a shower and a nap. But it was not to be. Off we went to the rock place, where my opinion would be solicited on various concatenations of matter igneous, sedimentary, or metamorphic.

This is not the opening of the second column that will be running on the Substack. I had that moment where I thought it might, but then I thought - no, don’t cheat the Bleat. We have to satisfy all the clients and comers.

Anyway, she saw some rocks that she liked and I did not issue a contrary opinion. She had thought we might get them into the car if we lifted together, but in this case teamwork makes the scream work because we would both have thrown out our backs. We'd have them delivered. Went inside to the desk of the store, which fels like "the son took over after the parents died in ’83." The two guys working there had a relaxed attitude towards customer service, shall we say. The one who looks like he was auditioning for Duck Dynasty muttered around in the backroom; the one at the cash register, the Smart Brother, perhaps, took our particulars, and handed us a roll of black tape to mark the stones we wanted.

This we did. A fellow in a Bobcat appeared a minute later and asked us if the rocks that had the black tape were the ones we wanted. No, we want all 47 rocks, except for the one with black tape. Yes, the marked ones, please. He nodded and got back in his Bobcat and wheeled around like the tire-changers in Pixar’s Cars and disappeared behind the back of the shop. Never saw him again. We were informed that the rocks would be delivered later that day.

LATER THAT DAY no rocks were delivered. Guess they didn’t find the driver, who may or may not have been sitting on the back porch listening to the Twins while taking pulls off a Hamms. We did get a phone call that consisted of three minutes of audio while someone walked around and scraped a shovel on a concrete walk while grunting, so I guess they did try to reach out.

Good. This gives me time to buy a dolly to get the rocks up the hill. I would love to know the journey the rocks took to get here, though. Where they came from. What was their origin? What stream polished them smooth? How old are they? For all I know they were pushed five hundred miles south by an advancing glacier in an era where no human walked the land, only to end up in my front yard because my wife is dissatisfied with the bushes she put in two years ago.

I am certain the rocks will be delivered tomorrow morning and placed in such a way that I cannot drive my car out of the garage. But leave I must.

It is Very Special New Logo Relaunch Day.

It will be my chance to meet Stribby, the Official Mascot of the New Paper. Sorry, not paper, I keep forgetting. We don’t call it that anymore.

Seen on the ground outside the building on Friday:

On Monday we announce our new branding, our new logo, and perhaps our mascot, which is a duck named Stribby. The logo is a star with four points instead of five, and I have joked (HARDY FARGIN HAR, whatta card) that I was in the fifth point before it was shaved off. The tableau:

The moment I saw that I swear my sense of taste returned.

For the last two months I have had no sense of taste. Breakfast makes an impression, but the moment I get the car to drive to work my mouth goes dry and then goes gummy. I’ve had no appetite, really.

But it’s back. It just came back. Perhaps it’s my marvelous powers of auto-restoration. After all, I beat tinnitus.

HOW I’ve been asked, and I don’t know. I did not put a water bottle against the side of my head as the webshite chum ads suggest. All I know is that there was a day where I realized hey, there’s a high persistent whine in my ears. Well, sigh. I guess we live with this. About a year later, maybe two, it wasn’t there any more.

I remember talking about this with my father, and he said oh, yeah, well, he’d had a ringing in his ears since 1944, from an artillery bombardment. He never mentioned it. Did I say “ears”? He was deaf in one ear. Never mentioned that, either. He also lost his sense of smell from decades of breathing gas fumes, so all that perfume my Mom put on was for naught, but on the other hand, at some point he didn’t smell gas anymore. I think he was also blind in one eye but didn't tell anyone because they'd be mad about him driving 18-wheelers.

Anyway. New logo and a duck mascot on the Monday menu, so things are looking up.

More new whiskeys, flooding onto the market now that the late unpleasantness is over.

You know there were grizzled rummies guzzling "Tuxedo" and appreciating the irony.

This summertime late-night-Saturday sci-fi movie begins with some inadvertent documentary. Times Square. Hotel Astor on the left.

But no Billy Idol theme.

The music is by . . .

He did the incidental music for The Prisoner.

Continuity by . . . who?

Splinters Deason was born in 1913 in the UK. Splinters was a director, known for Assignment K (1968), The Vise (1954) and Wee Geordie (1955). Splinters died on October 11, 2001.

It’s a B movie, directed by Billy Wilder . . .'s brother. And you have to love this guy:

The featured review on IMDB says it’s “A Fantastic Blend of Science Fiction and Headless Monkeys” which is not an overly populated genre.

Our anti-hero guy, who's rich and sick and wants to live forever.

He pops into Madame Toussaud’s to have a look. IMDB Goofs: "In the movie, Nostradamus is shown as having black hair. Most, if not all, portraits and paintings of Nostradamus depict him as having blonde or light-brown hair."

Whatta blooper! Eggs on everyone’s faces down at the fact-checking department. But you’re thinking it matters little, since Nostradamus is just a fleeting moment in Madame Toussauds, right?

No. Our doomed rich man steals the head of Nostradamus as part of the plot to save his own life. He’ll transfer his consciousness into Nostra’s noggin then seal the ancient head on his actual body. Brilliant! Can’t miss!

This assumes that A) it is the actual head of Nostradamus, and B) there’s anything left in there, and C) there’s some advantage to having your consciousness in a severed skull of a guy who . . . made prophecies, all of which were nonsense.

Sure is sciency around here:

Anyway, even if he gets in there, how does this make for a TERRIFYING movie? It’s a head! On a table! It can’t go anywhere, and it can’t command you to do things.

I should mention that the scientist doing the science does not know who the head was. The dying guy smuggled it into the states.

He speaks English, too.

He even gives the dying man investment advice. This line from the Wikipedia summary tells you what we’re dealing with here: “Later, a mentally confused Brussard asks Nostradamus what he should do with his oil stocks. Nostradamus, knowing that stock prices are dropping, deliberately tells him to sell. Brussard does and is financially ruined.”

Let us cut to the chase: “Brussard returns and shoots Nostradamus' head. Merritt decides to attach Nostradamus' head to Lew's body in an attempt to save them both.”

Yeah, I believe that.

That will do for today, Bleat wise; Matchbooks and a Diner await. See you around.

Annnd, once again, the Diner.

And . . . here we go.

Introduction up at 9 AM; column at 10 AM.