Saturday night is the loneliest night...

...and all that highly devoted horse dung.

This has been a week that will Live in Infamy. Despite having made elaborate plans for improvement (all of which involve busting my nalgas to do Good Stuff), I'm not holding out much hope for next week, either....

Hell, I was seriously down last night, too. I dropped a note to a friend last evening:

Getting seriously bummed. Read an obit for a guy I knew, though not well. It was the usual b.s., but at least he left a loving wife and kiddies.

If I tapped out tonight, I would just disappear. No wife, no kids, no nothing. Online people would miss me, but I'd just be gone.

Some people would be relieved, I think.

That's a heck of a note. "Survived by ex-girlfriends, creditors and editors for whom he hadn't completed all his assignments."

I was further brought down by hearing about a study done by a UC Berkeley big-dome. He did some sort of analysis of the number of partners men and women claimed to have done the Horizontal Mambo with. Men, of course, claimed more.

The prof claimed it was mathematically impossible for men to have gotten down so many more times than babes.

That's a matter of total indifference to me. I am, as in so many other instances, a dull normal, poon-wise.

After the age of 20 or thereabouts, who expects to find virgins, anyway? And who wants to go through that scene more than once?

I have never cared who came along before me. Don't want to know who has been there before, thank you.

Considering the relative ease with which one may take blood tests -- I've done it, more as a matter of courtesy than any fear that I picked up some Loathsome Disease along the way -- it's irrelevant.

Simply put, I want to be the last, not the first.

But right now, I'm more-or-less nothing. Neither first nor last.

I'm exposing myself to some intensive Count Basie Therapy tonight. The arrangements written for Bill's Big Band -- by Frank Foster, Ernie Wilkins and Neal Hefti -- never fail to get me rockin'. Thad Jones, Frank Wess, and the rest always make me want to get out there and make some sounds.

And when The Count says "let's try it one more once!" at the end of the great Wild Bill Davis version of "April in Paris," it makes me feel ready to take the dive again.

If my love would talk to me, I'd say "let's try it one more once" to her, too.

I see her as I do myself: it doesn't matter where you've been; it matters where you're going.

Jazz can really keep you from getting your mind right, Jim.

But that's how I am.