Words fail me.

I spent a few minutes this morning cleaning out the "sent messages" folder in one of my email programs. I still tend to look at such things as taking up physical space, so why save them after they've done -- or not done -- their job?

In the midst of this little exercise, I noted that a message sent to a friend had what I consider a pretty glaring typo in it. Only the occasional inept turn of phrase or badly expressed/inappropriate sentiment bugs me more.

What's worse is that the recipient is the kind of person who will notice. Not that I expect to hear about it; it'll just be another minus score on my Literacy Quotient.

I can explain, teacher:

I was tired when I wrote it;

Since the addition of one letter turned the word I wanted to use into another word, it wasn't caught by my spell checker;

I'm a crappy typist.

Naturally, this person knows I am a fairly decent editor and has indeed made use of my editorial assistance a time or two. Said writing efforts were damn near flawless in my view, so I made very few changes and suggestions.

And now, more evidence that I clearly need an editor 24/7 to watch over my own writing. Yes, even when it comes to things like emails.

There's a good reason no one sees my raw writing, at least before I've had a chance to read it over and smooth out the bumps, and this is it. I don't spend much time refining sentences and stitching up paragraphs. No, I look for the basics: actually typing the words I intended to use, proper English, and all that stuff teachers tried to beat into my head in primary school.

I was actually better about this in the days before spell-checkers and other computer-generated aids to literacy. I would print out everything I wrote before sending it off, attack it line-by-line and word-by-word, penciling in corrections and changes.

Now I just read it on the screen.

I may have to go back to the old ways. I see increasing evidence that even other "professional" writers have lost their edge when it comes to spelling, word usage and grammar, and I have a bad habit of being very critical about such basic flaws.

When society gets to the point where all communication is done via the electronic equivalent of grunts and gestures -- that is to say: strange acronyms, short words badly spelled and click-the-icon instant questions, answers and concepts -- I want to be the last dinosaur standing, the last holdout for proper English.

And I'm losin' it.

Reptile-osity!

New neighbors in the building....

A chameleon...



A "skink" (that's what they -- the new human neighbors) call it...



And a baby python, on its way to a full-grown 5' length...



Do they all taste like chicken?

Phone-y-ness

Went out for my five miles' walk this morning. A mistake, the direct sun beating down, concrete sidewalks and other sources of heat, direct and reflected, reduced me to a sodden pulp.

One of my neighbors accosted me when I got home: "we were just about to go in your place to see if you're okay. Your phone has been busy since last night."

It's nice to have neighbors like that.

I went upstairs to find that none of my phones worked. No dial tones, no noise on the line; not even any peeps when I pushed buttons. Oddly enough, the DSL worked fine (or at least as well as it ever does).

So, borrowing a phone, I called 611, the "repair" service.

Like every other service at AT&T, 611 now involves a computer-generated voice asking stupid and not-always relevant questions to which you respond with the few words the voice recognition software knows ("I'd like to pay my bill" seems to be the only one you can count on) or by entering a number, "press one for Spanish"-style.

After 10 minutes of this to-and-fro, the computerized voice said AT&T would send a repairman out on Monday, between 8:00 a.m. and 8:00p.m., for a mere $55 "diagnostic fee."

In the meantime, another neighbor suggested I unplug all my phones for 10-15 minutes and let the system recycle itself.

I don't know if that did the job or the "system check" the computer voice claimed was being done actually accomplished something, but when I plugged the phones back in, everything worked. As well as it ever does, anyway.

So I called 611 again to cancel the service call. Apparently, the computer couldn't understand me -- even though I avoided words like %&@# and *^(! and @$$#*/% -- and was, at last, going to let me talk to a human. After 20 minutes on hold, I gave up, and will try later.

I was beyond furious, and still am. I pay $120/month for my phone plan (albeit a reasonably good one) and DSL all rolled together. I expect better service. I expect to be able to talk to a human when things get sticky.

The alternatives available are at least as costly and some, such as cable, are much more expensive here.

Welcome to the 21st Century!

Feeling old this morning...

...which should come as no surprise. After all, I am old!

It's a strange sensation. In many respects, I'm in better shape physically than I was at age 35. I weighed more then, ate poorly -- I was married; my wife had a taste for the kinds of meals that are considered verboten today -- and certainly didn't get as much exercise.

In fact, I feel as if I'm 35 most days, and that is, as it should be, a good thing.

But there are exceptions, and today is one of them.

I look at the road ahead, measure its length and my strength, and wonder how much longer I can continue the battle. Worse, life has an evil way of showing me what I should have seen when I was 35 (or should be 35 now to savor), personal relationships and adventures forever denied to me at least in part because I have too many miles showing on my life's odometer.

Being married when I was 35, and staring into the barrel of an upcoming career change, my focus was on objects at close range. No looking at any sort of bigger picture and, even though I was beginning to realize that a divorce was imminent, no looking around for fresh companionship.

That number -- 35 -- just sits in my mind. Thirty would do; so would 40.

There's a lot of goodness, ability and energy left in this old body. Who will see that? Who will want to see that?

I won't write my answer as it seems to be now.

If nothing else, this shows why I don't write entries early in the day right now. One bad dream (at least I'm guessing that's what did it; don't remember) messes me up for the whole morning.

Maybe the rest of the day will be better. Here's hoping.

Another long-ish day...

...but not so awful. I didn't expect to hear from anyone today, and didn't. The main characters in my attempts to move things along are out of town and no doubt enjoying themselves. No word from the landlord.

Nonetheless, I did get some work done, and am simply relieved that nothing bad happened.

Strange weather today. It was hot this morning, which happened to be when I went out to do my five miles. It was close to being too much; I was pretty well knackered when I got home.

And the views weren't all so nice...



A shower helped.

Tonight, it cooled off, clouded over, and seemed as if it might rain. In fact, the radar images showed a few spatters of the wet stuff out on the ocean, but we didn't get any here.

Friends continue to rally 'round, which is still a strange and wonderful thing as far as I'm concerned. I'd prefer to be helping others if indeed help needs to be provided.

These are strange times. I wish I could see improvement coming faster, but it's pretty clear now that I'll just have to wait and see. Not real swell, but I'm still getting along, more or less. It's terribly frustrating not to be able to concentrate on the things I do really well, though.

He's the man!

My man "Ernie Borngrime," as MAD magazine once called him.

I hope I can be as forthright, funny, energetic and uninhibited as he is when/if I hit 91....

Link: sevenload.com

Wasted day.

Yeah, I blew it today. Tried to start off this morning by looking for other possible jobs, emailing various people and (maybe) doing some work on the few stories I have to do for clients who have shown some willingness to actually pay, but I just plain ran out of energy.

In fact, the anxiety and my miserable, aching back got the better of me, and I had to flee. Walked five miles, which at least brought my jittery pulse under control. It was hot enough to be uncomfortable, too.

Didn't hear from the landlord today. I've written him a letter asking for more time and explaining what I can of the situation; I'll drop it off at his office in the morning.

Not that I expect him to react positively. I've tried to school him on how and why my work got messed up before, and he never caught on. Still, I can hope, and the uncertainty he is causing has made it virtually impossible for me to concentrate on making positive things happen.

Friends are helping a great deal; other circumstances are making things worse.

And it's the "worse" that has been gnawing at me all day.

Fighting off the inertia that fear causes is a very big deal for me. I haven't yet given up; I hope I never do. But I can feel the impulse off in the shadows, and it's closer than I'd like.

Someone committed suicide by jumping off the nearby cliffs this afternoon. Out came helicopters, Fire Department boats and a bunch of police and paramedics, all to no avail.

Can't imagine doing that. It's not fair anyway, because the rescue folks risk their necks to recover the body.

I am lonely tonight, and intensely depressed. In the old days, that would have been to crack open a bottle of Beam and aim toward drowning my sorrows.

These days, it means writing crap like this, cold sober.

I don't see much possibility in tomorrow. I pray I'll be proven wrong.

Did I mention that my back still hurts like hell?

Less stress, but stress nontheless...

...was today's story. I started trying to get things done way too early -- 6:30 -- and of course couldn't get much done. I did do some online job applications -- more about that below -- and sent some emails, then sat there cursing myself because I wasn't getting anything done.

Doesn't make sense, I know, but when you are in a state of near-panic, that's how you feel.

Calls made, messages left. None were returned. The fear that my Sunday meeting was a waste begins to creep up on me. Both of the men I met with will be out of town until next week. Too late.

Nothing in the mail, except an offer from the cable company. I dropped my cable service more than four years ago, and am not about to get it hooked up now.

Messages of support, plus donations. Those improved my mood; how could they not? A donation from "Tony Blair;" will Gordon Brown chip in too?

That people who are in many cases not being treated as well by life as they should be are willing to help me is something special indeed. After listening to/reading their comments (a special "thank-you" to the one who called with much encouragement), I no longer feel that awful guilt for letting them help. I simply accept that they are nice, nice people.

My wish: that I could be on the other side, doing nice things for them.

Didn't hear from the landlord today. Means nothing, except that I spent another day twisting in the wind.

Went to the doctor for a regular checkup: blood pressure, weight, listening to the ticker, etc. All good; blood pressure and weight are both lower now than they were in 1988, heart's doing fine. I'd feel damn good if I didn't feel so bad.

About Last Night (A Break From Fear and Pain):

"Have you seen this job?" she said, sending me a link for a gig that sounded as if it was created for me.

"No...but I'm applying for it now!"

"Here's another," she said. She plays her computer like a piano, and finds things while I'm still laboriously typing search words. She knows where to look, too.

"Look at this one," she said.

I ended up with five possibilities, and sent off applications. Bookmarked the sites she got them from, too.

"Your phone is ringing," she said. It was.

I love her distinctive, sweet voice. Even when she is being caring and warm, there's a playful overtone that makes me smile.

She sang to me. A Lizz Wright song, earthy and enticing. It made me think of dark jazz clubs, and those rare moments when musical wonder is born.

All Heaven needs is a voice like hers, a bass player, drummer and someone on the B3.

I went to sleep hearing that.

She weaved a blanket to keep me warm last night, and it did exactly that.

If fear and bad stuff overcome me, it won't be because people didn't help. And they cannot take away the beauty that the Universe has let me see.

PARENTHETICAL BEFORE-I-POST-THIS UPDATE THOUGHT: One of the guys from Sunday just called. He's already out of town, but is still trying to reach the "rep" he thinks can help me most. He has already arranged to meet with a couple of others who could go to bat for me while he's up in Northern California. I feel a little better....

Humbled...

...is the only word I can use, the only word that fits.

To know, as so many of you are once again showing, that there is love and hope in the world, and some of it is reserved for me, is both a positive and sorrowful experience for me.

Positive is easy to explain. I have fallen, and badly, and a multitude of hands have reached out to me.

Sorrowful because I cannot help but feel a failure. My own mistakes -- and there have been many -- poke at me like red-hot wires. Granted, it couldn't have managed to fall so far without the neglect, lack of honor and sometimes outright enmity of others, but at times like this I am acutely conscious of having just plain screwed up.

So many have rushed to my side. One ran away, and that is cause for sorrow too, though I cannot blame that person, who is undergoing severe trials right now as well.

At the order suggestion of a friend, I put up a PayPal account for those who have offered help. The button doesn't work -- I did something wrong -- and I'm tired tonight. Will try to straighten it out in the morning.

PARENTHETICAL I-TAKE-GOOD-ADVICE UPDATE: The "donation" link over in the right-hand column is fixed. Though it no longer says so, it goes through PayPal. Thanks, Wizardress!

To those who are trying to cheer me up and deliver encouragement, I say: it's working.

The vultures win...

...and what I have long feared will apparently come to pass.

My landlord told me today he is leaning toward booting me out of my place.

I can't blame him. I owe him money, and all the explanations, all the good intentions in the world don't put the money in his pocket if people aren't paying me.

Haven't heard from the two people I talked with yesterday. I thought I might. But then, I can't blame them either. Both have busy schedules, both are enormously successful and they didn't get there by spending time on other peoples' problems.

There is no place I can go, no money to get me in another place. Hell, as matters stand, I wouldn't rent to me right now.

With no place to live, I will have no way to work.

The circle closes.

I am going to pay for every mistake I have ever made. Unfortunately, I won't be able to pay in cash.

It's been, well, an interesting life.

A different one, no doubt shorter and much more uncomfortable, is about to begin.

I'm afraid; I admit it. More frightened than I can possibly tell you.

On a scale of One to 10...

...with 10 being the best possible outcome, I'd rate this afternoon's meeting a 6.5-7.

A year ago, or maybe even six months ago when I was fresh out of the hospital and simply glad to be alive, it might have been an "eight." Or even slightly better than that.

The guy I went to see was most cooperative, most willing to help. I've heard that song before, but am thinking it was genuine. Supposedly, he will get in touch with some of his own fairly high-power contacts tomorrow and try to sell them on working with me.

There was someone else at the meeting, another guy who occupies a major-league position at a large corporation I've dealt with (as a writer reviewing their products) for many years. At first I wasn't too happy about his presence; after all, I had to reveal some some things that embarrass the hell out of me in order to explain what I was after and why I was after them.

It turned out he too was a great resource, suggesting another option -- one related to his corporation -- and offering to push me as the one who could handle it.

All this gave me a solid boost in confidence for my long-term future, but did nothing about the immediate crises I have to deal with.

PARENTHETICAL I-GRADE-ON-A-STEEP-CURVE THOUGHT: A "10" meeting would have brought forth a solution to both short- and long-term problems. I wasn't prepared in any way to ask for that, but a small part of me hoped something would be volunteered. I dropped such hints as I thought proper, though. I make a lousy beggar....

The second guy also said something that was, for me, somewhat jaw-dropping: "You have a great name in the business," he said, "maybe you're not exploiting it properly."

I won't say I had no idea -- I have a few fans -- but I haven't heard it said so explicitly by someone as respected and high up the food chain before.

I wish I had heard that a year ago, too. It would have made me feel good. But I didn't know either of these gentlemen well in those days.

Today, his words made me feel incredibly sad. I can only contrast them with the very real possibility that things can still go completely sour, that my reputation won't do me any good when it matters most.

Still, the meeting gave me some slight hope that there will be a future.

My problem: I have to somehow get the vultures to stop circling for a month or so in order that I can relax -- slightly -- and use what energy I still have to appear confident, be imaginative and aggressive, keep doing what I have been doing while offering fresh ideas to a new audience.

That seems impossible. I have to try, though, even if it will involve yet more humiliations that will be hard to endure.

I had to pull the car off the freeway on the drive home so I could (how do I say this discreetly?) part company with my lunch. This was a rough one.

Seems I can't do anything these days without feeling some pain.

Like a rookie...

...I am nervous as hell about this afternoon's meeting.

That's what happens when you realize that this is, almost literally, my last shot. I've been trying to think of alternative moves, other ideas I might pursue.

There aren't any.

Very little sleep last night. Noises outside until after midnight, and the 3:00 a.m. wake-up-in-a-sweat bit.

Today, I'm nothin' but nerves.

I know I'll have on my calm, professional, got-it-all-together face when I sit down with the guy. But right now, I'm on thin ice, and I can feel it cracking.

It's damn pathetic when a 22-year record of doing quality work adds up to nothing, isn't it?

I think I'll go wash the car. It's either that or sit here and feel the fear eating me up. Some mindless labor may help.

At least it'll be a preview of what I may end up doing if the meeting doesn't get over the way it should.

I never wanted to try mountain-climbing, but I understand the sensation of dangling from a precipice with nothing between you and the rocks far below but a thin and frayed rope.

Not a pretty sight, Jim.

Update...

...about the guy I've been trying to reach, the one who might have some suggestions for me about work.

Finally got hold of him, and will be meeting with him tomorrow afternoon.

To me, my idea more or less sells itself, but I've learned that's not enough these days.

If you have any space left in your prayers, I can use all the help I can get.

I'd be very grateful.

Waiting...

...for the phone to ring. For the mail to arrive. For something good to result from all I've done to try to improve my situation.

It seems a forlorn hope that today is going to see any positive changes.

I have been trying to contact an individual who can, I think, point me to someone who can help me with selling my work and putting demand for it on a consistent basis. Unlike the time earlier in the year when he was readily available to me -- to talk to me for an article I was doing that gave him some ink -- he is hard to reach now, and is not returning my calls.

Is it the school-of-fish theory, in which the fish showing signs of weakness is shunned by the rest?

When matters get to this state, there are no days off. I can expect those seeking blood from me to call without hesitation; they are not respecters of weekends.

That would be okay, if I had concrete answers for them. But they are simply not convinced that I want every last item on the list of negatives resolved at least as much as they do, and when I can look at things realistically, I can't really argue with their logic.

They want what they want now. So do I. They have ways of going after it. I don't.

Again, I'm trying not to place blame or be bitter. Bitterness is not good for one's health, and stress is already doing enough to injure me.

A very supportive and kind friend lost her job yesterday. The end came without warning.

One of the many reasons I would so love to be enjoying the success I believe I have more-or-less earned is that I could then help people like her in tangible ways. It hurts to stand by and see someone getting a bad deal without being able to step in and do something meaningful.

In fact, beyond providing a basic amount of comfort and security, I believe this is the best thing money can do.

If only I could work without having to constantly look over my shoulder to see who is coming after me!

You might think I'm being too dramatic. After all, no one is looking to kill me.

But they are threatening the next worst thing, which is my ability to keep trying to provide for myself and do the work I'm good at doing.

Looked at that way, they are threatening me with death in a way.

At the moment, all that has happened is that I have been pushed into a state of near-24/7 anxiety, which makes it nearly impossible to accomplish anything, for myself or anyone else.

That's bad enough.

Not the best of times...

...in fact, I would have to say this has been, and is continuing to be, the worst of my 58 years on this planet.

At the moment, I am on the brink of total catastrophe and, as of now, have not been able to find a way out.

A friend, one of the few I trust enough to have made her privy to all the sordid details (sorry, I won't do that here), gave me some ideas. I have pursued them this morning, and none will provide any sort of relief.

That's not to say I was unhappy about receiving the advice. It just means that I, while in circumstances almost as awful as hers once were, do not meet the same criteria she did. Bureaucracy, and all that.

I have several notions about what can be done. Making them happen will be the hard part.

I can psych myself up to deal with people on a businesslike basis, but it becomes more difficult and tiring by the day. That's doubly so when the bad things keep hitting at me. Obviously, no one is working to my schedule (and I don't expect them to) so the laws of misfortune suggest that while coping with potential good situation "A," I will get a call from angry bearer-of-bad-news "B," who gets doubly irritated when I am unable to give a clear and full answer to his issue right now.

I can't do what I can't do, which is predict how other people -- e.g. clients -- will act. For good and obvious reasons, I don't trust a damn one of them at the moment.

I am not, at least as of now, angry. Nor am I bitter. The effort needed to project a positive attitude where needed seems to have burned all that out of me.

I'm still left with plenty of anger at myself. It's easy to say "don't blame yourself," but so difficult to do.

Back to the battle.

Aside from a trustworthy friend or two, the only weapon I have in this battle is me.

Now if I can just figure out the right move for me to make....

Some cats do fine...

...living a black away from the ocean...



...while other cats don't fare so well....

Since I'm usually selfish...

...and post nothing but photos of cars I like, I thought it only fair to take note of the fact that this was Lamborghini Day at the Saturday car show, an occurrence I suspect will delight at least one reader who shall be nameless (that would be Scott Nameless).

There were at least 30 of the things there (and I will say nothing about computer nerds using their Microsoft dividends to buy Lambos or lounge lizards in satin jackets who lease them)...



...Murcielagos, Gallardos, Diablos...



Sadly, the oldest Lambo at the show -- except for a lone Urracco that I didn't get a picture of -- was this late 80s/early 90s Countach. None of my old favorites showed up....



There were other cars, of course. This Bugatti Veyron was constantly surrounded by onlookers. Maybe they thought if they stared at it long enough, it would do something...



My favorite cars of the day were parked together. I've mentioned that I have big, big eyes for an Austin-Healey "100" (which you can see part of here), but I must also say the old (1950s-vintage) Ferrari 400 SA is perhaps the nicest touring car I've ever driven, as well as being drop-dead gorgeous...



Nice stuff. But a bloody hot day.

The gift.

"Just one more," she says, and I smile in anticipation.

Suddenly, the sweet voice of Amel Larrieux fills my headphones with its melodic nectar.

We talk about music often, feeding each other tidbits of song as if they were chocolates in a box. Some are deep, rich and smooth; others are crunchy.

But they are all part of the world of music, and I devour them eagerly. So, clearly, does she.

There is something of a generation gap in our deep-seated favorites. She gives me Lizz Wright; I give her Alberta Hunter.

But that's not simply a matter of age. I carry -- gratefully -- the memories of a father who was a versatile musician but chose another profession for reasons I never learned. I carry the memories of a friend who, like other professional musicians of his day, regularly explored the dives of "the dark side of the Moon" in L.A. to listen to jazz greats (Art Tatum, the Duke, Fletcher Henderson, and more) work their magic in the only places they were then allowed to play.

My life has been enriched by music in ways even I don't fully comprehend. Had I not been able to -- for example -- shake Louis Armstrong's hand as a child, to listen to him up close, to talk to him and learn, for myself, that the great man on stage was an even greater man offstage, I would have been far less than I am.

And nowhere near as happy.

So now she comes along to feed me with even more music. I could tell her I was a Stan Getz fan before she was born, but I won't. The pleasure of hearing him on a CD she made for me is in no way lessened because I've heard him many times before. If anything, it is intensified by shared appreciation.

She says "just one more," and I smile.

Music is food and oxygen to me.

She said...

...while we were having a conversation: "I still think you need to post this: 'Few women have ever rent my veil of civility; I only succumb to intolerable temptation.'"

So I have succumbed and have duly posted the comment verbatim, without additional explanation....

She understood.

In need of renovation...

...one is getting a new foundation. The other? Looks like a fresh coat of paint might help....

Updateization...

...in which I again mention that I just haven't felt like writing here. Hell, I haven't even felt like writing for work; doing that seems to take as much effort as I can muster up energy to make.

And most of what I would have said would have been muttered threats, hurled imprecations, complaints and general bad-moodedness. Things have not gotten measurably better, though I have not given up trying. Not yet, anyway.

I did have one good moment, though of course I had to endure many not-so-good moments to get there.

Back in early April, the doctor I was then seeing expressed some worry about a couple of moles on my back, and indicated he wanted to refer me to a dermatologist. I agreed, but gave it little thought. I mean, I never had skin like a baby's bottom, unless the baby in question had diaper rash....

So last week I received a letter from the big local hospital -- not the one where I died in February -- advising that I had an appointment in their dermatology clinic for today.

I went. It was only 20 minutes through morning traffic, followed by registration and then a 2 1/2 hour wait in the clinic itself. Since this shares space with some kind of kiddy clinic, it was neither quiet nor especially clean-smelling.

Admittedly, I wasn't worrying about possible worst-case scenarios. I suppose some of this is the last vestiges of "it can't happen to me," even though it has been forcefully proven that it can happen to me.

Finally, I was taken to an examining room, where I disrobed. The doc came in and started looking at the various marks, discolorations, moles and general souvenirs of long life and too many sunburns.

After a moment, I heard him saying "benign, benign, benign..."

The whole exam lasted less than two minutes.

As I was getting dressed, he asked me why I had come. I told him my doctor was concerned and referred me. He asked for the doctor's name, which I told him.

"Oh, him. He's a good guy. You know he's interning in this clinic? Doesn't know much about dermatology yet, but he'll learn."

Hospital visits are like flights on airplanes. Any one you walk away from is good.

How much worse can it get?

Once again, the morning walk -- we're going a little farther each time, now past the four-mile mark -- was the high point of the day...



My Internet wouldn't connect early this morning. I called AT&T, spent 55 minutes on hold before being connected to "Samir," who got it working after some fiddling and deleting that leaves me stuck with having it on full-time when the computer's on.

I got home from the walk and there was an icon showing me that Microsoft had installed a Windows update and I needed to restart the computer.

Poof. No more internet. Again.

Another call to AT&T. After two hours and 40 minutes on hold, I got a woman whom I could hardly hear. She took me through a bunch of stuff, then gave up and switched me to the "software staff."

PARENTHETICAL I-HATE-CALL-CENTERS THOUGHT: It was painfully clear that these people know damn-all about what they're doing and can only read from prepared scripts. Any deviation on the customer's part -- such as trying any potential fixes before calling -- throws them into confusion. They lose their places and sometimes simply start over.

Anyway, Software Boy tried a couple of things before advising me he was getting a lot of problems after the Microsoft update. He gave up after giving me Microsoft's customer service number.

The Microsoft rep told me what I could do as a temporary fix, and it worked. For something more permanent (right now, the computer's firewall picks a bogus setting on startup) I get to call back in a few days.

Total time wasted: nearly four hours.

But I have the internet back. And found that I got no emails from people I need to hear from.

The mailbox was empty yet again, too.

I don't know how much more I can take, but I sense the point when the whole mess blows up in my face is too close.

Next walk, I may just keep walking. Everything I've tried to do has turned out to be pointless.

Aw, ****...

...and you can fill in the asterisks yourself. The word you choose probably won't be as bad as the one I want to put there.

Went for a walk this morning with my favorite walking companion. She's the one who showed me a really nice route past the local marina, and we went that way again today.

I mentioned to her that it's a jolly good thing I don't have a boat. If I did, one day I'd simply vanish, destination Tahiti, or Bali, or -- if I had enough change to pay the fees for the Panama Canal, perhaps Trindad and Tobago. Anywhere, that is, that puts many thousands of miles between me and here...



Today would have been the perfect day to set out on such a voyage. If you accept the old "it can always get worse" line of reasoning, well, it has gotten worse. I am as close to the end of my wits -- not to mention my rope, whatever that is -- as I ever have been.

Yeah, it's the usual bilge. The people who haven't paid me for months are being perfectly consistent...no money arrived today.

Emails and phone calls? Might as well not have bothered*.

No immediate possibilities of a job (a full-time job, that is) and I don't have the necessary info from a couple of editors to actually plunge ahead with writing.

In a way, that's good. In my current mood, I'd rather rot in hell than write for the shitweasel clients I have right now.

Wait. I am rotting in hell, if you ask me.

There comes a point where all planning, thought and effort for the future seems totally futile. I don't trust anyone to deal with me in even a remotely fair manner when it comes to business.

They didn't tell me in school and church that it would end up like this.

All I have left is bitterness and anger, some of it directed inward. There comes a time when faith in one's own ability just doesn't cut it any longer, and that's where I am on this eighth day of July.

I have more faith that I'll win the lottery than I do in finding someone who wants my professional talents -- and will pay for them -- in time to stave off the seemingly unavoidable collapse.

Some time ago, I read that the most common words heard on aircraft cockpit voice recorders just prior to impact are, "Aw, ****." I dig the impulse, Jim..

* Hard to believe as it may be, I am (and am generally considered to be by others) all professional, polite, focused, cool and collected when in work mode. I seldom complain, never push harder than I should. I'm a freekin' Boy Scout, baby. For all the good it does me.

I was going to post these last week...

...but didn't get around to it. On our Independence Day weekend, however, it occurred to me that there are few things so all-American as hot rods.

No self-respecting German would take so fine an example of his country's engineering prowess as a Porsche 911 and stuff in an ugly old Chevy V8 engine. But an American, knowing the Detroit motor makes more power, is less expensive to service and more reliable, will give it a try. And it works...



There is a brilliant designer and builder here in California called Chip Foose. This is one his "takes" on the classic Model "A" Ford-based hot rods. I particularly dig the nose cone on the radiator, which looks as if it was meant for a P-51 Mustang fighter plane...



Hot-rodders back in the day didn't cotton to the 1936-41 Lincoln "Zephyr" V12 engine -- it tended to overheat and didn't deliver much power -- but it sure looked right under the hood...



Foose carried the Zephyr look over to the interior, using an original Lincoln steering wheel and instrument cluster of the period. The dashboard was shaped to recall the Art Deco panel of the Zephyr, as well...



And here's me, reflected in the spotlight of a '49 Mercury that was considerably hot-rodded...

Independence Day, the Final Chapter...

...at least for this year.

Enjoy the fireworks show...we did!...











The amateur -- that is, illegal -- fireworks continue, to the distress of car alarms and grumpy people all over the area.

It's been fun.

God bless America.

Independence Day...

...so far.

Flags everywhere...



...except at the beach, which was packed with people, very few of whom spoke English (which is how it it is here in la Ciudad de Nuestra Senora de Los Angeles in A.D. 2008)...



I'm sure these Civil War buffs, who were demonstrating their cannons, spoke English, as did the police on patrol...



Across the bay, the Navy was holding open house on one of their ships...



I wonder if the next Revolutionary War will reclaim the former Long Beach Navy Yard from its current owner, China Shipping?

Fireworks photos later, if my back cooperates long enough for me to walk back down to the beach....

Immortal puppy!

Ever since I began reading Joan Perry's blogs -- here and here -- I've come to share her fascination with sidewalk art, those scratchings on wet cement that blend ego, commentary and sometimes simple weirdness.

After much scouring of local sidewalks, I have to admit her concrete fields bear far more fruit than those around here.

I did, however, find a spot where some mischievous puppy (with or without human help) added its contribution to the genre. This was done some years ago, I think, and I suspect said pooch has long since shuffled off this mortal coil...



But it now has a kind of immortality, and I'm hoping it didn't go through the rest of its life with dried cement stuck to its little paw-pads....

Nothing new going on...

...at least nothing new and good going on, so this'll be a short entry.

Despite the back pain, I've been walking again. Sunday morning I was goaded into a walk longer than any I've done lately. It was good for me, involved a new route, and I repeated about 2/3 of it yesterday.

Did even less today, I admit, but the damn back complained about that much.

Yesterday, I saw an opportunity to make a self-portrait, and did...



You can't see that I'm not smiling. Not much to smile about these days....

Motorcycle madness...

...as a couple thousand bikers, mostly riding Harleys, invaded Where The Ghetto Meets The Sea.

The first any of us knew about it was, naturally, the noise. They filled the road that runs along the ocean...



This was not the relatively small crowd that regularly patronizes a local beer joint, but a variety of motorcycle clubs, some of whom came from as far away as Northern California for the gathering...



Not given to obeying the laws governing motor vehicles (or courtesy), some parked -- and rode -- along the sidewalks....



The police were there, but with only four or five cars, two motorcycles and a helicopter...



Frankly, for reasons I refuse to discuss (but think I know), the local cops wimped out. Had the regular bikers we're used to around here ridden as some of these did -- and on unmuffled machines, to boot -- The Man would have been all over them like cheap suits. Instead, the cops escorted them along, using red lights and sires at times, turning a blind eye as some did wheelstands on city streets, blared along in an objectionably loud manner, weaved around cars, rode in the wrong lanes, blew stop signs and generally acted like jerks.

My respect for the LAPD went down several notches. They seemed to have had enough advance knowledge that the bikers were coming to close off a couple of streets to residents, but projected such a small, ineffective presence that the bikers walked all over them.

At one point when I was driving, I was damn near hit by several riders who accelerated onto the street without looking. I pointed this out to one of the officers and was essentially told to cool it and be on my way. Had I not exercised more than average care, I would have collided with a couple of them.

I'm not saying all the bikers were reckless creeps. I talked to a few, and they were okay people, as the majority of bikers are. But I resent having my neighborhood taken over, even for an afternoon, by people who ride like hooligans, make far more noise than legally allowed, and wantonly endanger others.

And I sure as hell resent the police for caving in to such behavior, when I know damn well they come down like a ton of bricks on locals for far less dangerous activities.

They're gone now, along with their entourage and camp followers. If they or any bunch like them come back, I hope the fools at the police department show some spine and enforce the law. Otherwise, someone is liable to get hurt.

In some ways I wonder...

...if going down to visit Juan and his new "family" was such a hot idea. Not because of anything they did, of course, but because the contrast between them and my situation is so appallingly vivid.

No. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Even if it was my only shot at spending time in the kind of environment -- and with the kind of people -- I find in my (few) good dreams, it was worth it.

Besides, there were moments just too cool to miss. Think about the sheer weirdness of watching someone having his blood tested while dogs bark -- and, occasionally, cats mew -- in the background. Go watch the video on his site.

Here are my good and much-appreciated hosts, Juan, K., and M. in front of their delightful cottage*...



People, dogs and cats thrive there. What more need be said?

For me, the descent continues. I had to deal with a new doctor today and found it a frustrating and somewhat humiliating chore. The only bright spot was that medication is controlling my sole physical issue (at least as far as the doctor was concerned) well. The rest was a real bust. In fact, I stopped talking to him after a few minutes. He wasn't listening.

The romance between me and my potential employer seems to have cooled. I was supposed to hear from my contact this week, and did not. Nor did he respond to a "just keeping in touch" email. Oh, well.

I get the advice everyone else does from various people. Right now, the general opinion seems to be that I shouldn't just cave in and wait for the next boulders to fall on me, but should -- as Richard Nixon used to say -- "fight 'em, fight 'em, fight 'em."

To which in earlier times I would heartily assent. I have neither the energy nor any ideas how to do that now. Too many options and possibilities have been beyond my reach for too long. And the few potential turns in the road need to be approached at a pace slower than is good for me. It's like sneaking up on soap bubbles: I have to be deliberate and delicate, while the wolf-pack, not forced to be deliberate at all, gathers to strike.

There are two "mes" right now. One sees unhappy people I want to console and support, be happy for a few people who are enjoying well-deserved happiness and have, if possible, more work than I can handle; the other just wants to curl up in a ball, have someone else hold my hand and make me believe everything will work out.

The second "me" can't delude himself that way any longer.

* I suppose it's too large to be called a "cottage," but it has a warm, comfortable aura that brought the word to mind, so I'm stickin' to it.

A one-day reprieve...

...involving a longish drive down South to visit -- and meet in person for the first time -- my friend Juan.

It was the most relaxing day I've enjoyed in, well, one helluva long time. What I expected after several years of correspondence and phone conversations is what I got in person: interesting, honest, fun and simply a good guy.

His hosts/friends were charming. He has written nice things about them and is guilty of understatement. Like him, they made me feel as if I had known them for years.

We had much fun without actually doing much of anything. I hope he posts video of a few of the stranger moments; I'd hate to spoil it by attempting to describe the scene.

I'll only say there were animals around, which is always a good thing for my sense of well-being...



Yes, the cat was just about to yawn as I snapped the picture. I didn't take it personally.

I'll also say my Mexican lunch was superb, perhaps better than Juan's. Delicious.

I felt very much at home.

And I spent the drive home -- just under two hours -- thinking optimistic, happy thoughts. I felt as if I had been granted a peek at what heaven ought to be like: Friendship. Beautiful, comfortable surroundings. No stress.

It was as if I had been granted eight hours of compassionate leave from the prison my own life has become.

Thanks to Juan, K. and M., plus assorted cats and dogs.

I needed this.

Back to hell in the morning....

I'm thinkin' about this...

...idea, which you can read about here.

It seems one Ian Usher, a Brit living in Australia, decided to put his life up for sale on eBay. The winning bidder gets Usher's house, car, motorcycle, clothes and friends, plus a tryout at his job. Usher plans to take the proceeds and head off into the sunset in hopes of being able to set up afresh.

The impetus was, apparently, the breakup of Usher's marriage.

So for, the top bidder is offering almost $300,000 for the package.

I can't offer the goodies Usher's throwing in. No house, no car, no motorcycle.

But I'm willing to offer up everything I have:

A vast magazine collection, including several hundred magazines featuring my stories;

A pretty good library;

Clothes, mostly old, but all clean;

A mountain of debt;

Contact information -- some current, some not -- for all the women who have rejected me;

Contact information for all my clients -- some of whom are still in business -- who will, I'm sure, be glad to give you a shot at doing my work;

A bicycle, in good shape but sitting on two flat tires;

Miscellaneous junk, including videos, CDs, vinyl records, toys, etc., etc.;

Lots of memories: some good, too many bad.

Any bidders?

A strange day...

...in which I started on the wrong foot (so to speak) by heading out for a walk. I was motivated by anger: back pain has more-or-less crippled me recently, and I've simply gotten tired of sitting around waiting for the next jolt of discomfort.

Walking didn't help. I found that I had to be very careful about my posture. A single misstep brought agony, several times. So did the heat, which combined with low-lying fog to make the air jungle-damp. I was a sweaty mess after a mile and a half.

And my back hurt. Still does.

I was somewhat amused that someone mentioned Wayne Dyer in a comment on my previous entry. Dyer was on George Noory's show Friday night. I was hoping for UFO, Project HAARP or chupacabra news, and got Dyer's message instead.

The first thing that caught my ear was Dyer's mention of having given away his possessions to spend a year trying to live with the teachings of the Tao. Cool, I thought, until he completed his sentence: "...in Maui."

And this struck me as the root fallacy of the "let go" movement, the self-help gurus who advise not thinking about material happiness or mourning what you don't have. Give me a nice six- or seven-figure bank account, and I'll cheerfully discard those few things I haven't already had to give up involuntarily, bet your ass.

When you are caught on the ugly downward slope, getting advice to simply "bag the fear and wait for the inevitable good stuff the Universe can provide" from people who have amply padded safety nets is not helpful. My acquisitiveness has been considerably revised over the years; the square-footage of this planet I feel a need to occupy and the number of things I wish to house within that space have both diminished considerably.

I do, however, feel a need to receive value for value given in order to "enjoy" a certain basic level of survival.

I am not at all angry about those -- government, individuals, corporations -- who wish me to pay for the space, services and goods I consume. I merely have a major issue with those who make it impossible for me to uphold my end of the bargain, while thriving from my labor.

So when someone lounging on a tropical beach says I should toss everything away and embrace "goodslessness," my sole comment is both short and unprintable.

If the world wishes to stop collecting rent, demanding payment of utility bills, grocery bills and taking money for gasoline and other necessities that keep me working and alive, I'd be all for it. I'd calmly and cheerfully wait for the end of the rainbow to plunk itself down right on top of my roof. Then I'd trot up and collect my very own pot o' gold.

But the wolves are gathered around the door, howling and extending their paws to be crossed with silver. If not fed, they will bite. And it won't be much longer until I feel the fangs on my flesh.

Should you happen to read that I am miserable because I can't buy a new Bentley, please feel free to remind me that things do not bring happiness. I do not, however, take kindly to suggestions that I should somehow feel happy and fulfilled even though I can't pay my freekin' phone bill.

If I manage to extricate myself from the mountain of excreta that's pinning me down, I may think about embracing the way of the Tao. Probably from someplace like St Lucia or Tobago or Jamaica, though. Maui is too crowded.

Bitter? You could say so, Jim.

Hot and cold...

...pretty well sums up my day. Cold is easiest to explain: I went to the chiro today and, among other things, I have to put an icepack on my by back -- in two places -- for 15 minutes five times daily. I'm up to Number Three right now. Ugh. Not comfortable.

Hot? It was 104 degrees where his office is located, and it's hot here. I don't like that any more than I like the cold on my spine.

The chiro was interesting, if difficult to put up with. He is a zealot for chiropractic, an evangelist who touts it as a potential cure for many disorders. Hell, almost everything I've ever complained about will be dealt with as soon as my bones are in alignment.

It was almost as if I was facing Dr John Harvey Kellogg. All that was missing was a lecture on the evils of "autointoxication" plus, perhaps, an enema to "exonerate" my bowels. I guess having a "subluxation" will have to do.

Granted, I'm not the one to approach this with an entirely open mind. My mother was in the medical field and viewed practitioners of chiropractic with something like the disdain she would have shown had I come to her with a tale of visiting an Obeah man.

Still, rather than telling me to lie down and subject myself to a series of contortions and forced cracks and pops, he took a series of x-rays and made a big production out of explaining why I was in pain. Then we got around to the cracks and pops....

PARENTHETICAL THEM'S-THE-BREAKS THOUGHT: One of the x-rays showed a broken (and fully healed) bone in my right shoulder. I had no idea! Never had a car accident serious enough to leave me in pain, no sports injuries in school school, no nothin'. Weird.

I get to go back for more Monday. Somehow, I've never been to any kind of medical person who has said, "here, this will fix you up and you won't have to come back for a half-million follow-up visits." I sense that this is going to take a while, and cost me far more than I can afford.

And damn, my back still hurts....

I'm not in the mood for this.

Meanwhile, the downward spiral continues. No checks, no offers of anything that would give me even the slightest break from the pressure I feel. Every time the phone rings or I run into anyone, my first thought is: what will they demand/take from me?

I did get an email from the editor to whom I sent a story this week:

"Uh, you NAILED this story. Put simply, it is beautiful. Few have impressed me the way this one does, and this after 11 years.

And what an easy edit..."

I still got it, Jim. Me and Tiger Woods.

Well, no, I ain't still got it. The writing took me more than twice as long as it should have, and I was wracked by angry and indecisive moments all the way. One of the bad hangovers of That Awful February 29th. That seldom happened to me before. Besides, what it all adds up to is a small check in two or three months. Doesn't even begin to help with today's crisis. Tiger? He needs surgery, but he's got a zillion dollars to pay the bills and suffer through the necessary downtime.

I suppose I should be grateful. Mark Twain didn't write a word after he died, so far as I know. Neither did Big Ernie Hemingway. Makes me unique.

You know what? This is all self-pity, and I understand that and am not proud of it, but I'm tired of rolling that damn rock up the hill over and over, only to have it roll back down again and get heavier when it does so.

I could tell you what I feel I need right now, but why? I dare not feel the slightest optimism that I'm going to get it.

No matter how many bones the chiro manages to re-align....

Strange days...

...as what feels like a headlong rush straight into a brick wall continues.

At least it begins to look as if a few of those too, too solid bricks are falling away before I conk my noggin on them.

Maybe, anyway.

First, a very dear friend -- sometimes referred to as Red Hot Riding Hood, which is a bit of an inside joke between us -- emailed me about a job opening she'd seen. She thought it might be something for me.

I got the email first thing Monday morning, and applied before I'd finished my coffee. I had a reply within a few hours, had an email exchange with the guy posting the ad, and a phone interview last night. The guy still seems positive, and we'll talk again next week.

This is good. Also bad. It's my kind of work, but it involves a major relocation, in itself not a bad thing, but somewhat problematic in several ways. I'm not talking about conflicting emotions, but rather some major practical issues I'm not sure can be resolved.

It's something I would have jumped at at age 28 -- and in fact did, moving 1200 miles for a job -- or even at age 38. Or age 48, comes to that.

But at age 58, it looks like just another major hurdle, and I'm tired.

I have cheerleaders, bless 'em: "RHRH," of course, and my friend "Juan," who has actually uprooted himself and set off down the road with remarkably positive results.

But they're not here at 3:00 a.m., when I wake up wide-eyed and wonder how the hell I can manage what seems simply impossible to me.

Enough of all that. I have a few days to ponder the whole thing before my next interview. Who knows what'll happen in that time?

I do. At least three things. First, thanks to the generosity of an anonymous angel, I'll do some major grocery shopping. In today's mail, a gift card for a market -- not the Happy Hindu -- along with a cute photo book and a card with a comforting message. Another person on a lengthening list of people to whom I am so grateful. I'm only sorry I don't know who she (I think) is so I could thank her personally.

Tomorrow, I'll drive D. to his oral surgeon's office so he can have a couple of teeth extracted. Can't drive himself home when he's drugged out.

And Friday, I'll be visiting another chiropractor, this one recommended by D.'s girlfriend, Nurse S. X-rays and therapy. I hope this works; my back is ready for amputation.

So these are good things, yes? Well, they are. But I have been facing that brick wall long enough that I am wary of good things. My problem, of course. But it's an all-too-genuine concern. I know that, given a shot, I can take a good run at getting things back together. It's simply that the "shot" hasn't materialized up to now. And I worry that I'm less capable of getting things right; I'm older, and lonely, and close to feeling defeated by the events of this year.

Doesn't mean I won't try. But the vicious circle has me surrounded, and I can't allow myself to hope to manage a breakout. Right now, anyway.

Sleepless night...

...even though I gave up on yesterday early and tucked myself into bed circa 9:00. I'd had enough, let me tell you.

At 9:15, just as I was starting to doze, the phone rang. It was D., the photographer. Could I drive him to the emergency room? He was having chest pain and an irregular heartbeat.

I was dressed and out the door in minutes.

It's 21 miles from my place to his, and a further 17 miles to the chosen hospital. There just aren't that many ERs around here these days and S., his girlfriend, works at this particular hospital.

All together, I made the 38 miles in 36 minutes.

He was admitted, and I sat. And sat. And sat. Emergency rooms are never fun places, but they seem especially busy on Saturday nights. I have previously managed to avoid sitting in an ER for any length of time. And I don't remember a hell of a lot about my last visit to one.

S. came down during her breaks and checked on him. Checked on me, too, and took me to the cafeteria for some much-needed coffee. D. has had a gammy ticker for years, and is diabetic. His blood sugar dropped while he was under observation; the resulting sweating worried the nurses, as that can be a sign of heart problems, too.

In time, he was stabilized and, when the doctor was certain he wasn't having a heart attack but just symptoms that have become somewhat normal for him, he was released.

It was 2:30. On Sunday-freekin'-morning.

So here I am, back at my place and unable to sleep, though I'm going to try again in a few moments. I'm glad I was on hand when my friend needed me, especially glad that it turned out not to be a serious as first thought.

But I can't help thinking Someone Up There is flinging just a bit too much dung, a wee tad more stress than I can handle, my way these days.

Update?

A few nice people seem to feel a need to know how I'm doing. They've suggested that they want to know what's going on around here.

No they don't.

I don't really want to go into ugly details, but things are coming to a head here, and the prognosis is not especially promising.

Let me make a few points, as cryptically as possible:

1. I'm now quite convinced that the hospital stay in late February/early March left me with some lasting changes. I wonder, in fact, if it took longer to revive me than I've been led to believe and that popped a fuse or two in my head. No matter the cause, I've lost some critical faculities, and they negatively affect my ability to do my work;

2. What little work I've got to do isn't helping. Frankly, it's all crap stuff, interesting enough if I had a flow of the "normal" writing assignments I've grown accustomed to over the years (all of which seem to go to other writers) but impossible to deal with when it's my sole diet;

3. I am, and always have been, lousy at getting anyone to cooperate with me. Quite a while ago, I hatched a plan to get a regular and steady sale of "mainstream" writing going in my field of expertise, but when I reached out to those whose forte is selling (I couldn't sell water on a desert island, believe me, so I thought combining my expertise at what I do with the expertise of someone who knows how to represent a product/service made sense) and even offered what I consider a generous percentage of the take to anyone who could, shall we say, pimp my product, I got encouraging words but no action;

4. Allied with #3 is my inability to find help when needed. This is strange; the hospital told me there were programs out there to assist me in paying/reducing my staggering bill. I contacted the relevant agencies and found, for a variety of reasons including not being totally incapacitated, not having children, not having had a credit card to put the bills on and a couple of others I would be branded a racist for repeating, I'm not eligible.

Some people have helped. None of them were those who can really afford it. I understand that; I've done the same a few times (though not as often as I'd like). Through my work, I have met dozens of people who could easily assist in getting me back on my feet and alleviating my total financial meltdown without even noticing it; none, of course, have stepped up. I guess that's how they got wealthy.

PARENTHETICAL I-HAVE-TO-SAY-THIS NOTE: I fear that the mere mention of the financial woes that make up 99% of my misery right now will prompt those same wonderful people who have previously come through to think about trying to help again. That would, frankly, only increase my misery.

5. The "if-only" factor is weighing me down as well. And this is mainly self-loathing: if only I hadn't made this or that decision (and we can take this back some 30-35 years, at least) I wouldn't be in this position right now, this hole I have spent so many years digging. I can't seem to stop kicking myself for a long, long line of screw-ups. That doesn't help, even if it's all true. I am most bitter about my own failures.

I haven't done much work in recent months. This was not exactly what I'd call a "break" from the routine, as most of the time has been spent berating myself for messing up and feeling ever more frustrated because I couldn't write down the thoughts I wanted to (and, as much as anyone has paid, get paid to) express. Even writing entries here is a far more aggravating and time-consuming process than it used to be.

You're all fortunate I'm not doing a podcast; talking isn't easy for me these days, either. Anything much beyond simple sentences can reduce me to a stuttering, frustrated bundle of red-faced nerves.

PARENTHETICAL I'VE-BEEN-TO-THE-DOCTOR-THANK-YOU THOUGHT: I've mentioned this to the doc, but somehow I managed to pass all the basic tests he put me through to gauge my state. It's strange, and unpleasant.

I suppose I could have avoided all this by simply staying indoors on that February day when I died. I could have not brought my condition to my neighbors' attention; then, they would not have called 911 and nature would have taken its course, for better or worse.

Damn. This is horrible, personally embarrassing and not at all cryptic. I don't even know if a miracle (and who gets those? not me) would do more than postpone the misery.

I may delete this shortly and post some pictures from today so all y'all will think everything is fine.

Always a spectator...

...but at least in this instance the twinges of envy are mild. Feelings of admiration are strong, though.

I've been following the journey of my friend "Juan", who has cleverly taken the money most of us would spend on so-called professional help and faddish drugs to set off into the hinterlands in search of both adventure and a place to call -- more or less -- "home."

If you haven't been reading his story and watching his videos, you should start. Immediately.

Don't read the rest of this. Click on his link above. Now.

I wouldn't presume to get into any deep analysis of what he's doing. Heaven knows, in my current mental state, I'd b*gg*r up the truth anyway. Fuzzy thinking, you know.

Being of an age to vividly remember the fuss made about the books of Jack Kerouac -- and, in fact, of an age to have had fantasies of getting a van or small school bus and setting out on my own -- the pull of "the Road" remains embedded in my mind. So do a host of youthful memories of places "Juan" has visited and will be visiting. Or, in a few instances, will be unable to visit, as they been changed beyond all recognition or have vanished into the dust of Progress.

In one sense modern times have made his trek easier. Instead of film cameras (still and movie) and cassette tape recorders, he has packed digital equipment into his smaller, more reliable and more fuel-efficient transportation unit. Likewise, a computer with mobile internet access beats the hell out of paper, pens, envelopes and postage stamps, all of which were on my fantasy packing lists.

The big difference -- if you ask me, anyway -- is that Kerouac (and I) were devotees of spur-of-the-moment aimless wandering. I detect an eventual destination in "Juan's" travels, and know a lot of planning and forethought went into his mad scheme.

Being much older now, and battered by forces that prevent me from doing likewise, I can only sit back and cheer as "Juan" makes his way across the map. Even if he doesn't know it, he's making this run not just for himself but a horde of would be road-followers who sense that their own ultimate destinations are Somewhere Out There but can't -- or won't -- make the leap of faith it takes to start (and, more important, continue) the search.

As for Kerouac: I read him voraciously in high school; to say I dug his act is an understatement. Returning to his works lo these many years later, I found his writing less than impressive and his personality (at least as revealed in his books) immature and not terribly pleasant. The guy was a nut, and not in a good way.

Imagine a Kerouac with a good heart, good personality and more mental stability than he credits himself with. That's "Juan."

All this is a roundabout way of admitting that, in what I consider a positive way, I'm jealous as hell of what he's doing.

And I'm rooting for him to find "home" at exactly the right moment, Jim.

When it rains, it...

...floods.

I was preparing for this afternoon's unpleasantness this morning, when I got a phone call from photographer D.: a magazine we work for is shutting down.

There goes roughly 60% of my income, maybe more. This was the pain-in-the-ass publication that has given me enormous doses of grief over the years -- my first piece for them appeared in 1987, as I recall -- but also a fair-sized pile of work.

No word yet on whether the two or so issues still to appear will use up the half-dozen stories I've done for them. If not, no pay; contributors only get their money when the issue containing their stories is actually published.

I'm speechless. And somewhat numb. It's getting a bit late to build up the energy to start trying -- again -- to line up fresh clients in the ever-shrinking pond.

I'm not a paranoid. Really. But it sure seems as if something out there is working hard to feed me to the crusher.

It's succeeding, too.

Looking at cars...

...on Saturday morning. I may have been near-comatose, but I grabbed a few photos.

At first glance, I was sure this was a 30s-vintage Alfa Romeo, a car of incalculable monetary value. As it happens, it's a clever and intricately detailed replica made in England a few years ago. Impressive, to say the least, and it almost surely cost the man who commissioned it almost as much as the "real thing" would have done...



Farther down the financial food chain, this old Mercury "lead sled" grabbed my eye, if only for the brilliant copper/gold flames painted on the nose -- in contrast to the rest of the body, which was in flat black -- and the acres of chrome...



My Texas friend would probably love this Maserati "Indy" coupe, as he should...



He and his wife would find the interior plush, if a wee bit cramped...



And speaking of cramped, just looking at this sweet little Fiat X1/9 -- apparently a favorite of a Canadian friend -- and thinking about climbing in and out made my aching back muscles cramp in protest...



I have some experience with X1/9s. I had one for a week many moons ago and injudiciously used uit to take a woman out on a first date. Watching me struggle with entry and exit reduced her to such a state of hysteria that whatever else might have happened later that night didn't.

Better I should have had the Maserati. Or the Ford pickup I'm currently driving.

Wait. I take that back. There would be a choice, these days, between paying for a date and buying gas for the truck....

On the edge...

...and still in pain, albeit less so than I was before visiting the chiropractor.

In the learn-something-new-every-day file, I learned on Friday that there is yet another pain medicine I cannot take. I downed one of the pills the doctor gave me and, within a few hours, was feeling even more dull and listless than usual. If that's possible.

The result? After that, insomnia on Friday night, followed by an hour of fitful sleep in the wee hours of Saturday morning which included a nightmare of incredible detail starring people I know, one that rolled a significant number of my own worst fears and suppositions into one horrifying, realistic whole. I can remember it all even now; it had a ring of truth to it that such evil dreams seldom have.

So much for those pills.

Inevitably, yesterday was a long day. I was out of the house by 6:30 to hit the weekly car show -- I had reasons for going that went beyond seeing the cars -- and then an afternoon trek to pick up some info for a story. I was not at my sharpest by then, let me tell you.

Last night was better. I slept, anyway. But the pain continues, now unrelieved by medication; a few bad moves in the night were enough to wake me up.

For the moment, waking life isn't very nice, and sleep is worse. That doesn't leave much respite or refuge.

The next two days are primed to be truly awful. Let it be said that it's not a matter of my attitude going into upcoming events; I seem predestined to get a series of swift kicks to the painful parts no matter how I approach things.

That, dear friends, is depressing.

In fact, I dislike even writing about it. So I'll stop.