The kind of day it has been...

...in a single word: terrible.

Everyone has probably heard about the fires that are devastating Southern California. None are anywhere close to me, and yet smoke and ash from the local fires have filled the sky, making breathing difficult. That's what winds blowing from the north can do when you live essentially south of the burning areas.

Hundreds of homes have been destroyed; more will be. None of the three (or four) fires in this region are close to being controlled, and all are in heavily built-up areas.

There was also a small fire roughly four miles from here, in an area ripe to go up in smoke. That one was put down quickly and did no damage.

PARENTHETICAL DODGING-A-BULLET THOUGHT: Two homes ago, I lived in what now may be the path of one of today's fires. I didn't like the area, and worried about brush fires throughout the two years I lived there....

The smoke made a pretty picture out on the ocean, as if that's any consolation...



And what did I, who should have been over at the old place boxing up -- and throwing out -- my crap, do today?

Nothing.

Strangely enough, as reports of burned-out homes, apartment buildings and house trailers came in, I found myself imagining, wistfully, that my former building had been in the line of one of the fires. Yeah, there are things I would miss...briefly. Some toys that have much sentimental (and a fair amount of monetary) value; copies of much of my published work during that past 22-plus years; some irreplaceable phonograph records...and if they were consumed by flames, I might force myself to shed a tear. Maybe two.

A change has come over me in the time -- less than a week -- that I've occupied my new digs. I have divorced myself from almost seven years of living in a fairly spacious pad, and have adjusted to my tiny cubicle.

In fact I've adjusted too quickly, in the way my cat Hobbes adjusted almost instantly from having outdoor access and a big yard to play in to being confined indoors when I moved into the previous place. I simply don't feel like going back over to finish up the clean-up and removal process. It's a part of my life that is now over.

Am I what is sometimes called "an institutional man?" Would I rather be confined? Or am I simply adjusting to a new -- and not entirely awful -- reality in which everything vital to me is enclosed in a 300 square-foot space?

Maybe tomorrow I can get back to what I need to do. I'd better.

Tonight, I will simply vegetate, sitting in my small rectangle and occasionally going out to see which way the smoke is blowing.

People with major catastrophes to deal with are, I fervently hope, being helped tonight.

I, with only a small catastrophe affecting my world, will just have to muddle through. Alone, as usual.

Getting to know the neighbors...

...at least the non-human ones. This is Max, more accurately Maxine...



I already knew the human denizens before I moved in. And, for that matter, the cats. The various living beings make this a nice place.

It's still tiny, of course.

Work is on my mind tonight. I'm already beginning to feel a small sense of relief that the monthly nut has lowered considerably. What I was having to come up for in rent now covers everything -- the place, storage unit, utilities, food -- with a few coins left over.

Trash is on my mind, too. As in all the stuff coming out of the old pad. More of it will go straight in the dumpster, as I am already finding I can do what I do without it.

It's strange that we invest even small, insignificant items with a value well beyond their actual worth, simply because we got them under special circumstances or in interesting places. They rest in boxes or in the back of drawers, and contribute nothing to life except on those rare occasions when they come out (usually inadvertently) into the light.

And yet I hate to give them all up. My legacy for all these years is slim enough; taking away the trinkets seems to diminish me a little more.

Never mind. A lot of that is probably loneliness talking. I feel the lack of companionship acutely tonight.

At least this place is bustling with life. And strange new sounds, most of which have already become background noise.

Raccoons have returned to the neighborhood. So have opossums. They all seem to get along with the cats. And with the people.

The 'net's back on...

...after ten freekin' days, most of which featured at least two -- and more often three or more -- increasingly angry phone calls from me to AT&T. And to think my irritation began when someone from New Delhi (or Mumbai, or wherever in India) informed me that no, I could not transfer my phone and internet service to the new digs simultaneously, and would have to wait as long as five days after the phone service was moved to get DSL service.

Silly me.

Today, however, calm has been temporarily restored, at least on that score. My new modem arrived, I hooked it up, and lo and behold! things worked. After 378 emails (and 115 or so spam messages) had been read and dealt with, I was good to go.

This is the courtyard of the new place...



I don't have the nerve to show the inside. Maybe later. But then, maybe not, as it's jam-packed with bookcases, bed and desk. I don't feel bad about that, but it doesn't look so swell. Could be when the boxes and general litter are dealt with, it'll feel a little better.

Still moving stuff from the old place to either storage or the dumpster. It will probably take another four days or so, part-time. I just don't have the will (or pain-free back) necessary to do it all in one frenzied rush.

Anyway, I'm here, in case anyone cares. It could be worse....

Things have gotten to a state where it seems totally pointless to think they could be better.

In time, maybe.

Don't really feel like getting into all that right now.

I voted early today...

...and I'm glad I did.

But this is not a political rant: not much later, I banged the bejeebers out of my hand moving furniture, and right now it hurts so much that I'd have trouble gripping the little dot-maker gadget in the voting machine.

It'll heal, of course.

One thing that can make you feel really lonely is trying to move a big, heavy bookcase down a flight of stairs and then on to a new place all by yourself. Only four more of them -- they'll all fit -- and boxes of what goes in 'em left to do.

Thanks to AT&T, I now have no phone service at either place. Some time tomorrow, I have to move desk and computer, and will be internet-free until Thursday. Not the way I wanted it, but what is?

I will have to talk to the new manager about the bathtub there. It is really scungy; I tried cleaning it with my favorite Toxic Avenger Bathroom-destroying Fluid, to no avail. I don't much enjoy a grimy shower....

At any rate things are beginning to fall into place. Slowly, too slowly, but they progress.

I only wish someone was here to bandage my hand, coo sympathetically, and drag me kicking and screaming out of my dark mood.

I'm a wimp. I admit it.

Break time...

...from working on The Move.

So far, it's gone about as things go around here these days. The landlord and manager at the new place were a little late handing me the keys. No biggy.

Then, I had to spend two-plus hours on the phone with AT&T (mostly on hold, of course) getting my phone and ISP services changed. It turns out I had one with the "old AT&T," the other with the "new" version, which meant I couldn't change them both with one phone call.

After a long discussion with India, I was in a rage. "Oh, no, sir, we cannot change your service until your new phone line is activated." I understood that, but the fact that I'd have to wait until then to even place an order -- and then wait three to five days to get the change made -- led me to ask "Tom" to connect me with his supervisor, which he refused to do, saying it would make no difference.

In frustration, I made a second call to the "new" AT&T. A woman only 100 miles away helped me change my service, and signed me up for their ISP, which will save me $20.00 per month. I'll have everything up and running Thursday. Still a bit awkward -- there will be communications lapses in the meantime -- but better than waiting until next week.

And I keep my current phone number, too. All that changes is my email address. No big deal; the new one is easier to remember.

PARENTHETICAL PENNY-PINCHING POINT: I only have to pay water and electricity at the new place; gas is paid. Another $25 or so saved every month. This is looking good....

So now, it's on to dragging stuff over there. Two days, maybe three, will see that done. The rest goes to storage or the landfill. It'll take longer than most moves I've made, because I'm not sure how much I can cram into the space available. So it's a one-piece-at-a-time deal until I look around, say "too much stuff!" and quit.

At least it now seems I can have one more bookcase than originally thought. I might be able to include a few of my books that aren't for work! Maybe a toy or two from my collection? Naaah, that's too much to ask....

And the pad has a nicely finished hardwood floor. Damn, I hate carpet! Of course that means a different cleaning mode -- the manager suggested I talk to my friend H. about that: she lives there, too, and keeps the cleanest place in the building, if not in the whole freekin' neighborhood.

Oh, well. Tomorrow will be busy: lugging stuff from here to there, cleaning (everything gets cleaned before I take it over to the new space), shopping (minimum of a new shower curtain and a soap dish for the tub) and dealing with whatever comes up.

And, yes, voting. For John McCain. My hope is that you who have fallen under Barack Obama's spell will do some research and learn -- as I believe is inevitable unless you buy the slanted (and untruthful) crap that's being peddled by the media these days -- that Obama, despite whatever cred he has racially, is totally unfit to be a member of a small-town city council, much less President.

But you'll do what you do. After I vote, it's back to lugging boxes and small furniture items the short distance to Casa Nueva.

I so want this over....

PARENTHETICAL WANTING-TO-TELL-IT-ALL NOTE: Time permitting, I'll have one more entry tonight, before I disappear temporarily from internet-land. I actually had a fun and interesting weekend carved out of what should have been preparation for the move....

Moving.

I'll be in new digs sometime within the next few days.

I've known for several weeks that this move was necessary, and have known where I thought I'd go for a while, but only was able to pay my deposit and get keys today. Until that happened, I neither wanted to say anything nor make any real efforts toward moving.

Maybe that shows how much I have come to distrust people. I don't know. But it means a hectic period begins now, one in which I have to move stuff to the new pad and take a lot of things to a storage unit.

Storage? Yep. The new place is tiny. As in itty-bitty. As in bed, desk, chair and a few bookcases tiny. There's ample closet space, though.

I will do just fine there, after a period of readjustment during which I'll feel like a tiger penned in a small cage.

And it's a nice place, attractive, in excellent condition. Owner and manager are both good people. Excellent neighbors there, as well.

Mainly, I'm doing this for the obvious reason: money. Even with the added cost of a storage unit, I'll be paying some $500 less per month in rent. I'm betting utilities will go down, too.

It's not far. Hell, it's in the same zip code. Still Where The Ghetto Meets The Sea. In fact, I can look out my window and see it right now.

Forgive me for not being particularly Pollyanna-ish about the move. For one thing, it appears I'll have to lug all the crap out of here on my own. A couple of people said they'd help, but the chances don't seem good they'll come through. Likewise, the two local people on whom I can count for many things have bad backs, and I wouldn't accept their help with this if they offered.

And I am not dealing well with the prospect of putting a lot of things out of sight, or of sending things I might otherwise keep to the dumpster, or giving them away. That's not entirely rational, but it's how I feel.

Still, when you come right down to it, a part of me thinks this is a positive move. In some ways that's very clear -- such as the financial bit -- and perhaps, once I've socked enough loot away to buy some furnishings appropriate in size to the new cubicle, it will feel more home-like. That'd be very good; this place never reached that level of physical or mental comfort.

A few weeks from now, maybe a month at most, I'll be certain this is a move I needed, both to help my bank balance and my mental health.

For now, it means I'll probably be out of touch with all y'all for a while. A few days almost certainly; depending on how well things go, could be longer.

I'll be whining and complaining a lot, but you won't know that.

The dead pool...

...in more than 6 1/2 years here, I have not once been in the building's pool. Partly because it's unheated and partly because it has not always appeared particularly sanitary. Recent visits from city inspectors have, I believe, induced the owner to get someone in to service it who knows what the hell they're doing.

Now, it looks like I'll never use it.

But on Halloween night, you never know what will go for a dip....

The annual Halloween cat photo...

...BOO!!!!!!



She's still around, this spooky feline, and is the sweetest cat in the neighborhood.

I wasn't going to post this...

...but the best antidote to absurdity is laughter, and I find this damn funny.

Pretty sharp on the satire front, too. Good symbolism all around.

I'm not a Glenn Beck fan (not sure he's even on here in L.A.), but he nailed this.

Barack Obama needs to lighten up on the "Messiah" act, and since he won't, people will zing him for it.

Besides, I know this little piece really irritates the hell out of the True Believers in his campaign....

I'm voting for...

...John McCain.

To be very honest, it wasn't exactly a difficult decision.

I supported McCain when he ran against George Bush in 2000, urged him -- as did many others -- to oppose Bush in 2004.

I thought he was a good choice then. I believe he is the only choice now.

Part of the reason is very simple: at heart, I'm what you'd call an old-fashioned American patriot. I believe in this country, in its Constitution and the essential goodness of its people.

The same is true of McCain, and he has given the country more than I (or most people) ever could. He has served its best interests for many years, helping to defend it at fearful cost to himself.

His instincts are good; he is honest and decent. The latter is a vanishing characteristic among the political class.

And he understands the need to defend the United States, knows that peaceful resolutions of conflict are best, but not always possible. If -- when -- we are attacked again, I trust him him to put our safety and security ahead of all else.

I support most of his ideas and positions. I disagree with him -- strongly -- on what should be done about illegal immigrants, those already here and those to come; I disagree with him on the monumentally stupid financial bailout.

And yet, I trust him to do what's right.

What of Barack Obama? I do not trust him at all. He has spent the last two years or more running for president; in that time, thanks to his own evasiveness and the subservient willingness of the media to support him without question, we know very little about his life and achievements. We do not even know for certain that he is legally qualified to assume the office he seeks.

The latter I consider unimportant, except that he chose to obscure the truth, whatever it may be, rather than to produce a genuine birth certificate attesting to his U.S. birth (as the Constitution demands). I would take him at his word if he didn't, in my view, follow a pattern of withholding much information that would be sought from any other presidential candidate.

I find his policies abhorrent. "Spreading the wealth?" Taking money from the rich to give to the poor? Government-run health care? Making Washington the central source of aid for the people, and the master of how businesses are run?

Those are the policies of -- to use the kindest word -- a socialist. And I do not believe in socialism.

Obama has no idea of what he's talking about when it comes to national defense. He will talk endlessly to our enemies, and has already made it clear he plans to weaken our military. His policies are naive at best.

But there is one overriding issue that makes Obama unsuitable in my view, and that is his lifelong pattern of associating with (and being influenced by) people who do not have America's best interests at heart.

A few of the worst: William Ayers and Bernardine Dohrn. Antoin "Tony" Rezko. Rashid Khalid. Rev. Jeremiah Wright. Research them.

Of them -- and others -- Ayers, Dohrn and Wright bother me most. Ayers and Dohrn because they are admitted Communists and inactive domestic terrorists; innocent people died because they and their Weather Underground made bombs; children continue to be indoctrinated through Ayers's efforts.

Tell me Ayers is "respected" today, was even named Chicago Man of the Year, and I will answer you with a word I wouldn't use here. Tell me Obama did not have a close relationship with Ayers because he says so, and I will tell you, based on research, that he lies.

Rev. Wright? In my view, no man who preaches racial hatred, who claims the CIA created AIDS to kill black people, who calls upon God to damn America, is fit to occupy a pulpit. Tell me, as he claims, that Obama didn't hear Wright's scurrilous rantings, though he attended Wright's church for 20 years and once called him a "mentor," and I will tell you Obama lies.

I lived through the time when the Weather Underground was in full operation, and I lived through times of racial unrest in this country. Neither are tolerable here in the 21st Century.

I do not want to live through a time when Communist terrorists and racist agitators are welcome anywhere near the White House. In an Obama Presidency, I fear we will see them there.

Inevitably, the question of race comes up. While Obama's origins should not matter, his character does. So does his lack of qualifications. In fact, I believe that if it weren't for his race, Obama wouldn't even have made it as far as he did in Illinois, and certainly would not have been chosen as a presidential candidate by any major political party.

(Yes, I -- and many others -- have been branded "racist" for opposing him, for questioning his suitability for high office. I can't help that. The label has been applied to the point of absurdity, and much of the invective has come directly from Obama and his campaign.)

Beyond that, I find the quasi-religious frenzy that surrounds Obama deeply disturbing. Worse, the venom his most ardent supporters spew, the very irrationality of their responses when challenged has nothing to do with what is good for the nation; they would follow him without hesitation into the abyss, I fear.

Not all of them, of course. I know some extremely intelligent and decent people who support Obama. And I respect them and their views. They are, however, in the minority.

For all these reasons and more, I have chosen the way I will vote. My hope is that enough Americans will see things as I do to defeat a man who, in many ways, would be a dangerous choice and vote instead for a man of patriotism, honor and principle.

A FINAL NOTE: If you're going to disagree, and I'm sure some of you will, it'd be nice if you did so in a civil way. I've already been called all the names the rabid Obama supporters like to use...

Not a bird...

...but it is a crane! Or, rather, a whole mess of cranes, lifting cargo containers off the ships that bring 'em here from China....



This, however, is a bird. It didn't seem to like me...



See, Doug, it's not all pelicans around here....

Today at the harbor...

...the Sea Angler's crew and passengers (some of whom tagged along without buying tickets) were getting ready to go on a fishing expedition...



One enterprising pelican grabbed a last-minute snack from the bait well before the crew took in the lines lines and the boat set out...



Pelicans fascinate me...

Tonight's conflict...

...is simple: on one hand, I need to be working. On the other, I'd much rather be drinking.

And I don't mean the hot tea I'm currently contenting myself with, oh, no. We're talking serious bourbon (or scotch) whiskeyage here, friends. One nice stiff shot, followed by as many others as are required to achieve the desired state of numbness.

It's not that anything truly awful happened today. Rather, I'm feeling the weight of accumulated problems, and we're just one or two straws from snapping the pachyderm's spine.

To know that difficult times lie ahead, particularly when I've been dealing with difficult times for some good long stretch already, is disheartening, to put it very mildly. So is the knowledge -- which I should be used to by now, but never am or have been -- that the work I do tonight (and next week, comes to that) will pay off in three months. Or four months. Or six.

If there was some way to ensure that what must happen in the next month happens without me while I curl up, unconscious, in some dark corner, I'd take it. You can bet on that.

And I don't need the countless minor irritations and disappointments that are my current daily fare to continue, thank you very much.

Part -- a small part, but definitely there -- of my problem is that at times like this, having no one to whine to directly (as opposed to whining here) allows everything to build up. Some things seem worse than they are, maybe, while others that might be solved if I had someone to discuss them with just go on and on.

What the hell. I'm bringing me down just by writing this. I'll shut up and go away now.

But I won't drink. I've been damn good about that since last February.*

And no, so-called virtuous behavior -- such as it is -- doesn't make me feel better.

Back to work. The perfect occupation for a Saturday night. Not.


* Not that I have totally abandoned adult beverages. I find it enough to avoid them when I'm alone. The occasional martini or shot of tequila on social occasions stops where it is, and I'm grateful for that.

I had to get away today...

...and so I did, hopping into the car and heading off with no direction in mind.

I have spent so much time recently with my head and mind buried in each moment's new problems that, frankly, I couldn't take any more.

After a couple hours' driving, I ended up in the High Desert (as opposed, I guess, to the nearby Low Desert). Might seem strange that someone who has been feeling frighteningly lonely would crave a solitary road trip, looking through a windshield at miles and miles of, well, miles and miles, but it felt good...



The best part, I think, was that I was totally unreachable. No bad news could be heard. No good news, either, but as there was none of the latter, that didn't matter.

At one point, I saw a sign noting that I was only 250 or so miles away from one of my favorite areas. For a moment, the thought that I had just deposited a check and could actually afford to drive up there and survive for maybe a month in what is to me one of the most beautiful regions within reasonable distance tempted me.

Then, of course, I realized that the money in my account is more than spoken for. Ten times as much would be. So the fear of what might come after those lovely thirty days kept me on my more-or-less chosen path.

All was pretty much okay until I got back to the city. Traffic being what it was, I ditched the freeway and headed for some short-cuts I've learned over the years.

The route took me past several places I worked in the dim past. The first was a shack of a building less than a block from the Samuel Goldwyn Studios (at least it was called that then) and the mildly famous Formosa Cafe. Not much later, I passed another former workplace, a couple of blocks away from the last place where Edward D. Wood lived. I might even have seen him a time or two as I walked from work to the Pla-Boy liquor store (his source for cheap booze) to get a Coke during breaks. Finally, I drove by a place just down the street from Pink's Hot Dogs. I survived many a long night shift on the heartburn generated by their chili dogs....

I also drove past neighborhoods that held good memories of short but intense relationships (in days when any affliction one might pick up in the process could be cured by pills or, at worst, shots) and other kinds of exuberant behavior that just don't fit with the program these days.

Today, I am on a maximum-austerity program, which means no social life of any kind.

My mind filled with memories during this last part of the drive. I grew steadily more depressed, and remain so tonight.

Would I go back to those days? You damn betcha I would. I wasn't as nice a guy then; nor was I particularly concerned with much more than what Raymond Chandler and other writers of gritty detective fiction back in the 1930s sometimes referred to as booze and broads.

But that seemed enough. And, with hindsight, I sometimes wonder if, in fact, it really was more enough than I knew.

What I have now, what I do now, certainly isn't.

At this moment, I wish I had given in to the urge to keep on driving North today, not stopping until I got to Bridgeport, where I could eat at the Sportsman Cafe and stay in a dingy room at what used to be called "Slick's Court" until the money ran out.

Seems pointless to worry about what the day after that would bring....

Not the photos I intended to post...

...but when I went to prepare the last set of shots from the air museum, I found them too dark to use. Sheesh.

So instead, I offer some shots from the adjoining museum, which is currently hosting a temporary Ferrari exhibit. This is primarily for my friend Scott, though I hope others will at least like the bright colors!

First off, a 1957 Ferrari 250 TR ("Testrossa"), a fine racer in its day and frighteningly valuable today. "Testarossa" means "redhead" in Italian; the car was so named because the engine's cam covers were painted red, not the traditional black...



Two delightful Ferrari coupes. The yellow car is a 1967 275 GTB4, next to a 1958 250 "Tour de France" (yes, there is/was such an event for cars, too)...



Another famous Ferrari racer (and namesake for a Pontiac model that appeared shortly afterwards), the 1963 250 GTO. Also hugely valuable; very few were made, and only a few more than the original number built exist today...



The engine of a 1967 BB 512 LM racer under (plexi)glass. Twelve cylinders arranged horizontally, like three VW Beetle engines in a line...



My favorite car in the show? This 1932 Alfa-Romeo P2, on display because Alfa-Romeo's racing team in those days was run by one Enzo Ferrari...



I would have preferred to show aircraft, but I hope these are acceptable substitutes. I will go back one day to the Air and Space Museum and do better!

More from the air museum...

...into areas that were a little more problematic photographically.

Putting aircraft into enclosed spaces makes close-up viewing easy, but good photography difficult. Next time, I'll take better camera equipment!

We're all used to seeing aircraft in more "natural" settings: in the air or on runways. Here, because of walls and the sheer number of displays, you can't step back enough to take them in.

This "Gee Bee" R-1 racing plane (one of a series of 11 or so built in 1932-33) was almost small enough to fit in the picture frame from any angle. This was a radical and ultra-fast airplane in its day, but was -- shall we say -- a bit rough on its pilots. It won races easily when piloted by aces like Jimmy Doolitlle, but bit back at those with less skill in a simple way: it killed them...



This Fleet Model 2 was almost as small, but was packed into its space so tightly that I couldn't get it all. I was fascinated by it, because I have flown in a near-identical plane of similar vintage (that one was called an Aero Commuter) and it was one of the best flying experiences of my life. Behind and above, a Curtiss "Robin," one of the earliest commercially available planes with a fully-enclosed cockpit...



The museum has plenty of early aircraft from World War I and thereafter (and a few built before that). Many are originals, although some, such as this 1917 Fokker Dr-1 triplane are painstakingly created replicas...



Others, like the Curtiss JN4-D "Jenny," built to train WWI pilots and later used for "barnstorming" stunt shows, mail delivery and other purposes, are suspended from the museum's high ceilings, giving a view that seems unusual, yet is somehow "right," though only the truly dedicated (or truly crazy) fan would stand directly under one flying over at that altitude!...



More in a while.

It could have been worse...

...when photographer D. and I went down to San Diego this morning to cover a story. The story itself both irritated and depressed me, as I knew it would, but after getting more than our fill of that, we both realized that we were only a few steps from the San Diego Air and Space Museum.

I had never been in the place, though I've been outside it many times. I love aircraft -- more, even, than I despise what we were there to see -- so we went in.

It was wonderful.

Never mind that there was a big "Star Trek" exhibition going on. I don't care. But there were museum volunteers everywhere, and we stopped to talk to one elderly gentleman who was a World War II vet and was explaining some photographs he had there. I looked at one, and it stirred memories. "Is that a PBY?" I asked. "My father flew one in submarine patrols out of Coronado [just a few miles away] during the early part of the war."

He, too, had flown PBYs and we had a wonderful chat. He was stationed in the Eastern Pacific giving aerial support to the Marines. Thus, he knew how many cases of beer a PBY could carry -- a closely held military secret -- and we had a nice talk.

I mentioned that I regretted not having seen a real PBY, and he pointed toward the building's rotunda area.

We walked in and, lo and behold, there was a Consolidated PBY (built in San Diego)...



Nearby, a 1928 Ford Trimotor, once known as the "Tin Goose." I've flown in one (no, I'm not that old; it was only four years ago)...



Also in this area, a MIG-17, the second-generation Soviet jet fighter...



And a McDonnell-Douglas F-4J/5 Phantom II (built in Long Beach, near where I live at present)*...



Naturally, one of the most prominent displays is of San Diego's first truly famous aircraft, the Ryan monoplane that Charles Lidbergh used to become the first man to fly non-stop across the Atlantic in 1927. This is a replica of the original (created with the aid of some of the men who built the "real" one), and is fully flyable...



There will be more pictures. The place fascinated me, made me feel the trip was worth taking, and we didn't leave until the museum was ready to close for the day....

* The fountain and pool seen in a couple of shots here are a clue to the building's history. It was built by the Ford Motor Company in 1935 as part of San Diego's California Pacific International Exposition to showcase the company's cars. The pool, if seen from above and at a slight distance, replicates the famous art-deco "V8" badge many Ford cars of the period carried.

My sample ballot...

...came in the mail yesterday. It was, as so many things are these days, depressing.

The city and state propositions were, as is normal, pleas for more money to hand over to the government. A quick skim put the total at some $23 billion in “general obligation” (we pay) bonds, plus tax hikes for “programs” and “initiatives” that have repeatedly failed to do what was promised.

And then there’s the “gay marriage” initiative. Will the people of California decide to refuse gay couples the right to marry? I’m sure those who think I’m some kind of dust-covered conservative would expect me to be all for it. I’m not. Mainly because it’s none of my damn business who someone else marries.

The current situation here is that gay couples can marry if they wish to. That doesn’t mean you have to marry a gay person. It simply means you may do so. That’s logical.

Like many other cases of social engineering, I see this as a “tip-of-the-iceberg” thing. If we tell gay couples they cannot legalize their unions, the next step could be that I will be refused the right to take out a marriage license because the intended bride is not of my race, or religion, or national origin. Or political affiliation.

Who is hurt by gay marriage? Those who want to be hurt. Those who go out of their way to impose their views on others.

If you tell me your religion “forbids” such unions, I can only reply that my religion – a self-compiled mish-mash, but mine nonetheless – doesn’t say a damn thing about it.

The mere fact that this, like abortion, has become a political issue, sickens me. And it makes no sense; why would “conservatives” (I am supposedly one) yearn to have laws mandating how others live? The whole premise of conservatism is – or used to be – that government should butt out of our lives as much as possible.

The position of so-called “liberals” strikes me as equally flawed. They appear to demand that there should be no hindrances on human behavior at all – as long as they approve of it – and, more, that those who engage in certain practices and hold certain beliefs – again, the ones on their own list – should have government funding and preferential treatment so they don’t feel “marginalized.”

Both groups are totally out to lunch, if you ask me.

So far, a big bunch of “no” votes. Several are “NO!!!!!!!” votes.

Picking my Congressman and state reps was easy. My Congressman voted against the Big Giveaway last week – twice – so supporting him again is a slam dunk. The seekers of state office, though unfamiliar, were easy: I looked at their self-provided current job descriptions. Easy enough to see who inflated their resumes....

That leaves only the first page of the ballot: the choice for President.

I’ll write about that later. Right now, I've just listened to the news and am too angry to get into it.

Plans, scuttled...

...as in yeah, I was going to write an entry, despite ever-deepening depression. I thought it might be therapeutic or, at least, informative in case anyone cares about my descent into yet another level of Hell.

PARENTHETICAL YES-I'M-BITTER THOUGHT: I know people care. Really. But the past few days, in which I've faced the demons alone, have not been good for my sense of perspective. About anything.

But I received an email at about 9:17 tonight that threw my plans off. It was the finished layout for a story I did rush-rush for my newest client. "Please check it over to see that everything's okay," the editor wrote. "And while you're at it, will you please write cutlines [captions] for the photos?"

He did the same thing last week. And, in fact, he emailed me with a really off-the-wall request for information to fit into yet another story I've written for his magazine that took a good chunk of time to chase down. These "favors" turn out to be freebies; we have no agreement about such things, and I can't reach him at this hour to negotiate.

Well, I wrote the cutlines, and now my brain is essentially worthless. Captions are, in a sense, miniature articles; in 40-60 words (the size left in the layout) they have to explain things not necessarily found in the main text. For me, they are harder than the original stories.

Damn, I hate this "just one more thing" stuff. It's often difficult for me to ask for -- much less get -- one thing; asking two things (or more) seems somehow excessive.

I suppose it's good for the image. As in, I have an image of having the work "sucker" tattooed on my forehead.

Pay no attention. I'm tired, dispirited and angry.

I'm going to bed.

And, oh, yeah: I had to inform the editor he put someone else's name on the article's byline. The ultimate insult.

How bad a day was it?

It was bad enough that I'll post two pictures to keep myself from writing about how angry I am, and what a worthless piece of dung I think I am.

Both shots were taken during this afternoon's walk. Four miles, and it was the best thing I did today, simply because I managed not to screw anything else up along the way!

I'm always a sucker for orange cats...



It rained, briefly, while I was out. Sorry to say I felt no surge of hope that there'd be a pot o' gold at the end of this rainbow....



Consider these a substitute for the enraged, foaming-at-the-mouth post I came this close to putting up.

Big boulders and bigger boulders

Just when I'm looking up expecting to be skooshed at any moment (no, I'm not exaggerating) by the boulder of personal debt and uncertain income, I can look a little farther and see an even bigger boulder teetering on its own precipice.

I'm not alone in the latter instance. Almost all of us are about to get hit, and hit big.

And we can thank our own government for that one.

See, there's this little matter of what's called a "$700 billion" government bailout of finance and investment firms that have, for years, skirted the law and rewarded their management with incomprehensible sums of money for making bad investments and giving loams that simply cannot be paid off.

With George Bush as their principal cheerleader, these reckless jerks have informed us that the United States will face a major meltdown if the government -- that means us, since it's our money -- unless we simply fork over the big bucks. And no, despite what some misguided Congressional fools say about so-called accountability, there is no "oversight." It's a handout, pure and simple.

The "crisis" appears to have been manufactured in the first place. Companies go out of business all the time. Unless they are run by politicians' big campaign contributors, that is. Wall Street knows well how to manipulate the stock market. It dived on cue as if to underscore Bush's cries of "Wolf! Wolf!"

Two little problems here. One, we don't have that kind of money. The bailout is coming from borrowed and invented money. It will eventually have to be paid for.

Problem #2? It's not just a paltry $700 billion. Mixed in with other bailouts and "loan guarantees" already made, it goes into the trillions. I've seen one reasonable estimate that puts the hit on every U.S. houshold at over $12,000 for just the most recent giveaways.

And other entities -- makers of loans, even some states (such as California) -- have indicated that the money already committed isn't enough; they need some too.

I try not to worry about this stuff. My own worries already overwhelm me.

But this one affects me, too. Tight credit will impact my business badly, as it will all legitimate businesses. My business is already deep in the hole, anyway.

Being at the bottom of the food chain, each of the bigger fish will line up to take their piece from me. Each has a stake in the government giveaway, directly or indirectly, so they will survive.

Don't think for a moment that it won't/can't happen to you.

With the deck stacked so neatly against me, I'm at the end of my tether as it is. I don't know how to fix my life.

Now, if a miracle happens and I do get through the immediate crises (something I don't, at the moment, believe is possible), I have to also help ensure that a large bunch of predatory zillionaires don't have to miss their continuing multiple-millions in "compensation." That's in addition to the usual handouts to government drones and people who have gamed the system, in addition to the relatively small number of people who have genuinely run out of luck (like me) but who have a claim to various kinds of help.

I'm about to give up. Not only do I not know how I can carry the burdens, current and future, but I am bewildered at the changes to society and government that make it somehow necessary to destroy my life to support people who have never, ever done anything for me.

This is, of course, a nonpartisan -- or bipartisan -- mess. I think I know who the culprits are, but they have been joined by so many others in this foolish activity that it no longer matters.

They, of course, don't give a damn what I think.

I'm too small to be missed when I've gone under. I guess there's some consolation in that, even if I can't see it.

I was gonna complain...

...because today has been a very crappy day, thanks to the combined efforts of D., the photographer and an editor who sandbagged me in a big way and made me commit to two things I really do not want to do tomorrow.

Instead, I'll show you a beautiful cat from the neighborhood...



When in doubt, show a picture....

The brain is a grab-bag...

...and tonight I'm just pulling stuff out at random.

There was an earthquake 10 miles or so away from here tonight. Not a big one; it was a benign 3.0. I think I felt it, but am not sure.

What was strange about the 'quake is that we're having what many people -- including me -- consider "earthquake weather." It's warm, and the air has an odd soft quality to it. The wind is coming from the East (180 degrees from normal) and bears a mild taste of desert. If weather can seem calming and unsettling all at once, this is it.

Therefore, the shaker didn't surprise me. Nor did it surprise a caller into George Noory's radio show tonight.

* * *

The radio has been full of ads for some new internet-based get-rich scheme. The usual testimonials from people who have "tried this amazing, no-selling program" and are now cashing in big-time. The voice-over -- which I presume is the guy shown on the web page lying in a hammock at the beach tapping away on a laptop -- is annoying as hell, and sounds as if it was recorded in a large, reverberant room. Of course the details of the scheme aren't apparent; you have to sign up to get the secret. Me, I'll stick to Nigerians who email me with money to place in my account, thank you. I'm sure they are just as honest.

* * *

I'm feeling particularly alone tonight. Everyone has times in their lives when the right words -- in the right voice -- would wash away a multitude of frustrations and mental discomforts. I'm in one of those times, and the magic words are not forthcoming. I can't really complain, under the circumstances; I'm just sayin'.

* * *

So I've buried myself in work and trivia. Wrote one article this morning, started another tonight. That doesn't help all that much, and I seem about to face a night of insomnia. Not good, as I have an early, early doctor's appointment tomorrow for a blood test.

* * *

I've been avoiding writing about politics in here lately, as the whole subject leaves a most sour taste in my mouth. I don't remember a time when there was more rancor, more divisiveness, more spreading of outright lies in a presidential campaign. And don't start me on local ballot issues, all designed, like tomorrow's blood test, to drain me dry.

But a friend sent me a photo of the new Wall Street Bail-Out Dollar, and it's too good not to share...



I'd laugh if it wasn't so damn accurate.

* * *

And now, off to bed, in search of the sleep I'm afraid will elude me.

UPDATE, 6:18 A.M.: No sleep....

I'm getting old, part 423,967.

Yes, I am. I was reading journals tonight, and the latest entry from a lady I very much admire caught my attention.

She's a newspaper reporter, a talented writer on her way to greater heights. She wrote eloquently about being in the office late and receiving a hot-off-the-press copy of tomorrow's paper. That put me in full reminiscence mode.

When I was in my early teens, I worked for a newspaper. As a delivery boy. It wasn't much of a paper, really; just a weekly community rag short on news and long on ads.

Each Wednesday, I'd walk or ride my bike down to the office to get a stack of papers for next-day delivery. Once I had them home, I'd fold each paper, encircle it with a green rubber band, and stuff it in my canvas delivery bag.

I didn't make a lot of money. Subscribers paid 25 cents per month, and no one had to pay. The paper went to every house on my route whether the resident subscribed or not.

PARENTHETICAL NIPPING-AN-EMBRYONIC-BUSINESS-TYCOON-IN-THE-BUD THOUGHT: Once, I decided to deliver only to subscribers in order to boost the number of paying customers. My grand plan failed; several non-subscribers called the paper to complain (none volunteered to pay), and I got a hell of a rocket from the office. I lost some of my enthusiasm after that....

I always arrived early on Wednesday night. I was fascinated by what might grandly be called the "pressroom." The press seemed huge, black and ancient. The strange motions it went through turning raw paper from the huge roll at one end into printed and folded finished copies at the other end held my eyes.

In the same room was a Linotype machine, which set the rows of lead type that, set in wooden frames, went into the press. For some reason its operator worked on Wednesday nights, so the silvery clatter of his machine provided a kind of counterpoint to the rhythmic noises of the press.

And then there were the smells, as heady in their own way as the smell of fresh-cut grass on a baseball diamond on a warm summer night. Hot lead from the Linotype, the distinct aroma of the newsprint and, all-pervasive, the tang of printer's ink.

I said it was a small paper. The "editorial office" was tiny; I think the staff numbered four or five, apart from the editor, pressman and Linotype operator.

One was the circulation manager. His job seemed primarily to ride herd on the delivery boys and take calls from irate customers -- or non-customers -- whose paper was wet, thrown on the roof or missing.

I remember the circulation manager. He was a youngish man who lived with his mother and drove a 1952 Pontiac. The car was immaculate, white with a silver top. It seemed cool to me, but was probably all he could afford.

One Wednesday night, I went to collect my papers and someone else was there to dole them out. The circulation manager had been killed earlier that day when a truck slammed into his nifty Pontiac. I remember that the radio was on, cranked up high to drown out the press, in the pressroom; the tune it was playing was, gruesomely enough, "Our Day Will Come." His day had come, all right.

Every time I hear that tune, I remember that night.

Not long after, I took a job at the local pharmacy. It paid better.

Oddly enough, though I already enjoyed writing, and had had plenty of exposure to a "real" newspaper, I never connected the dots.

I wish I had. Perhaps I'd now be the editor of some small-town newspaper somewhere, presiding over a staff of four or five and thinking myself a big, fish, indeed. I know I'd walk out into the back to watch the press every night we published....

I think about that sometimes. It's a tasty fantasy to a dinosaur like me in this speed-of-light world of internet news, instant communication and dying newspapers.

And I know as the editor I would offer Kari a job if her work came to my attention. If she accepted, I'm certain she wouldn't stay long. She's on her way to something far better than the metro paper for which she works. The thrill of writing stories about local events for a tank-town crowd (at coolie wages, to boot) would have little appeal for someone like her, I guess.

It does for me, however. Having seen the bright lights of the big city, I often yearn for something quieter and simpler. And slower.

Years after my delivery-boy days, my hometown paper had been swallowed up, and had become a "regional" section in a larger paper. Last time I was there, it had vanished altogether, and the old building was gone, too.

Its day had come. Has mine?

A few more photos from the show...

...taken in large measure to distract myself from feeling miserable.

The attempt failed, but I rather like the photos.

First off, the radiator badge from a rare French car circa 1910. I didn't recognize the name -- and don't remember it -- but I think the badge is cool...



The Minerva, a luxury car built in Belgium in the 1920s, bore a likeness of its namesake goddess on its radiator cap...



I always like tailfins, especially those brash appendages on a 1959 Cadillac. That's a factory-original paint color, by the way, unbelievably called Persian Sand...



Another French "invention," circa 1910: canvas fenders! Practical, and easy to replace when damaged...



Finally, a Model "A" Ford from 1929. What made this particular car a crowd-pleaser was its utter originality, from paint to upholstery to mechanical components. Only the tires, fan belt and radiator hoses have been replaced, and beyond that the owner has only cleaned it...



And that's all I have to say or show regarding this day.

I wasn't there...

...or, more accurately, I was there but wishing I wasn't; today was not a particularly happy experience.

I had promised some time back to be a judge at a car show today. My life is a sh*t sandwich at the moment, and shows no signs of getting anything but worse; I wasn't in the mood to hang with a bunch of zillionaires and their pampered wheels, thank you very much.

But, since I promised, and posting photos is less stressful for you and me than whining, I made the 57-mile trek (each way) and, suitably attired in jacket and tie, I did what I said I'd do. And I took a few pics.

It was damn foggy at 7:30 a.m., but the cars were already parked on the golf course....



As usual, there was a wide variety of cars, from this early-1900s De Dion Bouton...



...to this lovely and unusual Rolls-Royce Phantom I with a rare boat-tail custom body...



...to Cadillacs, like this ultra-luxurious '58 Eldorado Brougham, one of roughly 400 with bodies built in Italy, with "suicide" rear doors and stainless-steel roof panels...



...and even some racers, like this Ferrari Monza, which was also for sale. I (and a friend or two) could retire for what it will change hands for. Think seven figures (to the left of the decimal point)...



I have a few other shots, which will fill the following post. My heart wasn't really in it, though, and it took a hell of a lot of energy -- too much -- to maintain a professional, friendly demeanor.

Never mind, though. The other people seemed to have a good time.

I want to rip out my eyes...

...because they hurt. Naturally, they hurt most when I'm staring at the computer while working.

I have two pairs of glasses, both bifocals: one is for driving, the other is for computer work and reading. The former give me no troubles.

But squinting through the latter has become a painful experience. So I guess it's time to head off to the eye doctor and get new specs. When I can wrest the extra money from what I perversely term a "budget," that is.

Oddly enough, most of the time I don't wear glasses, and I do just fine. I can read most things, can walk, shoot pictures, even drive* and never notice I'm somehow visually challenged.

Hand me a book, or plunk me down in front of the 'puter, though, and everything seems to go blurry.

I didn't wear them until I hit my mid-20s anyway. My first eye doctor, senile when I was first taken to him at about age six and progressively worse thereafter, said they wouldn't help me. My parents believed him; for some reason I have long ago forgotten, they had been convinced that I would go blind during my childhood, and I was, for a time, put in a class with blind kids and started on learning Braille.

During my last eye exam, the doc mentioned that contacts would be good for me, but hard as I tried, I found jamming those puppies in my eyes a psychologically draining task.

I know better than to dream of surgery, laser or otherwise. That ain't cheap, and even if I had the spondulics for it someone would be right there with hands out, asserting a prior claim.

Maybe I just don't wanna work anymore. I suspect there's some heavy truth behind that, but I don't feel like going there right now.

With or without glasses, I can see beauty clearly. I know what sight would soothe my hurtin' eyeballs the most, but it is far beyond my field of vision.

Alas.


* The last time I renewed my license, my eyes were tearing so much from something in the air at the DMV office that I ripped off my specs and did the eye test without. But the clerk still checked off the "must wear corrective lenses" box.

Journey beyond the edge of the Earth...

...as I finally managed to make it down to the classified location where my friend Juan (a/k/a "Senor Hospitality") lives. Knowing he is notoriously shy about revealing his whereabouts, I took his directions with the proverbial grain of salt, and cross-checked them with MapQuest.

Their directions seemed even more dubious ("take Forest Service Road 39TJ05...") so I relied on his litany of strange signs, mile markers, pavement changes, end of pavement/start of dirt road, etc., and drove South.

I thought I had gone too far when I started seeing beat-up vintage Dodge vans with Mexican license plates, but realized I had only been on the road for 10 minutes and was still heading toward downtown Los Angeles....

Eventually -- "eventually" being roughly 2 1/2 hours later -- I made it to his pad, which seemed to still be in the same time zone. While small, it's a wonderful place with a view that would command Big Bucks in any accessible place.

After coffee, we toured the neighborhood via a maze of dirt roads. I didn't take any photos, since it reminded me of a desert town I once visited -- the colleague who accompanied me there looked around and said: "it's so quiet that I can hear people cocking their AK-47s!" -- and I was concerned about violating security rules for the trip....

But the scenery was great and it was, despite the presence of some hungry- (and deadly-) looking dogs, nicely pastoral...



I wondered if I had traveled too far and had somehow made it all the way to the Andes when this curious llama ambled up to the fence...



In time, "Juan's" famous "TourMobile" carried us to a wide spot in the road where we stopped for beverages and Trail Mix...



All in all, a fine afternoon. We talked about all sorts of things that interested us, decided the world's problems didn't need to be addressed or settled today, had a few laughs and never got into an argument. Using readily-available vegetable components picked up at a roadside stand, he made us a snack which was quite tasty and filling. An excellent host!

In time, I had to leave, and did so, reluctantly. Never told him that the impending darkness had me in fear that the chupacabras might emerge from their caves. On the way out, I did manage a surreptitious snap of his bunker, carefully cropped here to remove all location-identifying marks...



A most enjoyable day. I'm looking forward to going back. Soon.

And now that I'm reasonably certain the rumors of cannibalism among the denizens of his neighborhood are most likely unfounded, I'm hoping I can bring someone with me. "Juan" is the kind of guy you want to introduce to your best friends.

I'm easy.

I didn't have a good morning today. My work was not going well; in sheer and total desperation, I headed out to walk four miles or so. Halfway through, the sun burned through the fog, turning me into a sweaty, angry wreck by the time I made it back home.

And then the phone rang.

"Can you hear the ocean?" she said. Yes, I could hear a rhythmic rushing noise in the background, restful and so much different than the sound of the ocean here, which competes, not always successfully, with the noise of helicopters, airplanes, motorcycles and glass-pack-muffled '48 Chevies.

And I could hear the voice that makes me smile...happy, relaxed, with the unique, musical lilt of her heritage still strong despite the influences of different accents around her.

Grouchy as I was, I couldn't stop a smile from forming. I'm easy like that when she's around, whether we're talking on the phone or sitting next to each other.

"I'm studying," she said, "but I wanted to call."

Studying? At the beach? Her dedication is one of the things I admire most about her.

I study at the beach too, of course. I study rocks, sand, seagulls, pelicans, waves, people; never books, though.

What a nice mental picture it made: there she was on the sand, lithe and sleek as a seal, book in one hand, a pen for note-taking in the other. I somehow knew from the first time we met that the beach was her special place, and knew even hurricanes could not keep her away from it.

I love the beach. It's a major reason why I stay where I am despite the expense and other problems. If you look at our respective beaches, though -- I'm over here on your left; she's way over there on your right -- you'll see she generally has the better deal. No earthquakes there, and as far as I know fewer signs warning people not to act like human beings. Or not to eat the fish.

We talked about work -- mine, mostly -- and I promised to send her my latest article when it's done. I value her insights; she is a far better writer than she knows. That shows through in the most commonplace articles she takes on.

And fair is fair, after all...I have done a little editing of her work, which is as pleasurable as any red-pencil work I've ever done. In part, of course, because her writing needs so little cleaning-up.

"I have 17 pages to go," she said. "I need to get back to it."

Somehow, that didn't matter. She had already worked her magic, and I went back to my work with a smile.

She knows what to say to me when I'm not at my best, even as she knows what to say when I'm happy.

How can one not love a friend like that?

Sad day so far...

...as I remember, as most of us remember, the events that took place on this day seven years ago.

Being three time zones away from the destruction in New York City that morning, I can only remember watching TV for endless hours, making calls to find out if people I cared about were safe (all were, thank God), and wondering what would happen next.

This documentary sums up, as well as anything I've seen, not only the terror of that morning but the attempts to reduce what happened to understandable, human terms.

An impossible task. It can't be rationalized or explained.

I remember the aftermath: the silent, empty skies, the countless stories of heroism and sacrifice, firefighters standing by highways accepting donations for their brothers and sisters in New York City, the brave words of politicians.

I remember, too, the revisionism that began almost immediately, the suppression of "disturbing" video images, the pleas to "understand" those who condoned, supported and participated in the attacks, the conspiracy theories, and the ultimate failure of the politicians to follow through on their brave words.

In other words, too many people reverted to their old, selfish, offensive and ineffective ways.

For most of us who experienced that day, even peripherally, the anger has not subsided. Nor has the deep sadness we feel for 2996 people who, without any say in the matter, became the victims of primitive hatred and, later, martyrs to a cause the politicians decreed as "right."

My feelings have not changed. What should have been done was not done, both before and after that day in 2001. We have tolerated savagery which should have been erased from the Earth. We have aided people whose aim was to destroy us, and our political "leaders" have stood side-by-side with them and called them "allies."

The world has not been the same since that day. And, until we find our way to common sense and a willingness to defend our nation and its people from harm, even at the risk of "offending" certain others in this world, we can never be entirely certain that Sept. 11, 2001 won't be repeated.

Legs...

...not the legs I'm thinking about, as I have neither pictures of them to post here nor permission to do so if I had any -- but some interesting legs I've seen on my last few walks.

My walking companion thought this was an egret, but wasn't sure. I haven't the faintest idea...



Definitely a peacock, a short way away from its normal habitat...



Obviously a spider, "floating" because back-lighting made its web invisible...



Something of a stressful day. So you get nature photos instead of whining.

Pay no attention to the man behind the...

...Hawaiian shirt!

The charming and beautiful lady on the left is one of my all-time favorite journal-keepers, Joan Perry. I am addicted to her work, which can be found here and here. And probably many other places, too.

A trip to a convention put her a mere 25 or so miles away, and we managed to work a get-together into her tightly packed schedule. So I went down tonight (in the supertanker, which barely fit in the Marriott's parking garage), to have a drink with her and spend a couple of hours in delightful chat...



PARENTHETICAL OH-FOR-A-FACE-TRANSPLANT THOUGHT: Damn, I look old! Can't help remembering what my Flip Wilson talking doll used to tell me when I pulled its string: "The ugly people know who they are...don't they?"

What a pleasure to meet someone so interesting to talk to! I've long considered her a friend -- in no small part because she was one of those who called when I was in hospital (using some rather devious means to locate me, I guess) and did so much to keep me glued to reality at that time -- and was thrilled to find out previous impressions were true. She is a friend, and the warmth she projects in her writing and the humanity one senses behind her photos are very real in person.

Thank you for a lovely evening, Joan!

Famine or feast...

...which, if you want to be correct in your quotes, goes the reverse direction. It's just not doing that for me.

Recent days have been sheer, unadulterated hell. No, worse than that. No ambition, no energy, no nothin' except fear that catastrophe was now unavoidable.

Thanks to those who helped, and a client who finally laid some loot on me (not to mention my hunch that my greedhead landlord would take a check of some size from me and cash it instead of throwing it back in my face and yelling -- in his best Bela Lugosi voice -- "get out!"), kept the worst from happening.

It did leave me with a Ford F250 diesel pickup (12.9 miles per gallon...sheesh!) I planned to use to haul all my crap to storage.

Worse, it left me an emotional wreck, almost motionless, and unable to deal with even the smallest things.

Most of the people I encountered during the worst of the meltdown didn't know. They got my usual positive, energetic self. And that, too, was incredibly wearing on me.

I ain't out of the woods. But I think I might see some evidence of a clearing ahead.

And now, the pendulum swings the other way.

As of yesterday, I had three articles to write within the next week or so. Not bad, as one had basic research done and the other two could be padded with, well, bull excreta.

Now I have six, and should have them all done within seven days if I am to maintain peace among the clientele. Three of them will not be easy.

But I'm not complaining.

Wait a minute, I am complaining. My photographer friend, D., can drive me into a vein-bursting rage with the easy way he promises delivery dates. That's fine for the photography -- he does that in a couple of hours -- but he either tells the editors the story is already written or won't take me any time.

Okay. I need the money. Otherwise, I'd simply ignore him.

Tonight, however, I have a relaxing and fun evening ahead (though it involves driving that supertanker through evening traffic to get where I need to be).

That will bring a smile to my face, and may even be the subject of a posting later tonight.

Today, I received copies of a magazine carrying a story that is my favorite piece of work in a long, long time. The editor remains delighted by it (as do I) though both of us first saw my finished copy four months or so ago. I seldom can read myself with fresh eyes, but this time I could. And it made me think, "damn, that boy is a helluva writer!"

None of the stories I have ahead this week will evoke that reaction barring some kind of miracle.

Enough of that, though. I'll be back later.