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.

Better?

Well, maybe. Somewhat. A little.

To be really candid: not much.

The MD was fairly pleased by my blood test results and other numbers. He did some tests and said he saw no particular medical cause for either the back pain or my sense that the ol' brain isn't working well enough.

I suppose I should feel reassured. Of course the feeling that only a full descent into gibbering idiothood would convince him that I was truly suffering some leftover results from my recent E.R. visit was not encouraging.

It's not so much that I want to convince him, you know. I simply want to find something I can do to make things better.

Since I have only been alive for three months -- as of yesterday -- this time around, I guess it's mainly a matter of waiting to see what happens in the way of improvement, stabilization or deterioration. I hate to wait.

He gave me some mild pain meds for the back and sent me on my way.

The chiropractor took a more active role, of course. His running commentary as he checked me out basically made me feel hideously deformed -- some ex-girlfriends might agree, but let's not discuss that -- and tight, twisted and generally all stove-in.

After that, he twisted, cracked and tugged.

End result: maybe a 30% reduction in the pain. Worthwhile, but far short of miracle status. I'll try as long a walk as I can manage later on.

Once the pain pill kicks in, that is.

PARENTHETICAL NOSTALGIC NO-PAIN-NO-GAIN THOUGHT: I wish circumstances were such as to let me "cure" my back ailment the way I did when it flared up some 20 years ago. At the time I was afflicted, I found myself at a race track in Wisconsin on a 100-plus-degree, intensely humid summer day. After a half-hour's high-speed driving -- in a car without air conditioning -- I emerged sweat-drenched but in no pain at all. I made some money, had some fun and healed my back all at once. It doesn't get much better than that....

Don't have to see the MD again for another month. I'll be back at the chiropractor's office on Tuesday.

Grrrr.

Rebirth...

...as the "New Confidence" slips into the harbor after a voyage from its Chinese home port...



Every so often, I read -- or hear -- about someone proclaiming him- or herself a "new person." I understand the impulse to think so; with the third (month) anniversary of my own traumatic and near-fatal moment approaching, I've been pondering what "second chances" and "life changes" are really all about.

From my own experience, I'd say it's a bogus concept. Life may give you a second chance now and again, but you still have to play the cards you were dealt before whatever happened to change your outlook came along.

That's messing with my mind these days. Some people have been kind enough to give me a bit of rope considering what I went through, but the same old vampires are still out there, thirsty for blood.

My blood.

In short, the stress level remains far too high, and my new best efforts to simply take the various crises one at a time are foiled by the sheer volume of big and little hassles that are piling up.

Friday should be interesting: M.D. in the morning, chiropractor in the afternoon. I'm more than a little concerned about the medicines I'm being given; I have reason to think they have affected my ability to work, at least to some extent. I don't have the level of concentration I need to keep me focused on writing. Naturally, the longer this goes on, the more it makes me angry and frustrated.

Since nothing else has been going on, I'm thinking some of the pills may bear part of the responsibility.

The aching back doesn't help, particularly because the discomfort is inconsistent. I'm not sure from moment to moment whether I'll double over with pain because I've tried to sit down, stand up or stretch out. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But I can say with assurance that not being able to walk farther than a few blocks is not doing me much good.

So while I'd like to be a "New Me" -- and, in some ways, I think I am -- I'm still forced to pay the Old Me's debts and clean up after his screwups. Which means, in reality, I'm the same old fertilizer in a slightly different bag.

Doesn't seem entirely fair.

But for the moment, my outlook would be much improved if I could actually sit here without (a) having my mind wander off and (b) feeling a deep need to sever my spinal cord with the nearest chainsaw....

Just hangin' around...

...which seems to be the story of my life these days...



Didn't see the doctor on Friday. Not because I messed up -- though that wouldn't have been a surprise -- but entirely due to a secretary's screwup. Somehow, she didn't enter the appointment into the computer, and I was basically told I could wait (just in case someone else didn't show) or come back next Friday.

I'm going back next Friday.

I didn't sleep last night. Not a wink. I've spent today trying not to simply jack it in and head for bed. That's how I know it rained here...when daylight came, the pavement was wet, but the precipitation had stopped.

The back still hurts. Oh, boy, does it. Driving over a speed bump or raising my head too high makes me pine for assuming a fetal position. I could still use those warm female hands rubbing my back, but they're in short supply in my world....

I'm facing two choices right now: one is to lay a bitter political rant for y'all based on things I've been reading/hearing; the other, a heavy dose of Old-Fartism and dreary reminiscences inspired by a DVD a friend sent that I have been watching.

I've decided on neither for the moment, though if my insomnia extends into a second night, I may well change my mind.

Right now, I'd gleefully change places with any of about 2,794,860,321 people in the world, Jim.

And I'm fairly certain none of them would want to deal with my current levels of stress, loneliness or pain.

But enough of that. Tomorrow, as Scarlett O'Hara once said, is Another Day.

What the hell did she know about it?

Strange day...

...as, within 75 miles of here, there was snow in the mountains plus hail, flash floods, mudslides and a tornado in the desert that overturned a truck and derailed four or five train cars. Some stretches of freeway were temporarily closed due to weather conditions.

Here? Sunny all day, with occasional clouds and plenty of humidity. No rain, no thunderstorms, no nothin'.

More of the same is forecast for tomorrow.

All I knew until the reports of weird weather started coming in was that the air felt distinctly odd, in a way I've felt prior to heavy weather in the Midwest. Vaguely disturbing, that, as if something catastrophic was on its way.

Nothing that bad happened, but nothing good came along either.

Tomorrow morning involves another doctor visit. I can hardly wait. I'm not totally convinced any solution to the back pain will come of it, but that's what I need, especially since I learned another couple of trips to Catalina Island are in the offing.

What I don't need is pain meds; the last time I got an Rx for them, they damn near made me try to twist my head off to see if I'd be happier without it.

Since I'm already feeling that way, I'm not in favor of making it worse if I can avoid it.

Morphine. That's the ticket. Or a pair of warm female hands rubbing the aches out of my unhappy muscles.

I sure as hell couldn't outrun a tornado right now.

I've been told to write...

...even though I don't have much to say. Nothing that's good, anyway.

If you want to read whining and miserable stuff, y'all have come to the right place.

So, lemme see...what's been going on?

I picked up Photographer D. and his girlfriend at the airport last night at the conclusion of their trip to Italy. I knew they were returning, but hoped they'd call with some basic information. You know, like the flight number, arrival time, etc.

Late Sunday there was a message on my answering machine: "It's D. We'll be back Tuesday at 6:05. We land at Terminal "B."

Ummmm...a few unanswered questions there. Like: morning or night? And, since LAX has no "Terminal B" (they are numbered one through seven), was he landing somewhere else?

Okay. They left via United, so I guessed they'd come back the same way. I also guessed he meant 6:05 p.m. Checked with United's website and found a flight that fit the parameters. It would land at Terminal Seven.

B...seven...close enough, I guess.

Checked the site one last time before driving over there and, aside from a 20-minute delay in landing, nothing changed.

Now, I've flown via United to Europe dozens of times. Despite the fact that LAX has a so-called "International" terminal, some of those flights did indeed park at United's own terminal.

This one did, too. But the passengers were then taken by bus to the "International" terminal. I was waiting at Terminal Seven, and my car was in the appropriate parking garage. The information screens showed the plane landing there.

But then, after landing, the screens changed, and showed the passengers debarking at the international terminal. Into car, leave lot, drive to the other terminal, park.

Of course it took them quite a while to get through customs. Since the preceding flights all seemed to be filled with "visitors" lugging all their worldly possessions with them from Asia and Mexico, D. and S. needed nearly a half-hour to get past those beady-eyed guardians of our territorial sovereignty and immigration laws.

It only took me three hours total to pick them up and take them home.

That's maybe the most productive thing I'll do this week. Today, I got a copy of a magazine I've been writing for; the current issue has nothing of mine in it, even though they have maybe five pieces I've written in hand right now. That means I won't get a check from them for another month. If they choose to use any of them then.

That always cheers me up.

My back hurts like hell, as it has for three weeks. The doctor's appointment I thought I thought was scheduled for last Friday is actually this Friday. I've considered going to a chiropractor, but have yet to hear back from the one recommended to me. He's a busy guy.

I may have to hunt up an attorney, which I can't afford. Someone is hassling me and I'm not sure I can fight it on my own. 'Nuff said.

I don't feel like working. I can't manage more than a mile or so on foot, and feel out of sorts about that.

I do feel like pouring myself a stiff shot of Adult Beverage. Maybe two. Or three.

Not doing that, though.

Yup. I'm in a bad mood.

Feel better knowing what's going on?

My hands start sweating...

...when I look at this photo. It's one of the ladders I had to ascend during the trip to Catalina.

PARENTHETICAL IT'S-WORSE-THAN-IT-LOOKS THOUGHT: Bear in mind that the photo was taken from nearly six feet above the (concrete) floor....

In fairness, I have to admit my friend J., who is in charge of this project and has been for some years -- and is, by the way, a couple years older than I am -- has no problem with it, and in fact is quite happy to scramble up it...



I made it on Sunday. I sure as hell couldn't today: currently, my back only hurts when I move or breathe. Or sit still.

I'll see the doctor on Friday. I just hope it doesn't lead to more pills instead of less. This is no fun.

Being immobile stinks, Jim.

Are we having fun yet?

I have to admit that I had a pretty damn nice time over on Catalina.

What I didn't do, for a host of reasons, was take many photos this time. Mainly, I was pretty busy at times when I might have been feeling photographic, and I didn't see much that wasn't shown here when I went over a year ago.

If you're one of those who wonders about someone who finds getting dirty, sweat-soaked and sometimes bloody (it's amazing how many ways I can cut myself with ordinary hand tools) while laboring in awkward places "fun," you'll wonder about me. Most of my time on the island was spent here in the Casino -- which little notices assure the moralistic was never used for gambling -- building, perched on a little spit of land at the edge of town...



The decorations are wonderful. Art Deco chandeliers and giant fresco paintings tower over the main entrances...



Here's a better view of the main auditorium than I posted last year. I was working behind the (roughly) triangular openings above the movie screen, which required climbing rickety and unattached ladders. Getting access to the one on the right meant a 20-foot climb, followed by swinging one's self to one side to get through a door. The penalty for messing up would be a drop to a cement floor. Not nice. A couple of the meds I've been prescribed warn that dizziness can be a side effect; they were right in this case. But I did it anyway...



Venus arises from the sea above the middle of the screen. She, like the rest of the decorations in the theater, are painted and gold-leafed onto the ceiling, which is actually canvas...



So my concept of "fun" was all about spending hours in cramped circumstances making repairs to 80 year-old machinery. It feels pretty good to make such things work again, even when -- maybe especially when -- you have to deal with evidence of dubious engineering and horrible cheapness on the part of the thing's original builder.

It's a big change from what I ordinarily do, though, and I like that. Despite my ego, I don't even mind that it's the ultimate in "behind-the-scenes" labor which a vast majority of people will never notice, nor really understand if they do happen to notice. I know, and so do a few others, and that's reward enough.

In fact the only bad part of the trip was being forced to stop working and sit through the movie that was shown in the Casino Sunday night. I realize that both my age and IQ numbers are far too high to put me in the right demographic for "Speed Racer," but I still maintain that it's probably the worst movie made in the last 20 years or so. The audience -- local civilians -- seemed to think so, too.

I'll be going back again soon. Much more work to be done. All I have to do is get the doc to change my Rx so I don't get -- shall we say -- itchy about climbing those ladders!

Just got back...

...from two days on Catalina Island, helping the same friend with the same project that drew me over there about a year ago.

It was a mixed blessing. I enjoyed the trip, the island, the work -- I always do -- but there were moments when I was a bit disgruntled. I get that way when I find that things I used to do without sparing them a thought now bug me and require extra willpower to accomplish.

Still, a nice time, and a welcome break from the normal.

And the mere fact that I needed that break is at the root of why I haven't been writing much. How many times can I describe the same old dung -- the work-hassles, the money-worries, the near-total shortage of the kind of human interaction that keeps a lot of people from going completely 'round the bend, to name a few examples -- without getting sick and tired of seeing the same words here? Do I really want to tell you that I'm in some physical pain -- which, for no reason, I suspect may have to do with a new medication the doctor prescribed, and has basically stopped my daily long walks -- and am quietly furious about it?

No, frankly, I don't.

There are times when "nothing bad happened" simply doesn't cut it. I need some good happenings and, try as I might, they seem to not swim into focus.

It's entirely possible I am simply doing the wrong things, or at least not the right ones, in attempts to get some positive action under way.

All of the above -- save the 24 hours on Catalina -- has brought certain aspects of my personality that I simply don't much like to the forefront.

When I cool myself down a bit I may have something to say.

I'd like to think so, anyway.

Jury doody...

...because I finally got the call last night. Or, more accurately, I dialed the Superior Court number and heard the artificial voice say "please report tomorrow at 7:45."

Okay, so I did.

It was much like last year's adventure into Good Citizenship: the same spiel about how to stay in line and keep the judges happy, the same type of video (with new, diversity-correct actors) in which former jurors extol the virtues of the experience.

But it was a strange day. The courthouse was quiet, relaxed and, seemingly, underpopulated. I guess the "day without Mexicans" protest (or whatever they called it this year) kept a lot of people at home.

There were fewer people splashing around in the jury pool, too. The room wasn't filled this time around.

We were released for lunch a half-hour early. That meant a two-hour break, time enough for me to head over to WallyMart for a much-needed pair of jeans.

And then it was 3:00, and we were told to go home. No jurors were called out.

Kind of a let-down, really. Though I didn't want to get stuck on a jury, I remembered finding the jury-selection process the most interesting part of the day last year. Real-life lawyers -- and judges -- simply ain't like they're portrayed on TV. The ones I encountered were a whole hell of a lot dumber than their scripted, made-up counterparts, and thus were far more amusing.

I was home by 3:30. A wasted day.

At least I don't have to do it again for another year.