Since I'm usually selfish...

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

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



...Murcielagos, Gallardos, Diablos...



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



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



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



Nice stuff. But a bloody hot day.

The gift.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And nowhere near as happy.

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

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

Music is food and oxygen to me.

She said...

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

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

She understood.

In need of renovation...

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

Updateization...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The whole exam lasted less than two minutes.

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

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

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

How much worse can it get?

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



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

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

Poof. No more internet. Again.

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

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

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

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

Total time wasted: nearly four hours.

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

The mailbox was empty yet again, too.

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

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

Aw, ****...

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was going to post these last week...

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

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



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



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



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



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

Independence Day, the Final Chapter...

...at least for this year.

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











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

It's been fun.

God bless America.

Independence Day...

...so far.

Flags everywhere...



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



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



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



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

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

Immortal puppy!

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

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

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



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

Nothing new going on...

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

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

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

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



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

Motorcycle madness...

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

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



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



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



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



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

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

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

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

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

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

In some ways I wonder...

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A one-day reprieve...

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

I felt very much at home.

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

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

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

I needed this.

Back to hell in the morning....

I'm thinkin' about this...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pretty good library;

Clothes, mostly old, but all clean;

A mountain of debt;

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

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

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

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

Lots of memories: some good, too many bad.

Any bidders?

A strange day...

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

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

And my back hurt. Still does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bitter? You could say so, Jim.

Hot and cold...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And damn, my back still hurts....

I'm not in the mood for this.

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

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

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

And what an easy edit..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strange days...

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

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

Maybe, anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleepless night...

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

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

I was dressed and out the door in minutes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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