The best news of the day was that my car only needed an oil change. Sure, there were 6 trips back and forth to this Beverly Hills garage (at the same tiny, but very valuable location since 1949), where my most trusted Filipino mechanic is now working. Quel relief I felt at the relatively small price I had to shell out of $54.32.

And so I have little to rant about tonight. My neck is still in need of a Korean/Thai massage, but that's what comes with writing 6K words in a week. It is cool, though, that a friend of mine is actually in the New York Times' home section today. He has arrived. He is the toaster king. Bizarro shit, but someone has to claim that mantle. (Remembering when a 'vintage' toaster of mine had a melt-down while I was out of town, causing a minor fire. Fortunately, my neighbor was home and had the smarts to move the pot plants before calling the fire department. Total damage: the fucking toaster and several jars of vitamins.)

On Bob Woodruff watch. Will he be back on the air after several craniectomies (sic) and mucho plastic surgeries? Or will he just retire gracefully on his big fat pension, writing books and spending time with his wife and four kids. Swelling brains, ooh. My prayers are, in fact, with him. I thought about going to Iraq - as I personally know people who have gone and could easily be credentialed - but the thought of the less-than sumptuous accommodations, as well as the inclement weather, not to mention the language thing, made me decide against going.

Cuz "Jarhead" I ain't.

P.S. I am dead against puppies being used to smuggle in balloons of heroin a la "Maria Full of Grace." Unless, perhaps, they are that wretched breed of Presa Canarios.