PMSimon.com

Self-explanatory:

Among the responses to last week's "The Letter" about the disconnect between the radio industry's newfound concentration on the word "content" and the talent necessary to create that content was this: "When? When are we going to start investing in talent instead of talking about it? We have all been saying this for ten years now. And nothing changes." Another: "There are no minor leagues for radio people anymore. No place to go, get on the air, make mistakes, and most importantly develop your own, unique style." And another response said, "Talent is a dwindling commodity. Like gold mine owners. We need to invest in developing and finding it."

Next Week: Nothing, if I can't shake this head cold.

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I was sick yesterday. I was sicker today. I woke up at 3:45 am after a Benadryl-fueled sleep and felt worse than I did yesterday. I figured I'd start work and probably feel better in a half-hour or so.

That was not to be. Each tap of the keyboard resounded in my head like a strike on an anvil. The words on the screen lost focus, glasses or no glasses. The usual sound of The Regular Guys coming through the computer speakers was shrill and harsh and I couldn't focus -- they were talking, but I couldn't concentrate. The news items came slowly, and by about 5:30 I realized... no. Can't do it. So I did something I haven't done for a long time, years maybe: I got up, walked away, jumped into bed, and slept the day away.

Sleeping in daylight is not something that comes easily to me. I have a heightened sense of guilt, the knowledge that I could -- should -- be writing, working, at least out for a run or something keeping me awake. Sleeping at 10, 11 am? At noon and 1 pm? Beyond decadent. I would have hung my head in shame were I able to lift it off the pillow. At about 2:30, the guilt got the best of me and came back to the computer to check the mail, and, naturally, started working again, because I can't bear to take more than a few hours off at a time. But my head was still heavy and aching, my body wracked with soreness, my stomach churning, my sinuses draining.

After a while, I decided to take a shower and shave. When you're sick, cleaning and shaving yourself leaves you feeling a tiny bit more human, emphasis on the "tiny." I managed to get dressed, get into the car, and make a 7-Eleven run, all of two miles. That, I'm afraid, was my primary accomplishment for the day. Mark it down, May 7, 2008: the day I did nothing.

I'm so proud.

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My illness didn't prevent me from watching the Sixers' final embarrassment Thursday night. I was expecting the blowout -- it was in the middle of Game 4 that the Pistons decided to finally come out and play, and in a series like this between a powerhouse and a marginal team, that's all you need. That being said, the destruction took on bizarre dimensions when every single shot the Pistons threw up went in. Rip Hamilton scored just by looking at the basket. The Sixers did not shoot well, did not play well, but it wouldn't have mattered. Not this year, not this team. But they did better than anyone expected, they did it in an entertaining way, and they left hope for the future. It was a good year, an unexpectedly good year, for the Sixers. Maybe next year I'll go back to buying the NBA cable package and see them try again.

But it was also remarkable how many empty seats there were in Wachovia Center. I understand why people wouldn't buy: Philadelphia is still feeling caught by surprise that this team even made it to the playoffs, and the tickets are not cheap. If I was still living in the Delaware Valley, I don't know that I'd pay to see that game. I'd probably have wanted to save the money, or save it for a later round, thinking that if they didn't make it, this game wouldn't be worth it. But it's still hard to believe that they couldn't find 6,000 more takers. The Flyers seem to have no trouble filling the place.

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Today, I felt a little less sick. I was able to run and go out and take care of some errands and even do a little work, but by the end of the day I was dragging something fierce...

...which is where I am now. You know how you can tell you're a little off by the low-level aches and flushed feeling and occasional need to clear your throat? Yeah, like that. I'm going to take the hint and lay down again. Another full night of sleep ought to do the trick. At least, it better do the trick. This sick thing, I no like too much.

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Another recovery day, punctuated by lots of work, sawing wood (really), runs to Lowe's and Smart and Final for various necessities... but nothing interesting. Sorry.

I managed to miss all of the Celtics' evisceration of Atlanta -- thanks for coming, guys, but it's time to get serious -- and missed the Laker game and the Phillies and Dodgers and everything else sports-related. Maybe something interesting will happen tomorrow. Today was just... Sunday.

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Why, yes, we DID eat Mexican food today for Cinco de Mayo. I really have no idea why, since a) we're not Mexican, and b) um, we're not Mexican. We do like Mexican food and have no animus towards Mexico or the Mexican people, but it's not like we run out and eat corned beef and cabbage with green beer for St. Patrick's Day or kung pao for Chinese New Year or anything like that for any other nationality (is there a Japanese holiday?). How Cinco de Mayo came to occupy a special place in the culinary calendar, I have no idea. Maybe it's all about the beer. It IS one of the year's amateur nights for heavy drinking, right up there with New Year's and the Super Bowl.

But we didn't drink. Just piles of beef and lettuce and cheese and beans with chips, celebrating, um, something or other independence-related. We were there early, so no mariachis or anything. In fact, it was pretty much an evening like any other at the local gringo-friendly Mexican restaurant. No specials, no music, nothing but the usual old WASPs gumming their flour tortillas beneath the USC jerseys and "borrowed" street signs from Old Meh-Hee-Co. I didn't even switch the car radio from John and Ken to La Nueva 101.9 for the ride.

But the food was good. For that, I am thankful for the holiday. Whatever it stands for.

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Courtesy of Philebrity, this is bizarrely fascinating-- Philadelphia, circa 1955, profiled by WPTZ (now KYW-TV):

They spend a lot of time OUTSIDE Philly, huh? And they don't really dwell on anything beautiful or natural. Lots of industrial shots. Plus a few seconds of baseball and football, and a lot of neon signs, which I loved. I could watch a full-length movie of nothing but neon signs and city street scenes.

And from a link therein, a promotional film about the Mayfair neighborhood of Northeast Philly in 1937:

Ice cream, church, the movie theater, baseball, candy... what else does one need?

The Mayfair Theater is a bank now. And it wasn't long ago that the conversion was made. But it was a drug store before that, an Eckerd.

The Internet, it never ceases to amaze me.

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That's Phyllis Simon, nee Phyllis Silverman, born Fela Berlinsky in Lodz, Poland. She was my mother. She passed away in 1994. This would have been Mom's birthday.

Which birthday, we never knew -- her age was a mystery, impervious to even the most stringent examination (her driver's license? Believe it at your own peril). She had about the toughest childhood possible -- she and her family were rounded up by the Nazis, most of her family was killed, she managed to escape and survive and was hidden near Berlin when the war ended, she got out of Germany and ended up in New Jersey. But she was a wonderful mother, loving and kind. I miss her still. I will always miss her. And the near-confluence of her birthday and Mother's Day every year makes for an awkward and sad moment every year, when the ads for Mother's Day gifts start up and I'm reminded again that I can't get her a gift or hear her voice or see her smile anymore.

It's for her as well as for Fran and for other family members who have faced cancer that I'll be walking on Saturday at the Revlon Run/Walk in L.A. If you want to honor them, a donation is a good way to do it. Thanks.

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This week's All Access newsletter is about how talk radio power REALLY works. But first....:

This week, before getting into the radio stuff, I'm moving the charity plug way up here to the beginning of the Letter, because the big day -- the Revlon Run/Walk for Women in Los Angeles -- is this Saturday and that means it's the last opportunity to ask y'all for donations.

Next week: Perhaps I'll suggest a few things you can talk about when you've had enough of the election. And I can also tell you a true story about me, the "green" store clerk, and the bag that wasn't. In the meantime, call your Mom right now and wish her a Happy Mother's Day in advance. Go. Do it now. That's an order.

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A last-minute flurry of pledges has brought some more money in for the Revlon Run/Walk on Saturday morning, and it was amazing to see the donations come in, one after the other. I'm very pleased and appreciative. This is a great cause, and I'm happy to help contribute. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

What? You haven't given? There's still time. Click here and donate.

I'm a little disappointed in the lack of celebrity firepower this year; last year had Sheryl Crow, Mickael Chiklis, Pat Benatar, Jessica Alba, Eva Mendes, Fran Drescher -- not bad, This year? Kate Walsh, Tom Selleck, and the Go-Gos. Meh. (Tom Selleck?!?) But that's carping. The real stars are the survivors and their friends and families who are coming out to the Coliseum and USC and walking to raise money to fight women's cancers. And to me, my wife Fran is the biggest star, a survivor and one kick-ass hero.

I'll bring the camera again this year and take pictures along the way. And, again, to all who donated, thank you, thank you, thank you.

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The Entertainment Industry Foundation Revlon Run/Walk 2008 for Women this morning at USC and the Coliseum? Glad you asked....

We arrived at the Coliseum early, but this year, so did everyone else, meaning it took roughly a half-hour from exiting the freeway to finding a parking space. It was before 7 am and there were already mobs at the booths and in front of the stage, where they were doing aerobics. We walked around for a while, Fran got her survivor's cap...

...and we stood around in a relatively open area for a while:

Someone sang the national anthem:

OMG, it's Tom Selleck! Selleck was a co-host this year, along with Carrie-Ann Inaba of "Dancing With the Stars," a last-minute substitution for Kate Walsh. The middle-aged women who made up the lion's share of the walkers were far more excited about Magnum than I:

The mob assembles on Figueroa, ready to walk. There were teams from a lot of companies, and it seemed, surprisingly, that the turnout was larger this year than last:

They meant "Capitan" as in "El Capitan," right? They didn't mean "Captain" as in "Crunch" and just misspell it, did they?:

Tom Selleck and Carrie-Ann Inaba were signing autographs at the start line as the mob waded past. Between the autograph hounds and the people like me pausing to snap a photo or twenty, this made the start less than speedy:

The firemen were there to send us off:

Above 39th Street, the flag, suspended from the fire cranes. They did this last year, too. I like it:

The only way to go:

This is the kind of place most of the walkers would never encounter. Most of the walkers don't shop at places with bars on the windows:

Walking up Hill Street, a barren and slightly scary industrial stretch. Cops were stationed at each intersection and seemed to be there to discourage anyone from straying from the route. Los Angeles looks like a real city from there:

A cool old ivy-covered building on Hill. I love buildings like this. I would never have seen this one had it not been for the walk:

Of course, I took a picture of myself, my camera at the end of my outstretched arm. My ego trumps any good deeds I might be in the process of doing:

They named what after who?!?:

Greg Oden's home for a year:

Across the street... it's Felix! (Fran could not restrain herself from singing the Felix theme):

Not just Felix, but GIANT Felix!:

Figueroa Street the way you want it to be but it never is, totally devoid of traffic:

The dome atop the Shrine Auditorium, former home of the Emmys, former home of the Oscars, former home of the Grammys, former home of the People's Choice Awards, former home of USC basketball:

The front of the Shrine, from the side. This is where those interminable Red Carpet shows came from:

Next to the Shrine, a statue of a guy in a fez. Actually, it's called "Editorial Without Words" and symbolizes the Shriners' aid to children. Or their love of fezzes:

Relief:

In the stretch, the goal in sight (the Coliseum, not the portapotties):

And we're coming to the final turn, the tunnel entrance just ahead:

What is it like to walk through the tunnel? If the video came out okay, you'll see -- and hear-- the whole thing right here tomorrow.... (UPDATE: No, it didn't come out okay. F'ing Canon camera. F.)

And, oh yeah, it's not too late to donate. Click here.

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I didn't want to put much here because I want yesterday's pictures to remain up top for a while longer. So go check 'em out.

Here's a bonus shot of people apparently genuflecting towards ABC7's tent and truck:

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I still want to keep the pictures from Saturday's walk close to the top here, so here's a bonus ultra-blurry picture of mechanics at Felix Chevrolet watching us go by:

Check out the pictures below. I promise I'll start writing about something else soon.

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I watched some of the Pistons-Magic game at a bar near home, munching on a burger and observing Dwight Howard missing free throws. He missed several, and meanwhile Rip Hamilton was not missing any, and at the end of the game, despite the Magic hanging in there, Detroit finished them off. And, yes, I sat there thinking that if the Magic -- Howard, mostly -- had just hit their free throws, they might have lived to see another game.

That made me feel old, because that's who thinks about the importance of free throws: old guys. We remember when Rick Barry and Louie Dampier and Calvin Murphy became famous for hitting free throw after free throw, while these kids today...

And then I looked some players up. The notorious bad free throw shooter of yore was Wilt Chamberlain, while today, it's Shaq. Wilt shot 51%, Shaq is at 52%. But that doesn't mean much, so I checked on some teams. Last year's champs, the Spurs, shot 75% from the line, while their opponents shot 74%. The 1969-70 Knicks, the epitome of team play, the archetype of the Good Old Days of the NBA? 73% from the line. The '66-'67 Sixers, long considered one of the greatest one-season teams ever? 68%, with Wilt (44%) bringing the average way down (surprisingly, the next worst free throw shooter on that team, among guys who played over a thousand minutes, was Billy Cunningham at 68%). The '83 Sixers, another all-time team? 74%, with opponents shooting 72%.

But how about bad teams? This year's awful Seattle team shot 77% from the line, and its opponents shot 74%. The 9-73 Sixers of '72-'73 shot 75% from the line, with opponents also at 75%. No matter who I picked -- expansion teams, good teams, fifties, sixties, today, any era -- they shot over 70% from the line. The first exception I found, selecting randomly, was the 1948-49 Rochester Royals at 69%, and they finished 45-15, won the Western Division regular season, and lost in the second round of the playoffs to the iconic Minneapolis Lakers of George Mikan.

In other words, teams pretty much shoot free throws at the same clip as always. We just notice the bad ones more. And we notice the misses in big games even more than that. Free throws are important, but we look at today's NBA players with the same eye that Mr. Wilson used to observe Dennis the Menace. Get off our lawn, and practice your free throws!

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It's getting warmer here. You could tell as early as the wee hours of the morning, when I stepped outside and felt that little bit of humidity and a warmth that we usually don't get at 4 am. And today was indeed warm, but it'll get warmer -- we can safely call it hot -- in the next few days. Summer's here a little early.

With the warmth -- it was hot enough that for the first time this year, I had to change my running course and use the shady side of the street as long as possible -- came the slog. I hate this feeling. It's like my body's been invaded by aliens made of solid lead. Every step's a little slower, every thought comes a little less easily, everything's in slow motion. I've been strangely tired all day. I gave the gym a shot, but the weights seemed heavier, more awkward. I'm not feeling at my best today.

And to show you where my head happens to be right now, I just paused for a second to look at something else on the web and an hour later, I realized, hey, maybe I ought to go back and finish up that blog post. What was I saying? Does it matter?

Letter tomorrow. Maybe I'll get it in gear by then.

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This week's All Access newsletter takes another shot at the HD thing, pumps up what's right about radio, and includes a Heart reference (as does the headline above!):

I got a press release early this week and it was all about HD Radio and all the great, innovative HD2 channels out there. The HD Radio Alliance, it said, is "continuing the outpour of creativity and ingenuity with the second generation of HD2 programming." Well, that sounded encouraging, because all I hear on HD2 channels -- when I can get them, which is not all the time -- are the same stuff, pretty much, that I hear elsewhere, only with no commercials and no jocks. So I read on, and here are some of the innovative formats listed in the press release: Oldies, Smooth Jazz, Classical Music, Country, 80's. Wow! You mean I can get a radio station that plays oldies, and all I have to do is pay a couple hundred dollars and put up with the more-than-occasional dropped signal? Sign me up!

Oh, yeah, one more thing: Many of you came through in a big way for the Entertainment Industry Foundation's Revlon Run/Walk for Women's Cancer 2008, supporting myself and my wife Fran in the walk on Saturday. How'd it go? Great. Wonderful experience, and we raised a nice amount for a great cause. And we carried your support and best wishes every step of the way. On behalf of Fran, myself, and the people whose lives will be helped and even saved through the research and programs supported by the walk and by you... thank you, thank you, thank you.

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We spent the evening at this, a spoken-word event up on Melrose.

At an art gallery.

Yes, that sounds unbelievably pretentious, but it wasn't. It was five comedy writers reading -- literally, right from the page -- while a DJ punctuated the monologues with timely music. We went because Lauren Dombrowski was there -- a former "Mad TV" writer/producer, pride of Boston comedy, and cancer's toughest enemy. She was great, of course, telling a biopsy story that didn't let tears get in the way of laughter, and the others were great, too, talking about everything from disappointed fathers to tee-ball disasters to ultra-Jewish weddings to something extremely dirty in every sense of the word. It's a great room, too: intimate, friendly, and fake (it's called the Fake Gallery, and the art on the walls is appropriately goofy), on a stretch of Melrose that ain't the high rent district (it's east of the 101 near City College).

For ten bucks (drinks included, although donations to that end are a good thing), you can't go wrong. Great evening.

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It felt like an inferno today, but the thermometer said it only reached around 80. Didn't feel like it. It was uncomfortable, the kind of uncomfortable that makes going out and doing anything unappealing at best. That includes work, but I managed to get some done after a very, very early run (before 5). Then I went back to sleep. I never do that, but it was better than going out.

I've gotten soft. And tired. I can't even get the energy together to turn on the computer right now (praise the Lord for the iPod Touch). I'm going to go cool down now. Pyramid Hefe Weizen might help.

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The couple at the other booth at the Islands fooddrinkery place was younger, or at least they were younger than we are, and they were all over each other. As I ate my burger, I couldn't help watching.them nuzzle and kiss and paw and grope while the nachos in front of them congealed. When the guy left to go someplace -- the bathroom, maybe, or for a smoke -- the woman whipped out her cell and got into a long, serious conversation with someone. Maybe she was calling him.

We, on the other hand, sat across from each other, because we don't nuzzle and kiss and paw and grope at the dinner table. We didn't do that even when we were in the first throes of love, because we lived under the constant fear that someone from work would see us. And we sit across from each other because we like to talk at meals, and we like to see each other when we do it. But whatever the reason, it drove home the point that we have become Old Married Couple.

That's okay, actually. Old Married Couple is an admirable goal in my book. After 17-plus years of marriage, we don't need to demonstrate to the world that we're crazy for each other. We just are. That being out of the way, we get to have real conversations without the sugary stuff. It's comfortable. It's relaxed. And while we're fully capable of public displays of affection, we don't NEED to show that. We're Old Married Couple. Love's a given, because that's how you get to be Old Married Couple.

Besides, Young Gropy Couple isn't necessarily what I prefer to see across from my burger and fries. You don't order a meal up with your pr0n, do you? (Or maybe you do; that could be the ticket for a huge pr0n theater comeback, replacing the seats with table service and gourmet meals. And a bucket for when you see something particularly stomach-churning) When the couple was going at it hot and heavy, it was not conducive to digestion. I don't want to watch Young Gropy Couple be young and gropy, and I surely don't want to watch them while eating.

But the spectacle made me feel vaguely superior, and that's always a plus. Hey, getting to Old Married Couple status is an achievement. It's easy to get to the Young Gropy Couple stage. Make it to Old Married Couple status and you've really proven something. Plus, it's a lot more pleasant to eat dinner in the presence of Old Married Couple.

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Today's prime entertainment was a car chase. This car chase. I mean, this IS L.A., and we get car chases as part of regular TV programming.

Today's chase wasn't much until the end, when the driver, who'd allegedly side-swiped a police bomb squad car and took off, took a fateful turn off the 134 onto the Brand Blvd. off-ramp -- did she think it wouldn't be jammed? -- and got pinned in by traffic and cop cars. They told her the usual -- throw your keys out the window, show your hands, step out and get down on the ground with your hands behind your head. Instead, she got out waving a piece of paper and a bag of something, whereupon they blew her head off. No, they didn't do that, although you can imagine they WANTED to. Instead, they tackled her, touching off an extended drama in which she steadfastly refused to get into the squad car. They tried pushing, pulling, shoving -- no dice. Finally, they strapped her legs together and kinda tipped her in head-first, and even then she kept fighting.

I'd like to show it to you in an embedded link like a YouTube clip, but, naturally, the local L.A. stations don't allow that. You can see one version here, anopther here, but no embed, because, well, can't have that. (Sigh) Anyway, after years and years of these things, and after countless declarations on everyone's part (my own included) that they're boring and old hat and not worth interrupting REAL news to cover, all you have to do is put a police chase on TV and we all watch. Really, I watched this one and it started as a minor car accident. I will not be ashamed. Yes, it's creepy, indefensible entertainment. Yes, I promise myself that next time. I'll change the channel. Yes, I will watch the next chase. It's better than anything else on TV at the moment.

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This was a day filled with petty aggravations and stuff with which I hate to deal. So I'm in no mood to write, not even about the NBA ping pong balls or the neverending primaries or Ted Kennedy or Jon Lester or Dagmar Midcap or anybody or anything.

I'll talk to you tomorrow. Hey, if you're so needy, why not follow me on Twitter? You get the love in 140 character bites all day long. Just search for pmsimon -- how clever! -- and while you're at it, follow allaccess, too, for updated radio and music industry headlines. Now, I gotta go.

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I thought yesterday was aggravating. Today was worse.

I don't believe in biorhythms. Remember that? You'd go into an arcade someplace, like maybe the Seaside boardwalk, and you'd drop a coin in the machine and it'd buzz and whirr and spit out a punch card with waves drawn on it where you could figure out what days in the month were going to be good ones and bad ones. I never bought into that, but it does seem that life is pretty much a series of peaks and valleys in a consistent, gently rolling two week cycle these days. If it's a good Monday, by the next Monday, I'll be tearing my hair out. And a week later, it'll be sweetness and light. Never fails.

So, right now, I'm on the downward stroke. I saw it coming earlier in the week, and it hit a new low today. I have little doubt that by Friday, I'll be ready to... well, I don't know, but it won't be good. I'm grateful that this will be a luxurious two-day weekend (I don't ever get real three day weekends, and my normal weekend is Saturday, mostly) so I can relax and recover and maybe by May's end I'll be happy again.

But right now, I'm sliding down the bad-day slope. The only thing I can do in a case like this is to retreat. The sofa's calling me, and so is the TV. And who am I to deny them?

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This week's slapdash All Access newsletter is a short one for the holiday weekend, and it's about this:

I started writing a long "Letter" this week, and then I remembered that you're mere inches away from the holiday weekend getaway. And then I thought about my own impending extra-long one-and-a-half day weekend. My mind's already flipping the burgers on the backyard grill and cracking open a cold beer... so we'll keep it really short.

Have a safe holiday weekend, and while you're enjoying that burger and beer, raise a glass to the memory of the soldiers for whom the holiday is dedicated. Talk to you next week....

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We wanted to see a movie this weekend. We are not "Indiana Jones" fans. We're S.O.L.

Every multiplex in this region -- every one -- is playing the same movies. "Indiana Jones," "Iron Man," "Narnia," "Baby Mama," "Forgetting Sarah Marshall," "What Happens in Vegas," and "Maid of Honor." The exceptions are few and very far between. All of the theaters in our immediate area are playing those movies. Not interested? Not lucky.

Maybe this is the residual effect of the writers' strike. Maybe Hollywood just doesn't have a lot in the tank. Maybe it's just because theaters can make more money playing Indy on several screens and Narnia on several more than taking even one away to play something else. And, really, there IS nothing else.

So we're home this evening. Television is our friend. At least until we run through all those "CSI" and "House" episodes on the DVR. Then, we're screwed.

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Today's highlight: Our second barbecue in a row. Today, burgers AND dogs, expertly grilled to perfection by me.

But while I was grilling, I noticed that the fence on one side of our yard, already in pretty bad shape, was now listing dangerously, in two different directions, depending on where you looked. The ivy creeping on it is not thicker than the wood, which was weathered into a brittle mess. It had separated from the part that encloses the pool motor, and was now leaning away from the yard, except for the part a few feet over that was leaning into the yard.

This is clearly not desirable, so we're going to have to replace at least that run of fencing. I did a quick look at what putting in a new vinyl fence would cost... eek. I don't know that I have much of a choice, though; we need to have a fence there. I guess that economic stimulus check will pay for part of... oh, wait, that's already spoken for. Sigh.

I guess the MacBook Pro will have to wait. So will pretty much everything else.

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Because it's a holiday weekend, because I'm lazy, and because I just tested out the new USB turntable I got, here's a slightly less than 20 second fair use clip of a song that's a cover of a very familiar song by a pair of very familiar people who are not known for singing. Click here to hear it. Hint: It's from a movie.

Who is it? That's for you to guess. I'll post the names of the artists in a couple of days. But it demonstrates the depths to which our music collection goes. And this is really, really deep.

Again, click here to hear it. No prizes for anyone who guesses correctly except for my undying shock at your depravity for knowing this.

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My off day: Woke up early because cat insisted. Ran. Worked. Lunch. Ran to Staples and Ralphs. Worked. Guy came and told us how much it'll cost to replace an exterior door. Winced. Looked at backyaed fence damage and heard it'll cost a lot to replace, too. Winced again. Worked. Dinner. Ice cream. Worked.

This "day off" thing doesn't really work for me, you know.

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We had the door guy here yesterday and a fence guy here today to look at the stuff that we need to get fixed. The door guy sized up the situation and noted the damage to the door and the door jamb and rang up the labor charges and Lord, do those guys get good money for that. Damn my limited manual labor skills. That will be expensive, but necessary.

Then a fence guy came by and took a look, and I know that one's going to make "expensive" an understatement. The fence is probably from the early 70's, and it's been weathered and battered and dry-rotted to the point where the ivy has vanquished it, game, set, and match. We don't have the estimate yet and won't for a few days, but you'll know when I get it, because the resultant cry of anguish will likely be audible over a larger area than covered by KFI at night. If you're in Vancouver or New Orleans and you hear the faint sound of a guy screaming, it's probably me. Or some other guy being beaten or something.

The sad part is that these repairs won't increase the value of the house, not that we're selling it. They'll just maintain the value, because they're necessary repairs. (I nearly had a heart attack with the possibility this morning that the pool plumbing had a leak, but I figured out the problem -- a stuck flap on the skimmer -- and it appears, knock wood, to be okay at the moment) This is the part they don't tell you about becoming an adult, the part where everything you own breaks and you're the one who has to pay to fix it. We've had car problems this year and house problems, too, and Dad's not around to save us. It's all up to us. We're the adults. We don't get do-overs.

Adulthood:

PROS: Legal sex, legal drinking, legal voting, legal driving.

CONS: Work. Responsibilities. Getting your heart ripped out and your e