Looking into the distance.

As my dad points out, work is called work because they have to pay you to do it.

Tell the youngsters that there are days, believe it or not, when adults would actually rather be tending to work than what else happens to be going on.

Today Pico is experiencing a bump in the road of perfect health. In my pain and worry I made the mistake of looking on YELP for reviews of San Francisco Veterinarians. According to the internet reviewers of the world, every business sucks. Every restaurant has horrible food, every store has terrible customer service and every vet is mean and uncaring.

Apparently only the disappointed rabble feel inclined to review things. The satisfied majority pushes onward toward other exciting, rewarding experiences which they will no doubt also not YELP about.

What's a worry wart to do?

My friend is sick and neither of us have a reliable relationship with a doctor yet.

I ask that anyone who feels pity for vulnerable kitties and melting tough-guys do one of the following for Pico today:

1) Say a little prayer that she quickly returns to her happy, pooping on the floor self;

2) Put "the vibe" out that everything turns out okay; or

3) Just call me or email me with a kind word.

What is the point of companionship except that it provides comfort when things go awry?

I am happily putting Pico in the car now to drive to the Inner Richmond, to the one vet that has an appointment available on this short work day.

We do all we can do, and the rest we have to wait and see.

Audrey begins her new job today.

And I have a second interview at one o'clock for a dream job of my own.

Future comes calling. We push toward something newish, marching ever toward healthier choices. Nothing putrid can last.

In the shadows clinging to their myths are the left-behind scowlers, waiting for history to repeat itself, watching stink-eyed as the present descends upon them and they slip into irrelevance.

I can see Audrey standing beside her desk, laughing, listening, adoring her new friends at work.

I visualize my handshake with the President of my new company, fresh, crisp W2 forms being slid in front of me to sign.

But then something says, "What if not? What if no laughing? No handshake? No W2s?"

Cynicism is a form of mental retardation.

Religion is no cure, despite its promise of something in the next life worth sacrificing for. Implicit in that placebo is acquiescence that nothing in this life is.

Logic and reason also fall short, relying too much on perspective. What appears to be sensible might not be, depending on one's point of view.

The only cure for cynicism is sheer will.


Simply refuse to believe that everything will fail.

Take hold of the relics of love and implant them in some material way in your life. Take a picture of love when you see it.


Invent ways to sustain love's tiny, withering echoes. That's the cure.