Noon now at the Senior Center. Friday was here waiting for me when I came in this morning, along with his friend Craig (who is, in Friday's words, hanging around waiting for Friday's GAU check to come in tomorrow); I walked us all down to the Synagogue and bought us latti (on credit), thence to Value Village, where, for ten dollars, I bought the foam pad, and we lost Craig; so thence to the Satellite Diner, where, with omlets, we had Bloody Marys. Thence here again, while I wait, having given Friday forty dollars apurpose, for him to bring me damn-it-all forty dollars worth of methedrine. This once he had better deliver; and knowing what's at stake, I am sanguine to think that he will. Then maybe I can lose this twenty pound gut. Magari, as they say in Italian.

Up betimes, for what is prognosticated to be the last warm day of the year, having latte'd at the Rocket Bakery, sitting serenely but alertly now before my monitor, smoking the last of the Widow's mighty Mite: Le calme rentre dans mon coeur. My monthly money having arrived, I'm thinking how, for little or none of it, I might buy a foam rubber sleeping-pad for Friday, maybe giving him my room key before I leave with Annie to play pinochle with Ham and Gloria tonight, so that he can let himself in. You'd think just a foam rubber pad would be easy to find, and reasonably cheap; but I bet it's not.

I note that, with the Bush-approved "Detainee Bill" just passed by the Senate, the ruling junta has institutionalized fucking torture as the Law of the Land and of the World. It's time to go. Or do some damned thing. It's tough being a one-eyed man: Nobody gets it but me, and precious, marginal few others. The most I can say for my fellow citizens is that their inability to believe what's happening to them does credit to their essentially decent moral character. That won't, of course, prevent their being pillaged, tortured and murdered by the very authorities they so unquestioningly resign themselves to. Remember, Anatole, Cassandra had a fraternal twin (quadruplet?) brother, who evidently, wisely, put out for Apollo, as she unwisely didn't, and so was granted the gift of prophecy without having to be disbelieved, or sold into slavery and murdered to satisfy the envious hatred of an alien Queen. Remember, and take heart.

Saw Friday at this evening's sack lunch distribution. He showed me his recent written medical diagnosis: chronic, acute liver damage (the reason for his "morbid" propensity for sleeping three days in a row); which means that his spending another winter out of doors in Spokane is out of the question. He said he slept last night under a tree; which tore my heart. Well, he can't sleep here tonight, nor tomorrow night; but I told him he could sneak in Saturday night and stay the rest of the week if he wants. I'll try to get him a mattress.

Delivered finally Gerald's painting to John, who liked to hug the life out of me. Funny, sweet, malodorous little guy.

I was scarcely born, I think, before the inanity of society's standards was apparent to me. It was a good thing, therefore, that when I was four, going-on five years old, my parents decided to drive us all (down Highway 101, as it was then) to Santa Barbara and back, passing notably through the Redwoods, and Chico, and spending I think about a week in San Francisco and Oakland. I remember our suddenly flying (so it seemed) in the Chevy coupe' over the Golden Gate Bridge from the Marin County side, with San Francisco, the White City, dream-like before us--and I was sold: Something deep within me said, "This is what it is to be human."

Set Friday firmly but compassionately on his way this morning after an uninterrupted stay of 60 hours, making coffee and hugging him goodbye; then, after doing my mail, I set out myself. First to the Senior Center for lunch, just Holly and me at one big, long table, sitting across from one another. "I am ashamed of my country, and I fear it," I said. Holly said, "That is because you are civilized." After lunch I walked in the new, perfect sandals that Friday gave me for my birthday over to Browne's Addition to see my mad artist friend Gerald, who commissioned me to buy some pot from my friend Diana, sending along with his money, his respects and a sheaf of representational (figure study) drawings. He trusts me to handle his work, and he makes me sometimes his slave ("Arrange these drawings in rows."), and sometimes his mule. We are very into Tibettan Buddhism and reciting Om. Tonight as I was leaving with an acryllic painting he had just done for (and I was delivering to) John here at the Palace, Gerald said to me, "You are gathering momentum. Soon you will know when it's time to leave, and you will go. Don't worry, you will know." And I felt deeply reassured that he understood me and my quest/plight. Diana was much impressed with the drawings.

Much revolving. The borders are closing. Soon, in a few weeks (if that long) it will be impossible to leave the country. Then the Reign of Terror. Of course, I do have a last-minute exit strategy which I will not reveal here, but what's holding me back is thinking about the danger to those I'm leaving behind...and what's urging me on is the realization that my staying here is more of a threat to them than my leaving. So flight it is, and soon......

I understand. There are no surprizes for me in the character, or signal absence thereof, of the fascist swine who rule my country through misrule, according to what I like to call "Turkish" principles of governance. And I perfectly appreciate how bestially clever they have been to calculate with such nicety what the lame-ass People do not believe, because they cannot bear to believe: that their rulers view themselves as predators and them as prey--and there is no way, and no longer time, to acquaint my fellow citizens with the history, and the logic of it, of the fascist holocaust now poised to devour them utterly, with all the torment and horror of trillions of dollars already spent on a world-wide prison system, complete with hangmen and torturers trained and ready, prepared to receive them. Truly, I do understand, and I'm terrified.

Such a party. We started gathering about five O'clock, drinking toasts with champagne and presenting and opening gifts; with pleasant chatter, strollings in the garden, picture-taking, among the seven of us: Annie, Marcus, Kristen, Marianne, Gloria, Ham, and moi. Then, without much ado, Kristen and I (together, 4-hands) on the piano, played a couple of numbers from the Magic Flute that won warm applause, then Ham played Villa-Lobos and something like Hawaiian Bluegrass on his guitar that brought tears of joy. Then we sat down to the finest dinner, maybe, that Kristen has ever given: sublime cabbage rolls, carrots, potatoes, bread, magnificent Chianti, home-made angel-food cake, with home-made ice-cream, sprinkled with candied violets that I had myself helped pick, with Kristen and Annie, six months ago. And coffee. Gotta say, that the two glasses of champagne we'd each had before we sat down to play seems to've had no effect on Kristen's and my performance.

FASCIST LICKSPITTLES

Rangel, Pelosi--When the time comes, they pay their dues. When an intelligent, courageous man like Hugo Chavez, speaking as the democratically elected president of his country, beards the Flatulent Beast in its lair, gallantly defying it to its very sulfur-breathing snout, causing it to slaver venomously, Congressman Rangel and Congresswoman Pelosi, are among the first to rush to lick up the liquid essence. "You have insulted our Chief!" they cry. "You thug!" They forget that truth, however unpleasant, is not, and cannot be, insulting, and that speaking truth is not thuggery--though thugs and their sycophants always think that it is.

Of course, I'm thrilled with Hugo Chavez's speech at the United Nations yesterday. He's got it right about Little Bush (pun on 'Little Boots' intended) being an alcoholic and leaving a stink of sulfur, but I think he doesn't quite grasp the degree to which our Chief Moron is a cocaine addict. And I think I do understand it...But where do I begin? First of all, be it postulated that there is such a thing (or faculty) as a Moral Sense, or Conscience, which, in normal people, serves to distinguish good from bad, compassion from selfishness, self-respect from self-worship. It is noticeably absent in our Boy Emperor--He just can't help smirking when he talks about killing people. Kurt Vonnegut is among those who have noticed it. It could of course be the effect of heredity--the love of torture and murder and the inflicting of it from his father (See Woodward on George Herbert Walker Bush in Panama in the early 80's), and the perfect swinish indifference to it from his mother. But, as Vonnegut has pointed out, Bush's utter lacking of a moral sense has a distinctly pathological character, which in my opinion belies the out-of-control cocaine addict. Because, be it secondarily postulated, what cocaine exactly does, is, paralyze, specifically, the Moral Sense (or faculty), in exactly the same way that alcohol famously releases inhibitions. Look at Bush's last press conference, as described by Molly Ivins: That antic "testiness" is obvious cocainism--and I think Molly Ivins would agree if it were proposed to her.

Up betimes, latteing and smoking the favor of Kristen's old roaches. Nowadays, instead of reading the newspaper first thing in the morning, I check the headlines in Google News, then google(news) whatever seems most to be in the air ("Bush fascist," "Pope insults Islam," "Bush farts"); then I check the National Weather Service's latest prognostications; and lastly, check my 'mail. In among it all I blog and play chess with the PC. Sometimes (not so often lately) I play bridge online. I have, over the years, acquired a friend or two online, as a result of internet bridge-playing. My favorite, Yvonne, came to me during an exquisite French/Italian afternoon-for-me(in Connecticut), evening-for-them(in Europe) match, during which, contrary to my usual practise, I exhibited exceptional wit and grace in the chat-box--and so did they, now't I think on't. I apologized for playing badly, when in fact I was playing well (for me), and when Yvonne as my partner made a misplay, I covered for her by making a joke of it, which caused the Italians(on the Riviera) to fall down in stitches, and forever won Yvonne(in Paris)'s heart. In fact she used to sign all her gallant little notes to me with a playing-card heart. Ah.

The end-of-Virgo rains have come. Friday, alas, of course, had no certain prospect of shelter when I left him in front of the Palace last night. 'Tis time to be seeking better lodging for myself and my manservant (though he doesn't think of himself that way). Kristen took me out after our practise yesterday and bought me a hundred dollar pair of shoes, the sandals she bought me last spring having worn enirely out. Bless her. 'Tanyrate, I may not be able (him being absent) to invite Friday to my birthday party (the one Kristen's giving me), and I'm still conflicted about whether I can or should. I can already see that we're going to have trouble getting Kristen not to turn the event into a concert with a captive audience (Of friends! She has no scruples).

Friday has brought me a "Betty Crocker" espresso machine, which with his characteristic endearing impulsiveness he stole from in back of Value Village, little knowing (for I never told him) that I needed precisely that in order to be a whole, well, happy, goal-oriented individual. Immediately therewith I, not only suffered, but encouraged him to stay over for as long as he might like (He stayed a couple of days), and I went to Rosauer's, where finding Thomas Hammer's 'Signature Blend' on special, I ground finely (but not too finely)and bought a pound of it, and sugar and milk; and for the last three mornings I have had latti like I like 'em--even retrieving my U of O coffee-bowl from Kristen (with whom I had parked it) in order that I might perfectly steam and froth 'em. Is this not Happiness? Time now to run round to the Inter-Racial Society's Sunday Breakfast, to see if Friday's there, not to eat.

Off in a bit to meet gloria at Patty's. 'Twill be the first time in decades that the ladies will have seen one another. Of course, Patty (not having seen Gloria in oh so long) was anxious about her weight and tenue, as a first response at the idea of seeing Gloria again--which gives one an indication of how truly glorious Gloria was in her young womanhood; and still is, if the truth be known. We observe that Patty has her pigeonholed as "physical and material perfection." It will be difficult for her, I fear, to grasp that Gloria is as ready a wit and profound an artist as she is rich and pretty--as well as being plain nice. It should be amusing.

Didn't leave my room today, but to use the toilet, shower, and cook lunch--corn/potato chowder just the way I like it, a kettleful. Mostly I have sat at my computer "doing research," trying to guesstimate how long it's going to take for the number of those who think 9/11 was an inside job to rise from 36% to 51%--to 99%. And wondering if it will make any difference how many Americans believe their government is their enemy, if in fact it is their enemy. And I have lain abed and slept and read a Perry Mason detective novelet, cleverly enough plotted I thought, reading the last pages just as the sun went down. Diem perdidi. Naughty of me, I know.

Did two good Handel concerti with Kristen yesterday, and one fine ('La Poule') Haydn symphony, the weather being perfect as only (late now) Virgo in Spokane can be: The aridity, genial warmth, freshness! Kristen is making extensive plans for my birthday celebration this year, delaying it a day past the exact anniversary of the sacred event so that Marianne can attend, which is fine by me since it makes me the lovely Libra I have always wanted to be, rather than the dun, prudent Virgo I actually am.

Walked round to the Inter-Racial Society's Sunday breakfast for the indigent to see if Friday were there. He wasn't; so I walked back, sipping (Starbucks donated) coffee, thinking what else I must do today: Visit Patty (and Peter perforce); call Phil (several persons have told me he's been trying to get in touch with me lately); perhaps, if it works out right, to look in upon Marcus and his new HDTV; and, as always, perchance to sit in a park and read some more Italian literary history, and a new book, "Guns, Germs, and Steel," which has just been lent me. It makes for a heavy backpack.

Like many another when I saw the dreadful, spectacular images of 9/11/01, I exclaimed, "That has the CIA (and George Bush Senior's peculiar histrionic style) all over it. It's Dubya's Reichstag fire." I have never doubted my original assessment, and I have found that every one of my friends, without exception, agrees with me. I don't ask them to believe it, they just do.

Spent the night, having dinner and playing pinochle with Ham and Gloria last night, sleeping in their spare, grand-daughter's bedroom. Then up betimes, Ham took me into his workroom and showed me the guitars he's making, and the machines he's made to bend and shape them; then played some perfectly lovely Villa-Lobos on one of them. Knocked me on my butt--He's a superb musician. I'd forgot. Then in the afternoon Gloria took me to meet her son, daughter-in-law, and grandkids, an eleven-year-old granddaughter, and a nine-year-old grandson: Brilliant, fun, utterly unpretentious, perfectly self-possessed little people, as are their parents, particularly the son Brad, whose diapers in my day I have changed. It was thrilling to see him all grown up, and to see how exactly like him at nine-years-old his son is. More like identical twins born twenty years apart than father and son. It pleased them both a great deal to hear me say so. Brad rather vaguely (but twice) has invited me sometime to come and have dinner with them, and I will.

"Long velvety finish, with hints of a soft herbal note"--wine-poetry, vintner's description of a red wine. I've been reading up on the Washington State wine industry, anent the history thererof and of their wines. The story of Chateau St. Michelle, Inc. is, damn it all, heart-warming. As with Microsoft or Starbucks, it makes me want to stand up and shout: "We make the best fucking Merlots (software, coffee) in the fucking world! Get the fuck off us!" Last week I encountered Daaron at Kristen's door; she wasn't home yet, so Daaron drove us up to Browne's Addition and treated us (Bless his heart!) to a glass of Rattlesnake Hills Cabernet Sauvignon at The Elk that outshone, for rubied (with hints of tawny topaz) nectar'dness, e'en the brightest and mellowest daughters of the Co^te d'Or. Daaron told me that he'd recently taken a wine-tasting tour of the Walla Walla/Rattlesnake Hills vineyards, visiting fully 67 of them--I don't recall how long that took him, but I think we may say that he evinced diligence in a noble cause.

Went sailing, catamaraning actually, with Ham and Gloria yesterday, along with old-time friend of Gloria's, Toto, on lake Coeur d'Ale`ne. Eat your hearts out. Then Toto took us around the lake in her shiny commodious new car, to drinks (Toto and I had each two Bloody-Marys; Ham had a couple of shots of Irish whisky with soda-back, and Gloria a shot of sweet-sweet peach brandy, and one of Toto's and my Bloody-Marys--not really: She had her own Bloody-Mary) and fantabulous nachos, in an up-scale sort of o'er-the-lake scenic resort brasserie, such as was undreamed-of back in my salad days, when I first went sailing and drinking on Lake Coeur d'Ale`ne, what time the back side of the lake was still piously and inconveniently rustic (no Bloody Marys). I felt obliged to kick in on the drinks, and I did. Awkwardly perhaps, but I did it. And I didn't suffer, as one might have supposed I would, from the ingestion of an inordinate quantity of grain alcohol--nothing worse than a slight headache in the late evening, against which a couple of aspirin that Gloria dispensed to me out of her handbag were adequately prophylactic.

I ran into Marcus in Rosauers late this morning and he, full of it, invited me up to his treehouse to see his new HDTV; we watched Roddick defeat Verasco: as good a tennis, and as swift, as ever there was. 'Tis fun withal, with a similarly misogynist friend, to mock the leaden floppery of female tennis, in comparison with the agility and steely precision of male tennis. "You know," Marcus said seriously however, "that we're being naughty?" "Okay, yeah," I replied resignedly. "Well, good," he said, apparently reassured. Damn it, a Man of the World can't even say that women play stupid tennis, when plainly (Was anything ever plainer?) they do. Blood pressure, blood pressure....

I slept ill or not really at all the night before last, and was just in a blind, dead torpor going through my email late the next morning, when Friday knocked (The new, elderly, inexperienced concierge has not yet learned of Friday's officially disgraced status), wanting, I think, to crash. And I, unwilling that he should, walked him over to the Park instead and treated him (and myself again) to Bratwurst and beer in the shade in the Biergarten over next to the stage, where we sat together yelling critically [Friday: "YOU'RE AWFULLY WHINY TODAY!] over the "music." Friday remarked knowledgeably that the band onstage were playing "sort of blues, but not; sort of country-western, but not; sort of retro/jazz, but not." "Oh," I said, not a little impressed, but totally not comprehending, never having thought about those being distinguishable categories of "music," just wishing that it would stop. There was a grateful, refreshing pause during which it did stop, and we could hear the static and feedback over those monstrous speakers Then the band started up again [Friday: "DO YOU EVER GO TO CONCERTS?" Me: "WHAT?" Friday: "CONCERTS--YOU EVER GO TO THEM? WHERE THEY HAVE, LIKE, BANDS? THESE SPEAKERS ARE NOTHING LIKE THE ONES THEY HAVE AT A REAL CONCERT."], and after a minute or so, stopped again. Friday said, "Something just died up there." "Really?" I said, quite sincerely, "I didn't notice that anything had gone wrong." "That's very interesting," said Friday, "You should remember that." "Well, I said defensively, "it's all wrong, isn't it? I just like it when they stop." So we left. Walking out of the park, we encountered a gang of Jesus Christers, with signs and a bullhorn denouncing homosexuals as specially subject to damnation. I walked up to within inches of the young woman with the bullhorn and shouted in her face, "LOWER YOUR VOICE!" Thence here again, I got Friday stoned, and suffered that he get on the computer to talk with his sex-buddies at Gay.com; which suffering perceiving, Friday picked up his stuff with indignation, taking Dopey (which wounds me), and we parted our usual brass rags. I've been reading and sleeping like a baby ever since, recuperating.

And now (10:20 p.m.) a spectacular third-quarter moon low in the south/southwest, I've come back again from the Pig Out in the Park, where at the last minute (It's only a six-minute walk) I just had to have strawberry shortcake a` la mode and coffee to cap off the day's pig-outing: Both were superb. The corrupt and vicious East has no clue by how much and in what detail (not just in climate, viticulture, and purity of politic and dialect) the West excels it. May it never. May it just implode, fall in upon itself, and drift out to the middle of the Atlantic and sink--And Leave Us Alone.

I have just come from the Pig Out in Riverfront Park, stopping at the Synagogue to see Sally (she always under-charges me for my 20-oz., 2%, triple-shot latte; I always tip her a dollar; so it works out), and thus fortified, Ham, with whom I conversed about his being perforce (just to keep up with operating expenses) the Schauspieldirektor (Schickaneder, if you will) of the Synagogue, and about our possibly all going sailing tomorrow. Yippee. Anyway, who should I run into (I mean literaly trip on) at the Pig Out but Kristen, who was there with Donald; so the three of us walked around together sharing hush-puppies and egg-rolls, till we separated: Me for the Caribbean shrimp-wrap, and, further on, the ear of roast corn; Kristen and Donald for the pulled pork at Clinkerdagger's. All quite amicable.

For fun, last night I downloaded 'Don Quijote de la Mancha' and at the same time a wondrous complete diccionario de la lengua espanola, and I read, and faithfully looked up every word I didn't know of the first couple of pages; and then I downloaded a good English translation to see if I'd got it right. There are obscurities.