Sicker, hacking and phlegming. Must call Gloria and cancel today's promised dinner (chicken and dumplings!), which distresses me almost as bad as my disease: Gloria might be said almost to be as good a cook as Kristen; better even, when it comes to things as purely delicious as chicken and dumplings. I groan inwardly.

Funny conversations (about me mostly) with both Marcus and Patty, severally, yesterday. After a lot of yelling, Marcus came up with the fact that he's been jealous/envious of me for forty years, for my aristocratic ethos and lifestyle: "Such arrogance! 'Honor' indeed! You sound like a Klingon." Then we listened to the 'Trout' Quintet on radio, and smoked pot, while that sunk in. Afterwards I went round to Patty's, and while afternoon faded into evening, we talked about her sister's stroke, and the effects thereof. Then turning to the subject of moi, she said that she and Donald had been discussing me, and that Donald said of me that, of all the people in this group of friends, I am the only one capable of true greatness. To which Patty had responded, "But no, he will never stop playing long enough to be great." Oh well, that's what other people are saying about me. I remember once, long ago, Patty's father Pete (my guru/zen master)saying to me, "Your special talent, Anatole, is enjoyment."