Somewhere Cruising Through Jimmy Buffett World

Well, it is Thursday, which implies that sooner or later it may be the end of the week. I wish I was in the Caribbean...I'm thinking Barbados, where I can get flying fish and cold toast a la foggy London for breakfast on the beach. Maybe Orient Beach on St. Martins, not far from a French restauant on the water. Sigh...instead, I guess I'll listen to ancient Leon Russell, Back to the Island, from one of the first albums I ever reviewed, Will O' The Wisp...does that make me ancient, too? HA! Don't answer that!

Hear the night birds cry (listen to the night birds cry)
Watch the sunset die (sit and watch the sunset die)
Well I hope you understand I just had to go back to the island

I suppose what brought this on is a couple of days in the hospital fretting over chest pains. I discovered that when you go to a clinic today and say you have chest pains, you are whisked into the maw of the heart attack machine, all deadly serious to save your butt...or at least your heart.

As it turned out, my heart didn't need saving. Thousands of dollars of necessary tests later, including a tube threaded up through my groin into my heart...yeeech...couldn't they have sent Sarah Michelle Geller instead?...I was deemed more or less okey-dokey and sent home. This is far preferable to the option, which is dropping dead on some range somewhere and causing my crew a lot of dissonance.

Still, it weighs on one. I have, as my friend Patrick Sweeney has noted repeatedly, the work ethic of rabid weasels. Makes me really good at what I do; perhaps less good at being a decent human being. When you have a dream job and an intimate relationship with a travel agency, it's hard to remember that the way of the warrior is, indeed, balance.

Okay...flip the "Overy Introspective" switch to "OFF!" I got a .50 boomer in the basement and 80 rounds of ball just waiting for me to rock...that ought to work as well as trying to reason with hurricane season, right?