AUSTIN, Texas, Apr. 5, 2005 — Sometimes the journal seems to be a savior for me. Sometimes I feel I'm getting bored with it. Whenever I threaten to bail out there are a few people who say they read it regularly. But we all know I don't do it for others. Sure, I'd feel bad leaving you with no LB fix whatever your weird reason for reading my boring life. (At least one of you, maybe three or even four, are looking for a shot of Austin.) I wonder if there are lurkers. But I don't wonder enough to look at the stats too often and see how people arrive here.

Anyway, I got up kind of late. (8ish, Damn DST) and then fooled around for over an hour on my

computer. Besides a couple of e-mails and posting the journal I did look at statistics and see how a few visitors were arriving here. Most seem to be searchers, not readers. Whatever. I buy a little under $50 piece of software to track the IPs, trying to identify the readers. It's sad, really. I feel bad for people searching, ending up actually following a link to some old LB stuff and being disappointed. Someone searching for info about a movie I didn't review except to say I liked it (Antonio's Line) and can barely remember watching. People typing into a search box stuff like"bow biters," "anyone collect New Balance shoes," "potsticker calories," "navigate UFO future," "Fedexs Berlin," "people who paint dancers," or "too big for your britches" and ending up nonplussed staring at one of my obtuse wordy journal entries. People looking for pictures of turkeys, dirty food (my defense: it was a picture of a Dirty Martin's hamburger) or art nouveau furniture and ending up with a so-so photo from my page collected by some monster BOT.

And, as I check out what some of these people are looking at, I create traffic myself to my old pages. But it doesn't really add up to a readership. People waiting for my daily post with bated breath. If someone is going to make something of what I write here, it would have to be me to bring coherency. Not someone searching for "too big for your britches." The little maps created by the IP trace, meanwhile, are fun. The little program pinging away from Austin to Houston to Dallas to St. Louis to Minneapolis or from Austin to Dallas to Houston back to Dallas to Los Angeles to Sunnyvale. Or this trip that went to Moscow then on to Vilnius.

And now, sadly, I've create and posted words that will bring other hapless travelers here. And for what? To satisfy my own desire to type, my own attention deficit.

I spoke with my dad on the phone while I was goofing off in front of he computer. He seemed OK, didn't really complain about his back, said he was doing wash (which requires some bending) and that he'd had a bath. He confirmed he was going to the urologist this afternoon.

But I need a workout. I do a fifty minute ride on the stationary bike and a set of assisted chinups (very assisted). I need to do more weight work. But I've fallen into this habit of doing the bike a long time and then, every day, doing a few sets (although usually more than one). Instead I should probably occasionally ride the bike thirty minutes and do a complete routine and then rest it a day. Maybe. Maybe I need a trainer. Maybe I need to eat less and more healthy food. (Ah, but we don't really know what I'm eating these days, do we? No more food diary.) I go home and shower.

I'm supposed to meet an old friend for lunch at Bistro 88. I get there early and I'm reading the newspaper in my car when she drives up, also early. We have a long lunch, catching up. She retired, finished a book she was writing, took up Real Estate and got her license. She participates in the Writer's League. Why do other people execute in their retirement when I cannot? When I can only write this stupid journal creating combinations of words that people will unknowingly stumble on in their own stupid searching? I'm glad for my friends and their achievements. Really.

I leave the restaurant, vaguely dissatisfied with my sea bass. I paid for the lunch so my friend and I would have that dissonance, that inbalance that would maybe get us together again. Although I find that I don't have time for that many lunches with people. I try to restrict myself to one or two a week, hoping to get something else done. Yeah, right.

I go to Costco. I buy a giant piece of fresh salmon, cereal, a giant jar of Clausen's pickles, tortilla chips and cheese, cheese and more cheese. Yeah, I bought two blocks of this delicious cheddar they have, I giant bag of shredded cheese, Lite Laughing Cow triangles and a big package of Provolone. I always look at what other people are buying: beer and water and snacks or diapers, laser level and various odd food products. The place was actually busy at three on a weekday but they put on some more cashiers and got us out of there.

I took my provisions home and we divided the salmon up and froze it. After a while we made sandwiches with Provolone. I had some beer, I had some chips and salsa, some coconut macaroons. (I got the latter at Whole Foods the other day. I squirreled them away so FFP wouldn't eat them and then blame me for gaining weight. They really have great ones at Whole Foods. I shouldn't have bought them but when my dad was in the hospital I was frustrated and, after a big and allegedly healthy salad, I couldn't resist.)

We watched Baylor win the basketball championship and then watched a show about Hollywood and the Holocaust that we'd put on the DVR. I tried to read the newspapers. It's important to know that Prince Charles delayed his wedding so the likes of Tony Blair could make both the Pope's funeral and the wedding. Actually, the Prince is goingto the funeral. Which has a certain bulging irony. To paraphrase Dragnet: "A pope's funeral is like any other. He'll be a long time dead."

I watch too much TV. I read too many newspaper stories. I don't do enough! But it's late and I go to sleep.