AUSTIN, Texas, Apr. 7, 2005 —I had three different invitations to play tennis today. I accepted the first one offered. A casual game with someone who isn't a member of my club and, further, regularly exhausts her two guest visits a month minimum.

I get up feeling none too great. But I know if I take one Immodium I'll be fine. I wash it down with coffee, black.

Dad calls. Yesterday he told me he lost the quarterly payment IRS paperwork the CPA gave him but today he has found it. And he's done a

birthday card for my great nephew. He feels quite accomplished. He says he's going to go get the blood work done for his procedure next week. I think his back feels better. He thinks he has an invitation to dinner tonight and we are all going to one of my friend's house tomorrow. "Two dinners in a row, I'm set," he says.

I fool around a bit and my tennis friend comes by and we go to the park. I haven't been to Northwest Park in ages. Before I belonged to Westwood (2000) and probably before that. The courts aren't bad but it is windy and there are no wind screens. My friend, who is just learning the game, does well, even serving a few past me after a couple of serving tips, but she's shaky on scoring so I help her out. It is fun. We play two sets. Soon she will be beating me. But that's OK. We agree to play again some time. I'm really glad I accepted this invitation even though the others were on the fancy courts at Westwood. Because it took me a bit back to my roots of public courts. Not just public but free. And I remembered how I enjoyed those matches wedged around work and responsibility, dreaming of the day I could play at 9:30 on a sunny Thursday in the spring.

At home, I eat, read the paper and sort out some stuff. Forrest decides to go to an art supply store. He's thinking of getting serious about his painting projects. I go along. He shops quite a while. He asks several employees about products. I'm tempting by all the neat supplies but I know that I'm unlikely to do any projects except my glued together greeting cards. I buy a calligraphy pen, a can of rubber cement and some blank cards.

When we get home, I get a call from someone wanting me to do an online check-in for Dad's procedure next week. It takes me forty-five minutes at least. Why does everyone want all this information in a slightly different form? Sometimes I lie about stuff (knowingly or unknowingly). Ah, well. At one point they ask "Do you have diabetes?" I answer (for Dad) 'no.' But then they ask 'Is your diabetes controlled?" You can't leave it blank. Should you answer 'yes' which would imply you lied about having it or 'no' which would imply you have it and it isn't controlled? List every surgery? Some were sixty years ago or more. Every one of these forms has some conundrums like this. Only these guys said you had to do it in advance, on the phone or online. Dad couldn't hear the gal on the phone. Everything is a Catch-22. Do you have a hearing loss? 'Yes.' Then it insisted I explain. Hmmm...what to explain? So I typed 'uses hearing aids.' I imagine I could have typed 'ad;ljfas;dlfj' and the computer would have been fine with it.

We have made arrangements with two friends to go to the first Thursday art crawl. No, this isn't the 'first Thursday SoCo too many people and too much beer' fest. It's the West Sixth St. galleries staying open until eight on the first Thursday. A very different thing. The crowd is more refined. (Although the last time we came some apparently homeless kids, all pierced and tatooed and carrying guitars and stuff, joined in for free wine. It is Austin after all.) Most of the people can at least act like they could spend hundreds or thousands on something for the wall.

We go to ArtWorks first. They have some interesting paintings but they also have some Thai food and we all partake. I always enjoy looking at their glassware and furniture as well.

We go down to Wally Workman and the new place next to it. Then over to F8. We see some people we know. FFP engages one of the artists in a long conversation. Her name is Jennifer Balkan. Turns out one of our friends took a class with her.

We go over to Cafe Josie a little before eight. We figure it will be crowded. We have a reservation. But it isn't that crowded. We enjoy the food. I especially like the lobster cakes I have. We eat and talk and enjoy our good friends.

We come home. We watch a little TV and I read the papers. I'm much more interested in the Saul Bellow tributes elicited by his death than the pope-arama. Because I can relate to a writer who took Chicago and New York and made fiction. But Catholism and macho popedom is just history to me. In 1972, I quit the first job I'd had out of college after two and a half years without a promotion. I wandered Europe. Finding reading material in English was sometimes challenging. I think I bought a copy of Mr. Sammler's Planet from a small selection of books in English in a Swiss department store. I probably traded it along the way to some other wayward English speaker. I would like to take the time to read all Mr. Bellow's work now. So much to read, so little time.

I didn't sleep well last night. Must sleep.