AUSTIN, Texas, May 5, 2005 — Ever have a day when you felt this low level rage. At what? Nothing you could put your finger on. You weren't really mad at the driver who honked at you to turn into the crosswalk as you waited for the sweet woman who works at the pet shop to traverse. Probably developmentally delayed but competent with both pets and the schedule and cash register, I've always liked this woman although I don't know her name (nor the owner's or anyone else in the shop although we all greet each other as old friends). No, I figured the driver didn't see the pedestrian, just the green light, no oncoming traffic. Still, a little edge of

rage. I'd gotten up determined to have a workout that suited me. And I did have a good long recumbent bike ride (while reading an article in The New Yorker that consisted of notes Saul Bellow had made for a project with Philip Roth that never got fiinshed). And I did a few weight things for the arms, shoulders, chest. Not enough, not enough variety. But better than yesterday when I didn't even get to the gym.

Even at the gym, I felt this little rage. At myself probably. For not getting up earlier and getting things done.

At home, I printed new cards and 'info sheets' for my dad, showing the current drugs and the new GP. Creating the usual rage at computers, the medical system, etc. I know, I know. I've nothing to complain about. But it doesn't stop me, does it?

I went off to Dad's with various tools to work on his files and such. He seemed to not be doing all that well. I made him a salad and heated some food his friend brought last night. I cleaned up his kitchen. Then I shredded some more. He called from the other room that I was going to overheat the shredder. The shredder and I were getting along fine. I was marveling at all the medical care that was expended on my mother in 2000, 2001 when a diagnosis would have made most of it moot. I raged a little, inside.

Dad's favorite friend ('the good daughter') came by with her grandson. Chandler got out the toy box and played with a wooden train, went in the backyard. Dad enjoyed watching him. His mail came. He got a card from my niece and a Seton statement for the kyphoplasty visit that showed they billed $19,000+ but Medicare disallowed over nine thousand dollars. I pointed out to my dad that, as of now, they weren't asking him for money. (In spite of encolosing a reply envelope.) He wasted fifteen minutes of my time recently looking through statements he'd collected swearing he owed Seton money but it was one of these where they are simply billing to Medicare and insurance. I raged a little inside. For no good reason.

On the way home, on our street, I saw a sign about a neighborhood meeting about the ill-conceived curb extensions. I raged a little. I attended two meetings (at least) before they wasted our tax money on these things. I was a lonely voice against them. Now, what do they expect to do? Tear them out? Geez.

I went home and finished our monthly budget. I raged a little a muni bonds that have gone sour, at how hard it is to invest and how financial advisors have actually done worse than us. I'm lucky I have enough money to weather such things. Sill I raged a little.

We went downtown to a party for people volunteering for the Mobile Loaves and Fishes event this weekend. Gorging for hunger. It was at Mezzaluna. We find a parking place just around the corner. There are some nice snacks and wine and we visit with the folks. We slip out just before seven and find another parking place in front of ArtWorks. We go in that fine store after I shoot some digital pictures of the windows for the never-ending shop window series.

I feel calm. The rage is gone. Maybe it's finding parking places like that or listening to the people at that other party talk about the homeless and their plight.

We wander down to Wally Workman and F8. See people we know both places and get into discussions of what's going on in our lives.

Then we go home. I know I swore I was going to stop succumbing to TV. Does it count off less if I read The Wall Street Journal while watching stupid hospital and crime shows? The WSJ, of course, can make the rage return. Early for us, it is bed time.