AUSTIN, Texas, September 20, 2005 — I'll be offline for a while. FFP will keep the home fires burning. Today I will try to relax and not get too tense. Traveling has become such a chore. The endless ridiculous security. It's 'better than being stuck in New Orleans on a rooftop or highway' is the nicest thing I can say about air travel. However, to get far away, you must fly. But you have to control your expectations.

The bad news today is that it is hard to get awake. The good news is that I feel pretty good. No sore throat. Head pretty clear.

I go play tennis. Somehow we have been consigned to the Siberia of the club, some new clay courts as far as it's possible to get from the parking lot and pro shop. While this clay 'system' is newer than our old clay courts, I like it less.

"I told them to give us the closest one to the pro shop," says one of the ladies. I figure they gave her the lowest numbered clay court. I trek back to the pro shop for some towels and to go to the bathroom. Our fourth is there looking around for us. She eventually gets to the court after having to go back to her car for something.

We play two sets and part of another. At one point I'm wiping the sweat from my face and wiping my damp hair. I'm always commenting on how much I sweat.

"You are sweating," says one of the ladies.

"Well, I had, well have, psoriasis and somewhere I read that the lesions do something to the sweat glands." [Ed. note: I find no evidence of this on the WEB. However, I did find that psoriatic people have a different sweat chemistry. Whatever. I don't remember where I heard it. And it matters not. I have the skin disorder. I sweat. There you go.]

"You have cirrhosis?" ask another of the ladies.

"No she said psoriasis," said the first.

"I was going to ask how you are still here!" said the second.

Ah, yes.

"Psoraisis, a skin disease. Auto-immune disorder of the skin. A lot of sufferers get arthritis. Also an auto-immune disorder."

We go back to playing tennis. Safer ground.

I'm happy when I'm done that I feel good, I'm breathing well. Sweating a lot but that's OK.

I go home and have a shower and cereal and nonfat yogurt and Echinacea and I futz around with stuff and work a crossword and read. The maid comes. I hide from her upstairs with some financial stuff I'm looking over.

I never have lunch. I suggest to FFP that we go out to eat. We decide on Enoteca. On the way down we hesitate and consider going other places but we end up there. We have Caesar salads and share a panini and pasta. We have a couple of glasses of wine. We can't finish the pasta but we box it and have espresso. Our CPA comes in. (She lives in the neighborhood and offices down the street.) We have an impromptu discussion with her of our latest financial discussions.

We go home. I call Dad and talk to him. I advise him about who can help him out while I'm gone. "Call Forrest. Call SuRu. LG. Maja and Joe will help you." He knows. He probably won't need anything. But if he does.

We watch a little TV. Read. Go to bed rather too late. Less than twenty-four hours until I go to Atlanta. Looks like I'm miss the storm's effects. See you in a few weeks if all goes well.