When a guy opens his eyes, he generally expects to see something. Maybe not blinding sunlight or Myrna Loy or anything, maybe just a dim glow, but something. I didn't think he'd hit me that hard.

It was a bit of a shock to realize I was blind.

It was somewhat less of a shock to realize instead that I was laying face down in the gutter under the '72 Impala I'd rented downtown. It's not much better from the vision standpoint, but I felt it an improvement nevertheless.

As I crawled out of the gutter I didn't notice much advancement in the luminance department. My watch explained that this lack of the necessities for sight was normal for 4:17 a.m. Thank God for Indiglo.

After I'd sat on the curb for ten minutes holding the pieces of my head together it occurred to me that someone who has just been beaten with a bludgeon as large as what I had should be taking more of an interest in his surroundings.

Once again, there was little improvement. There were some dark houses on a dark street on a dark hill. Yeah, yeah, on a dark night in a dark life. Headaches make me cynical.

In one last round of bad news/good news, it came to me that I still had wheels. At least I wasn't facing a 12-mile walk to La Jolla tonight. The pieces of my head seemed pleased.

The car door was open, just like I'd left it when I got out and lay down for a three-hour nap. Whoever sapped me down hadn't even taken the keys from the pocket of my cheap overcoat. They didn't have to; this was one '72 Impala that wasn't going anywhere tonight. Someone was either very angry or frighteningly strong to rip out that much wiring that way. I hoped the rental agency would be able to find the car again. I didn't think it likely they were going to find me.

A careful check of my assets revealed a wallet with no cash, no pictures, and no character, a pack of Beeman's gum, a religious tract, and half a bottle of drinkable water. Where else but California? No, I don't carry a gun. The noise scares me, and besides, they don't seem to be very effective against guys who hit you from behind with John Deere tractors.

Gathering my enormous wealth about me, I sat down again to devise a plan. The side of the Chevy was cool against the throbbing heat of my brain pan. After another ten minutes my giant intellect came to the conclusion that people with no money, no credit cards, and no friends shouldn't let their car get assaulted by thugs. At least not if they have anywhere to go.

I dragged myself up by the door handle, and staggered down the dark hill.

Twelve miles. With a broken head and an empty stomach.

Piece o' cake.

Crickets chirped outside. The sun drifted closer to the horizon. Otherwise, not much happened.

I ranted and railed about artists who'd try to succeed without it. Inside, I marveled that a book that changes lives, especially artists', was totally unknown to two dozen artists. Best Beloved and I were the only people in the room who'd ever heard of Steven Pressfield and his incredible book.

Fame is all relative. They'd probably never heard of Seth Godin, either.

And before Thursday, they'd sure never heard of me.

Canceled plans to go out. It'll be 50 degrees by midweek. No sense fighting the snow and ice on the van today.

Maybe I'll spend the day in bed. Writing.

Breast-feeding is not a sexual activity. Men know this. We are Neanderthals, not idiots.

Do women understand that we do not choose to see your breasts as sexual, that it is, in fact, beyond our control? We cannot choose against biology any more than you can simply choose not to need food, water, or air.

The only breasts I want to see are my wife's. I don't want to see anyone else's breasts, even if all they're doing is feeding a baby. It's not that I object to breasts. Quite the opposite. I like them enormously. That was a joke. I mean, I have a pretty healthy sex drive and enjoy a healthy physical relationship with my wife. Contrary to common thinking, though, seeing someone else's breasts does not benefit my marriage in some way.

I'm not sure I understand the logical, practical argument against a woman covering herself and her baby with a light blanket while she takes care of the child's needs.

I get that it's an emotional issue, but I'm not here to have an emotional argument. I've presented a logical reason why I don't want to see any breasts but my wife's. Give me a logical argument why I should have to.

"Well then don't look!" I was told. It isn't as if we have to stare long enough to memorize a breast for it to have an effect. If I'm simply sitting in a coffee shop looking out the window, logging into Faceboob I mean book, what I see is not entirely my choice. I see what's there. We can't simply choose not to see what passes in front of our eyes. Please don't make idiotic arguments.

We're just not well-equipped to live in someone else's home. My cooking. Sue's cleaning routines. Fiona's noise. James' upside down schedule.

There is that money thing, but over the past 4 months we've paid about half of what our own place would cost. With James living here we've added a bit to our expenses, but between rent and other changes, we only need $1,000/month more to make it all happen at least as well as it's been happening.

At our current pricing, that's one web project down payment per month. Surely we can find 12 people in the English-speaking world who need a website, and would like us to build it for them.

Or maybe that's 2 custom WordPress themes for other design houses each month. Still, it's not an unreachable goal.

I'd just like it to happen sooner than later. My Best Beloved and our Little One need their own place. Wouldn't bother me any, either.

If you happen to stumble across a marvelous deal on a nice 2 or 3 bedroom place near Berlin, New Jersey, we'd sure love to hear about it.

Another chap who got out at the same time sold his plane ticket and bought an old Packard, declaring it was cheaper to drive home to the mid-west, and then he could sell the car.

I'm not sure if it was my father's love of adventure or his notoriously thrifty spirit, but he sold his plane ticket and rode along.

He regretted it.

To Sleep, or Not to Sleep

Dad had been a truck-driver and spent half his life behind the wheel or sleeping on the passenger's side. The other fellow seemed to have a bizarre sleep disorder: he could only lose consciousness while driving.

Barreling down the Al-Can Highway is no place for a nap, but every time my father drifted off on the passenger's side, so did the driver. Dad would grab the wheel and suggest, perhaps pointedly, that only one of them should be sleeping, and the one behind the wheel wasn't the best candidate. So, they'd trade sides.

Clutching fists to his chest, his exhausted compatriot would sit, bolt upright, eyes squeezed shut. After just long enough to make it boring, he'd relax, open his eyes, and announce that his nap had really helped, and he was ready to drive again.

Which promptly put him to sleep.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat. For 1500 miles.

The Door That Wouldn't Close

At 17, my father had been the highest paid mechanic in town. Steve Freund valued his problem-solving abilities highly.

It was a bit of an irritation, then, that the passenger door didn't close all the way. Door latches on a Packard that age (as with most cars older than you probably are) had a double latch system I won't attempt to describe, other than to say, this one clicked past the first latch, but never quite made the second.

Mile after mile, the door rattled in a hugely metallic manner, letting the, um, brisk Canadian air through.

On a particularly straight stretch, Dad got out a hammer and, while the Amazing Sleeping Driver did his thing, Dad turned backward in the seat, pushed the door open, and banged at the door latch, mounted on the frame upright between the front and rear doors.

When it looked right, he turned around and slammed the door shut. It closed!

And, apparently, stayed that way for the rest of the car's life. They never got it open again. Good thing it's easier to crawl across the front seat of a 40s-era Packard than a modern minivan.

The Whitehorse Gravel Patch

The stopped for a night in Whitehorse, Yukon. Leaving their hotel room in the morning they noticed that all the cars parked on the street were running, with no one in them.

Somehow it hadn't occurred to them that at -50F, oil in the engine freezes into a solid block.

Toward the middle of the day, when the temperature was closer to zero, they found someone with a tractor and located a patch of gravel road that hadn't frozen over. The tractor pulled them back and forth over the gravel patch until the engine finally warmed up enough to start. They left it running until somewhere closer to the 49th parallel.

I never knew the name of the Amazing Sleeping Driver, don't remember where he was going.

But I sure as shootin' know where I got my outsized love of travel.

I am childishly pleased to be able to manage my WordPress sites using my phone.

Here's my first draft of the opening paragraphs:

You don't need anyone to tell you the economy stinks. Everyone is just hanging on, hoping it gets better.

That's not how it works.

Picture this scene: walking along a mountain path, you slip—and go right over the edge. Your hired guide grabs your hand. Whew! Safety.

Then, he starts to slip.

Look into his eyes. Imagine it. This is no lifelong friend, no loved one. Your only relationship is money.

When he starts to slip, would you rather be hanging from his hand, or hanging onto something with your own?