Well, let's see, when was Thanksgiving? How long have I been drinking in the new year? Jack's week-long birthday celebration capped off two months of overindulgence and there I was at two o'clock this morning laying in bed with an irregular heartbeat. Six hours later an EKG clocked my heart rate at 144 and the staff at the walk-in clinic confirmed a bout of atrial fibrillation. I now have a date with a cardiologist and a prescription for beta blockers and baby aspirin because of the increased risk of blood clots which can lead to stroke. STROKE.

Yes, I am a little panicked right now, thanks for asking. Why don't we change the subject for a bit and see if that helps?

Monday Jack took me to Sly's for lunch, which was nice.

OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO DIE.

He said something funny at one point, what was it. Oh, he said on his birthday he was going to go for a long bike ride with a $500 Carl Yastrzemski baseball card clipped to his spokes with a clothespin. Is that funny? I thought it was funny. (Because Jack's a Yankees fan, and Yastrzemski played for the Red Sox. So, good, now we're all up to speed.)

I CAN'T DIE YET, JACKSON NEEDS ME. ALSO, I NEED A CHANCE TO BURN MY DIARY.

This black Mustang has been parked in front of our house -- condo, whatever -- for more than six weeks now. It has Texas plates on it and it's becoming more and more difficult to resist the urge to start vandalizing it. Jack's first suggestion was to let all the air out of the tires. My impulses run more toward writing on the windows with soap. I don't know whether the owner flew off to Hawaii and is treating our street like long-term parking, or if he's trapped in a Mexican jail, or maybe he had A STROKE AND HE'S IN A PERSISTENT, VEGETATIVE STATE oh my god, why are people in irreversible comas called vegetables? I don't want to be a vegetable, oh, I'm dizzy, is it the blood clot in my brain or the panic? Where's my Rescue Remedy, oh, help.

You know how people sometimes use the word "gay" to describe something that's ultra fruity in a way they don't like? "Fruity" meaning earnestly goofy or superfluous (WHY AREN'T PEOPLE IN COMAS CALLED FRUITS? WOULD EVERYONE THINK THEY WERE ALSO GAY?). Personally, I think "fruity" is sort of a compliment. But "Dude, that is so gay" means Please stop using your cravat as a headband, your masculinity and your I.Q. are now under suspicion.

The solution to the defamatory nature of "gay" was suggested by M. Doughty on his blog a while back. Because you need a word with a slightly sarcastic edge that isn't associated with a class or group of people who don't need any more of your shit. The gays, they don't need that, and let's not even go into what the retards think of you and your poorly timed insults. So as Mr. Doughty suggests, what the world may need is JOLLY. No, it's not perfect, but try it and see how it works for you. Well, Phil, that pumpkin hat you're wearing is certainly well crafted, but now that Halloween's over it looks a little . . . jolly. Phil's kind of trying too hard, right? Inappropriately exuberant? But still sort of pleasant. "Jolly" doesn't kick the legs out from under your macho status like "gay" does. I know we're far from living in a post-macho world, but the least we can do is let language evolve, even if some of us can't.

I need to go lie down. Check on me in an hour, would you?