Some Fava Beans and a Nice Chianti

I favor the term "Free-Floating Anxiety," or as Little Westside Jonny might phrase it: "I'm prone to anxiety."  This has all been exacerbated by the twin deaths.  Should you wonder what FFA means or feels like ponder the following . . . 

I have jury duty this week, a civic function that no one, including me, looks forward to doing.  Most of us see a few days of boredom but I see weeks of potential terror.  I'm sure I'm going to be chosen for a capital murder case where some sociopathic psychopath gang member - gang leader - has dismembered a rival, cut out his liver, and eaten it with some fava beans and a good Chianti.  To make this free-floatingness a little worse the old woman who lives behind me has started to blast her TV for a few hours each night starting at about 10PM, my bedtime.  Because she lives in a particularly old trailer home - excuse me: manufactured home - and because my bed is 15 feet from her flimsy bedroom wall I'm picking up this muffled Spanish dialogue as soon as The TV springs to life.  Now, mind you, if I turn on a fan I don't think I can hear anything but I'm starting to imagine that I hear something, even over the roar of the fan.  SuperK looks at me like I'm losing it - I'm the guy who can go out like a light sitting up in a cramped airplane seat, the guy who's last house was on a terrifically busy street, ambulances and motorcycles and the like roaring up and down it 24 hours a day.  But this gentle mumbling has become a real problem.

I try not to talk to much to real earth people.  I can see them pull out their cell phones and start to dial 911.