The Banzai Chronicles

Lunching at La Puerta. Wish that entitled me to a siesta afterward. It does, however, entitle me to an endless supply of warm tortilla chips, as well as the ability to pirate the wireless internet connection from Caffé Vita next door.

Quite unmotivated today, I'm afraid. Need to get back to getting up early; maybe that would help to clear my head.

Called about the townhouse. Conversation with the 89-year-old owner rambles, and I'm never sure just where we are in our discussion— we talk about the book he's writing, Charles Lindbergh, polio, Rush Limbaugh, and the old Baptist church on Capitol Hill where he became a Christian after the war. He quoted me a price $200 more than he's charging the other guys; I promptly corrected him. Hard to say how much of that was forgetfulness and how much was business saavy. Since there's a woman from out of town interested in the unit, it's going to take a bit of persistence to have a shot at it. If I don't hear back by Friday, I'll call and stop by.

There are constant reminders of how blessed I am to have my life, if only I'll stop being grumpy about them.

A prison cell, in which one waits, hopes, does various unessential things, and is completely dependent on the fact that the door of freedom has to be opened from the outside, is not a bad picture of Advent.

—Dietrich Bonhoeffer, 21 November 1943