I won't lie: I'm a little down today. Perhaps it's the onset of autumn, or senility, or the way the light reflects off the unmarked panel truck idling with possible sinister intent outside my window--I can't say. The anthropomorphism of motorized vehicles notwithstanding, I have little to occupy my mind at the moment, and so I'm sinking into melancholy. It's my own private little quicksand... vat... patch? The best thing to do is be still and wait for rescue.

I just erased several paragraphs on the idea that no one can make you feel inferior without your permission. I was complaining about someone who'd recently made me feel inferior through repeated reference to certain status symbols in her possession, but I had to stop when I realized that I was actually irritated by her inability or unwillingness to acknowledge a few status symbols of my own. That started me thinking about how I am a shallow and materialistic twit, and soon, there was no escape but the delete key. And possibly several decades of meditation and spiritual study. Lord knows, we can't have that. Who would take care of all my shoes?

And anyway, I've had it with spirituality as it exists in Southern California, where it seems largely a manifestation of ego, and striving to manipulate the Universe for riches.

And anyway, it's dull to recount my ennui, so instead, let's play a great, great Surrealist game taken from the book entitled A Book of Surrealist Games, beloved by children everywhere. OK, ready?

The game is this: Suppose you entered a caf� and found there, in a group, everyone with whom you'd ever been sexually involved. At the same time, the one person you love is standing there, alone. What would you do?

Star of the day. . .Eleanor Roosevelt