I'm going to break my own Never Quote David Crosby rule and say that it's getting to the point where I'm no fun any more. On second thought, maybe he didn't write that line--it could be Graham Nash, right? Or that other one, what's his name, Steven Segal.

Anyway, it's getting to that point. Or maybe it's just a temporary lull in the fun-a-thon rather than a change in my life, but I'm feeling fogged-in.

On Sunday, I drove Shandy to LAX, then went over to check on Carson's apartment in Los Feliz. I stopped at a Russian grocery to buy components for lunch, but when I got to the apartment, I couldn't get into the gate, because he'd accidentally sent me the wrong keys. It was a minor event, but I stood there on the sidewalk and suddenly felt like crying. I just wanted to go inside and lie down on my old sofa, and not be on a boat, and not be on the road. I looked up into the window of his apartment, and I could see a sculpture that we had in our place in San Francisco, and I wanted to be inside and not standing on the sidewalk looking like a stalker. I don't know why the experience made me so sad, except that the act of buying groceries and walking to the building had apparently given me the inaccurate sense that I was going home. I've never lived at that apartment, and Carson and I have been divorced for almost five years, so I don't know why I felt so suddenly cut-off. He lives with a lot of our old furniture and household goods, things I willingly gave up when we split up, but on some level and although I don't want to go back, I feel like the only thing missing from the apartment is me. I know it's not true, but standing there on the sidewalk with the wrong key in my hand, it certainly felt like I'd been accidentally locked out of my own home. There are some things for which there is no remedy.

As Jim White sings, "you got to be strong, 'specially when the long road home leads smack through the smoking ruins of your broken heart."

There's nothing like walking down the street crying to yourself to make you look like a crazy woman, and I did not disappoint the fine residents of Los Feliz that Sunday afternoon. I walked past my favorite current obsession, the Lloyd Wright-designed Sowden House at 5121 Franklin. According to author Steven Hodel's book "Black Dahlia Avenger," the Black Dahlia was very likely killed there. (As I understand it.) Here, see for yourself:

I know. It's totally creepy. There's a clip from The Aviator (which I saw on the Oscars, having neglected to see any actual movies in the theatre since 2000) in which Leonardo diCaprio argues with some girl playing Ava Gardner, but with hazel eyes, in the living room, decorated all in green, of what looks to be a Hollywood mansion, maybe from the '20s. It reminded me of the interior of the Sowden House, as seen in a fuzzy black-and-white picture in the Avenger book.

Anyway, I went back to my car and feeling rotten, immediately got on the 101 going the opposite direction I needed to go. I got off the highway and stopped for gas, a dramatic act that caused me, understandably, to burst into further tears. The Keelhauler called right about then, and when he sensed that I was crying, said, "Oh, no, Buddy--what happened?" My attempt to explain only confused him, and he ended up thinking I was sad because Shandy had left. That was part of it, but her departure was mixed up with a whole lot of other emotional soup, and being unable to explain it, I made the logical decision to drive to Ikea and wander around crashing into other people's carts for a while, which is what I did. Somehow, it made me feel better, despite the fact that it took me fifteen minutes and multiple tries to end up with the same dishes I initially put into the cart. The Keelhauler called several times to check on my progress, and each time I asked him to help me make a decision about some item he couldn't see: the dishes--should I get the ecru or the robins-egg blue? The rug--do you think I should go with more of a casual feel, or maybe an Oriental? Finally, he convinced me that we should go back another time, together, and that I should go home.

As industrial as Ikea is, it felt comfortable, and it was hard for me to leave. I like being surrounded with the ordinary goods that make up a household, and like the feeling that I'm selecting items to bring to a place I can call home. Perhaps my feeling is a function of not being settled on the new boat, but I'm not quite connected to it, and I'm feeling uprooted. Shopping at Ikea was an exercise in making myself feel like I belong somewhere. Call it faux-mesticity.

On the way home, I learned that Shandy missed her plane by moments.

I rented The Aviator on my way back to the boat, and I watched it last night. The scene where Howard Hughes fights with Ava Gardner in the green living room is followed by a clear shot of the exterior of the Sowden House. So, I was right about something.

Just now, I learned I missed seeing Jim White in LA on Friday. I wouldn't maybe mind so much, but I was in LA on Friday, looking for something to do. Just another little tic I'll chalk up to our good friend Mercury.

Star of the day. . .Elizabeth Short