My outrageously clever friend Mark offers some guidelines for the season’s new hot thing — hosting your own Iraq study group, beyond the bellinis and canapes.

“First, don’t worry about your lack of experience in Iraq or even about military affairs. Hardly anyone in the Baker-Hamilton group has spent much time in Iraq. (James Baker used to pal around with Saddam Hussein, but don’t let that deter you.) Remember this is a study group — you’ll learn as you go along.”

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I’m tired and uninspired (and can rhyme on a dime), send me your fad energy pills or too-big condoms. (That is really just so mean!)

… Dave Brubeck, the king of 5/4 time turned 83 two days ago …. my flowers were late. I’m practicing Blue Rondo Ala Turk, by the way, which is in 9/8 time and also my bf’s favorite song.

I’m posting from the library and the guy across from me reeks of Aqua Velvet, the girl next to me is making odd sounds. Maybe she wants to mate him.

Watch Doug Saturday, remember, not Friday and then call me this weekend with fun plans. Let’s go to the mall! Let’s hang out! Let’s sniff glue and sew buttons on a dress!

Happy weekend. Hey, and psst! Shanthi … is this why you married a midwest farm boy?

All busy with technical difficulties. And driving to and fro. Will resume witty intellectual meanderings tomorrow or next week. Email me here, I miss you. Really. Also watch Larry King Friday for M.’s friend Doug. Nighttime, I think. Watch all night.

I saw the first bug today. I thought it would be later, in the Spring. Not technically the first, there are the small black flies still — fresh dead piles of them every day — but this was the first meaty one. It had long skinny legs, and wings, I think … hard to tell, I was running.

I’m having problems, too, with the carpet. I see little people in it, crawling around. It follows me, the carpet; outside, around the yard, today clear to Dundee before I was rid of it. But the shower is nice, the kitchen is fine. The carpet temporary … my sanity intermittent, carpet or not.

No school for G. today and she won’t stop harrassing until I play Candyland. Which is no fun because she’s marked all the candy cards and I don’t like to play that way, I just don’t.

I haven’t got one bit of work done since God knows when, not one bit. Have the manuscript printed and neatly bound (a different one, Good Wife is on hold), but can’t carve out the time to make it sing. Have rewritten it 20 times in my head. I talk to myself when I drive, mouth the words. If the kids aren’t with me (I pretend some semblance of normalcy when they’re around) I read what’s in my head right out loud.

“Get off the chair,” she said. “Now.” The man got off the chair and began to circle the room in an unsettling manner.

You know, stuff like that. Have ordered Hell, Purgatory, Paradise [Dante's Divine Comedy: Great Courses on Tape] for a project, and also with always an eye toward the memoir the children will write. Since order and discipline will be absent (at least from my chapters) I’m aiming for eccentric genius ala Dierdre Burroughs (as played by Ms. Bening):

“While my school friends popped their bubble gum to Milkshake, my mother blasted the Great Courses from my cotton candy-colored tape player. It was the formidable Neitschze I bonded to in my tender years, my mother swooping down with grand gestures over each point, rather than that precocious little bilingual cookie Dora.“

Okay, Candyland. I’m blue. More to come. (This was hastily pecked out, will make better efforts in future. Julie Nipp folds her clothes.)

[ ... if a man should challenge me, I would take him kindly and forgivingly by the hand and lead him to a quiet place and kill him." -- Mr. Twain]

Thank you, all of you, for your helpful tips on country living. I have had one pleasant reader advise me of the excellent duck hunting in these parts, another recalls good bar fights, and Lisa Austin generously shared her dry-skin remedy for combatting the erratic heat blasts of an 100-year-old house. Julie Nipp has demonstrated an appalling lack of attention and I’ll take that up with her shortly.

All in all, it was a fine week. The cows came home, the chickens roosted, A. fired up the riding lawnmower. (Carbon emissions equal to 350 late-model Cadillacs driving to Tulsa, but all in good fun.) The Cowboys won, we picked Luxurious Red for my office, we decided on the parking system (diagonal to the garage.)

That’s it. Though, psst! A. — I realized in our little chat last night you made a hypothetical reference to hating me … “those times when I hate you,” I think you said. You do know that you are not allowed to hate me, right? Right. And that I, on the other hand, have free emotional reign, no obligation to rationality, and reserve the right to “hate” you for no good reason at any time without proper notice … you know all that, right? Good. All set, then.

Back to your cubes, everyone. Heads down thumbs up. I have dentists and haircuts to attend. Whee.

Did you miss me? I’ve been off. On holiday. Putting in cables and wires and lines and images. We have phone now and television and the world wide web if you can imagine. Call me, write me, be on TV.

However, we do not have an ice cube maker. We have ice cube trays. I feel this is a disheartening step backward, if not for mankind then for me. I remember the exact day (Wednesday of another year) that Eric Slater my longtime friend from the very beginning before we were kings, declared, “Bozarth, you’ve arrived!” because I had an ice machine and water thingie in my refrigerator. No more.

I also have annoying black flying bugs everwhere. They seem to die quick, though, I guess that’s good. And a blinking street light and cold drafty places. The hot heat blasts bat the drafts away but then my skin dries out. We’ll all adapt. (Plus, A. — I changed the bed to face the other wall because they couldn’t string the cable where you wanted. I think it’s all right.)

And that’s where I’ll leave it, that should carry you on into nice weekends. Oh, and please do not buy the Gore Vidal for me for Christmas; fluffy towels, now, will do. I acted impulsively and bought it myself and it’s a thin bunch of short dull yarns. Mr. Vidal reveals to his breath-baited readers, for example, that young Kennedy’s good looks and Nixon’s televised sweat was a huge factor in that one election. Razor-sharp memory, Mr. Vidal. We’d never have guessed!

More later.