Lately, as I've grown older and wiser (or less wise, as there are many ways to kid oneself) I've realized that giving a couple of dollars now and again to a beat up soul on the street, not every beat up soul on the street, you understand, but quite a few beat up souls on the street, is probably the best bang that can be gotten from a buck. Not for any thanks or kind thoughts it might generate - tickets to heaven are bought with a different coin - but in the more cosmic sense: a couple of bucks are useful to me, of course, but not nearly as useful as to someone who's scrambling for something to eat (or smoke or drink or to place a bet). If it adds to my own Karma, well fine, but I suspect that's not how Karma works.

What was that about?

Oh, I was hoping it wasn't totally my tipping habit that brought that smile and a box of chocolates this morning, although I remember during my days as a bus boy in high school that I wasn't adverse to thinking a good tipper just might be (in a cosmic sense) a hell of a lot better fellow than someone who wasn't.

You're digging yourself into a hole with this.

It's so easy to do, so easy to do.

Later. A walk downtown for an iced café latte and a cookie at Peet's. A little wobbly, but I felt the better for it. Back now with Ms. Emmy snoozing at the foot of the bed: “What? Who are you again? Ah, right.” Head back down on her paws, eyes closed. Nice, actually. The day warm, the air reasonably cool, the head wobbly and upset. But then I think I said that.