A strangely emotional day today. Driving to work this morning, late as usual, I loaded a CD that I haven't listened to in a longtime, a CD that really dates me I guess: "Crime of the Century" by Supertramp. (It's somehow immensely comf that my Voice Recognition Software has heard of Supertramp.)

As I listened to be incredibly familiar song "Dreamer", a flood of nostalgic tears came to my eyes, and I reflected once more how powerfully music can transplant you back into your past. I spent most weekend evenings of my teens at the of my best friends, John and Douglas, playing bridge and snooker. At John's house, we'd always either listen to the Electric Light Orchestra or Queen, while at Douglas' we would listen to Supertramp.

Looking back, how innocent we were. While other kids were smoking, boozing, doing drugs, sniffing glue, or chasing girls, we were taking quick tricks, potting balls, and singing along to "Dreamer." No wonder that we all turned out to be Actually, I guess I should take that back, since neither John nor Douglas admit to being gay: it's just my strong suspicions.

The other emotional moment came when I had lunch with James, one of my oldest friends. We don't see each other more than a few times a year because we now move in such different circles, but I remain extremely fond of him. Last time we had lunch d told me about his new girlfriend, and this time I was genuinely happy to hear him describe her as the love off his life. If anybody deserves to find that, it's James. There is a qualitative difference I feel whenever I talk with James. We look o irectly in the eyes, and really care about each other's welfare.

I asked James how finding love had made a difference in his life and he told me that for the first time he'd started to think about the idea of having children, moving to the suburbs, and of eventually using his real-estate investments to permit h make some kind of career change. I set off on a tangent of my own, remarking upon how the pillars of his life were now in place: family, property, health and income, and I suddenly found myself thinking of my own life, and, of course, comparing mine s. Not a good idea.

I hadn't really intended to speak pathetically about my own life but the look of concern on James' face made me realize that's what I'd done. Sigh. There are as many days when my perspective tells me I've a good life, as there are days when I fe e something of a failure. I look back to my early years -- the Supertramp years of dreams, and wonder about choices I've made. Still, there is plenty of chance ahead to make new choices.

I'm taking a quick trip to Washington D.C. this weekend. No it's not to celebrate the Republican victory (a result that makes me want to retch), it's because I need the frequent-flier miles to keep Elite status on American Airlines. I'm intendi spend the weekend admiring the Fall foliage and doing some writing. I recently made a resolution to write at least one hour per day, and I've been pretty good at keeping that up. I'm deep into developing a new 25-minute screenplay: a kind of romant edy about a guy who gets killed by a serial killer. I guess the description "romantic comedy" is wrong -- it's more of a romantic tragedy/thriller, my first effort in this genre. Although I'll be writing, it will be longhand, for I'm not my laptop with me this time. So sorry, no journal entries until I come back from D.C.