Ally McBeal is playing on the television set behind me as I write. Another two hour, two episode repeat from the series in which the frog, apparently, has a major part. You can overdo the frog. You can replay the episodes that include the frog too many times, I discover. Still. How many years has this been playing? Two or three seasons? I remember reading a review in one of the local dailies when it first started. I thought, Ally McBeal. Some kind of teenage head trip, no doubt, old farts need not apply. I was not impressed. I believe I saw a trailer. I was still not impressed. And the reviewer was of the same opinion: Dim bulb new series won't last seven episodes. High, ho. Maybe if they'd played more of the soundtrack. Maybe if I watched more television. Still, they could skip the frog repeats. Focus on Ling. Or any of the soundtracks. Do more smokey bar scenes with the bands. I'm going to come back one day and read these Ally McBeal pieces and wish I hadn't written them. The frog has lost his luster today, the series, perhaps, tomorrow. Who watches this program? Men or women? Is it still off the wall enough to absorb my attention? Oh, yeah.

A story from a friend at work: A couple, close friends she's known for years, the wife recovering from the flu, coughing, getting up out of bed in the middle of the night this weekend and going into the bathroom, slipping and falling and striking her head. Dead at the age of fifty two. Get the shot.