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Four years ago, roughly, Pop was having dizzy spells. That’s when the doctor told him he needed by-pass surgery. So that happened. The day after, Pop had his stroke. He’s much better four years later, but I stick around just to keep an eye.

Now I’m having the dizzy spells. At least, for the past forty-eight hours. No chest pains, though. I’ve been popping aspirin, just in case.

What’s funny is, when I’m at the gym, pumping iron, the dizziness goes away. But by the time I get home: Hello, vertigo!

I’m sure it’s all temporary. Like the spots in my eyes—that was temporary. And the feeling of sweat down my temples, but on the wrong side of the skin—temporary, too. Mostly temporary. It’s probably the madness of not having a legitimate nine-to-five gig. Something like with what happened to Zelda Fitzgerald.

Oh, and I’m really not into doctors. So if the End Is Near, So Be It. The closest thing to a Christian Scientist non-practicing Jew just-shy-of-being-an-atheist, that’s me.

So, tomorrow, or the next day, if Death delivers its subpoena Douglas Adams-style—that is, on a treadmill—I hereby leave whatever there is to the members of NMTC. If there’s enough, build a theater, reserve a seat for me in the first row—a little gold placard engraved with the name “FireVaney” on one of the armrests—and only permit really hot babes to settle their asses onto its cushion. Got it?

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