
The first photo is how I woke up from a nap this afternoon, to a closeup view of my constant pestering pooch, the lovable Bella, at my side, wondering if I'm ever going to rip the Frisbee out of her paws and throw it over the balcony again. I don't know how long she had stood like this, patiently waiting for me to open my eyes and play. But, for the four-hundredth time this weekend, I indulged her canine compulsive disorder and tried to muster enthusiasm from lethargy.

My consolation prize is that I was able to write this blog while listening to a tribute on POP TV to Sir Elton John, his greatest hits sung by famous vocalist after vocalist while he is forced to sit in the audience. I'm singing along to songs from my teens as poor Elton is held captive to his tribute, probably thinking about how the singers are mangling his songs. I'm mangling them too, the lyrics written on my soul, memories springing forth along with each verse, lifting my spirits at the end of another lousy winter day in the midst of spring.
"And I guess that's why they call it the blues, time on my hands, should be time spent with you."