Thank you.

Harold Adrian Russell Philby wrote...

$55,546 now.  If you look at all the ads in the FML, many of the cars have been
for sale for six months and some for nearly a year.  IMO early TRs will see the
high $40s on average within 18 months.  Many have already sold at auction in
that range.  I was offered a 1986 TR needing the major service for $42k and
turned it down.  When the market is diverging like it is now you don't want to
get caught with the ugly ducklings like the early TR, 412s etc.

T308  

and now MC heaves up:

Looking at that last post, there are times I really crack myself up.

I've always felt that the ability to enjoy - to laud, even - something
of quality you see in yourself (it may be the only thing of quality you
see in yourself) and to do that lauding publicly if possible ... I think
that is one of life's little joys.  A little ego tea party you have all
for yourself.

When it happens, I don't think about what anybody else thinks (kind of
like when your mom tells you she thinks you're talking "only to hear the
sound of your own voice" and you know that you are).  I've been
purposefully serving up some glazed ham in my posts because my real life
is kind of stressful right now - I try to avoid it as much as I can.  I
can only talk so many friends' ears off before they stop coming around,
so here I am, being witty, for the sake of myself.  What is that?  If
only I could channel it into something a bit more ambitious than this
sometimes sparse little newsgroup (in attendance and sometimes in
functioning cerebellums)

(sigh)

Yes, I am current with my medication.  But lately I've been feeling like
I made one of those trips to the "astral plane", like you hear about on
Moody Blues albums, and found out it was all made out of Velcro and fake
flowers.  I actually decided to come back here, to a life I mostly
loathe, because *it was better*.  It's like planning very meticulously
for and finally embarking on that special spiritual journey you always
wanted to take, to some temple in Nepal, out in the desert looking for
Zyzyx, some monastery in Sherwood Forest or some mystic in Cabo San
Lucas.  You're finally turning your back on the insanity, on the
confusion - because you *know* it's time to cleanse yourself, you *have*
that need to get real.

And yet ... you also know, just as firmly, that you'll have your
bag packed, be climbing through a window and on the way back around
three the next morning.  You'll be on the all-nighter municipal bus,
trying to hustle a $40 weed front from the cholo who hangs out the
taqueria and bumming a cigarette from a street person before setting out
on a 12-mile walk through Gangtown to get to your apartment.  You'll be
back in Hell, sans new spirituality.

The reason I release this gas is that last week I once again chose not
to have the you-gotta-have-it-at-forty colon poke, when it was again
offered/strongly recommended by my doctor.  I am now three years beyond
the golden 40 milepost; I've decided that a colon exam is one of the
first things that truly tells a man the downside of his life is upon
him.  If you have one, that hip-breaking fall in the tub and a shared
room at Beverly Manor are right around the corner.

The doc said "Suit yourself.  Wait until a two-pound polyp is starting
to crown - I can see you then."

Sometimes I feel like I stand, barely balanced, on the cusp of an
aging-badly epoch, including maybe even the possibility of expiring at
any time.  Usually it's whenever I think about my general health - I
actually feel very good physically, but it is suspect.  Deep underneath
my passing nod to taking care of myself it really feels more like I
struck some kind of "Picture of Dorian Gray" deal, not like what I might
get from working that John Basedow tape every morning.  My dozens of
miles of walking a week?  A mere propping up of the facade - like the
town of Tombstone you see on the Paramount back lot.  The
fairly-frequent five mile bike rides to get some stamps or sundries (or
cigarettes)?  I call it exercise, when probably very soon a ride just
like it will be the straw and my heart the camel's back.

I still feel like I am a struggling - really struggling - teenager.  I
act like one; I can still be teen-like reckless - even as I have been
mostly successful in controlling a serious illness.  I never knew how
easy it could be to remain a responsibility-shirking teen.  But for me
at 43, it is apparently much more fun to have a comforting, sumptuous,
and life-long dinner with Senor Failure, than it is to taste a fleeting
and very hard-earned sliver from the fruit plate of Success.

And bray all about it publicly like this!  The gall ... the sheer
presumptuousness.

(Whew)

Sorry about all that!  I've ground through so many therapists without
any success - because of some negative, therapist-related life
experiences - that I've psyched myself out on them for good.  But the
Internet can be a GREAT therapist.  You don't have to read this.  I can
post it if I want and nobody can stop me.  I get to work out some sh.t 
in a place where I can see it forever and reflect.  (Unless some hacker
gags and deletes it.  I swear, I'll repost.)  And who knows?  I might
get some great advice now, down the road, maybe at a time when I need it
most.

By the way, I was watching Dream Car Garage on SPEED today, and they ran
a nice little feature on the 308.  It might have been an old show.  They
explained a lot of history and showed a real appreciation for the car's
position in Ferrari history, the car's features, etc. all the while one
was filmed being driven around spiritedly.  The only thing I didn't like
was the suggestion that the 308's appearance on "Magnum, P.I." was what
made the car popular, that before the TV show interest in the model line
was languishing (and as a result Ferrari was languishing).  I guess
there might be some truth in it - I don't thing the 70s were really a
boom time for any exotic car maker.  Anyway, there's the Topic for the day.

Thank you for letting me vent.  You are all very, very special!  Special
people, so special!

MC

"Well, Elaine, let's examine the word "Santa", shall we?"  [holds up
board with "SANTA" spelled across it in removable letters]  "Santa.
Let's see, what have we got here? We've got an S and an A, an N, a T,
and another A.  Hmm.."  [rearranges the letters]  "Who could be causing
all those laps to bounce up and down curiously?  Who would help grown
men peel the focus from the baby Jesus on his birthday?  Who could it
be, I just don't know.  Could it be.. [echo] Satan!!"  [the letters now
spell "SATAN"]

Low mileage high-end cars are typically service by the calendar rather
than the odometer.

...That's ..."enlightened".