…which is the last night of my 56th year on this troubled outpost.
I handled a call from the office about a dead body. My part consisted mostly of deciding we couldn’t do much, couldn’t send a reporter to the scene, and gaming out the consequences in case the facts are further along than our understanding of them. Tomorrow could be partially chewed up by whatever comes of the death. Not that I’m superstitious, but we started the week with a murder and a shooting, so ending it this way has a certain symmetry.
Otherwise, a Harry Bosch novel (he’s the fictional character, Michael Connelly is the flesh and blood author, but Bosch is a great invention, part of the lineage of hard-boiled detectives that goes back to Marlowe and Archer and, well, it’s just a Harry Bosch story, that’s all) and in keeping with Bosch – not that I’d likely to listen to much else anyway – jazz, in this case some live Woody Shaw from the 70s in a collection of all his albums on Columbia. I owned some of the original albums back in the day, but missed entirely how fine Shaw was. Sometimes you just have to get older.