In the tradition of Jules Verne, Elijah, and Marie Antoinette, I am going to make a prediction.

Those 48 hour DVDs are going to TANK. I mean, why spend six dollars on a DVD that self-destructs when you can spend three on a rental? Just because of the potential for late fees? That's a great marketing point, right there. "You know you're too incompetent to make it back to Hollywood Video on time! ...so buy our product."

Anyway, this week was mostly spent driving back and forth between New Port Richey and Cape Coral. New Port Richey is pretty much hicksville, but it does have a lot of trees, and a certain Margaritaville atmosphere: retired fisherman and mechanics like to move down here, and you can see them biking around in droves, because of all the DUIs.

Cape Coral looks like those panoramic shots of California in movies like Poltergeist: a grid of cookie cutter houses, some with pools, and all with overwatered lawns. Gas is expensive and everything else is cheap. Lee County has one of the lowest rates of high school graduation in Florida. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'd guess that most people who make it through 12th grade become real estate speculators, though. There are more brown-grassed golf courses than you and I can shake a stick at.

I had to deliver some estate papers to this guy who we'd sent process servers and PIs after. I drove around town, stopped by his putative address, asked a few questions, and found out he works for a blind company. So then I parked in a parking lot opposite his house, feeling very Law and Order, waiting for him to come home and listening to NPR. He never came home, so I left a message with his twelve year old sister (who I caught as she got off a school bus.)

He called the law firm the next day, thus dispelling my sense of him as a collection-agency avoiding scumbag not too different from myself. I had to drive back down yesterday, got the papers signed, drove the two hundred miles back up north, took a wrong turn, ended up on a congested, ten mile long bridge that leads to Tampa for a few hours, doubled back across the same bridge going in the opposite direction, and eventually made it home.

I stopped by Barnes Ignoble on the way, furtively feeding my book addiction with copies of a book of essays by Coetzee, The Subtle Knife, and Michael Frayn's play Copenhagen.

My cousin Chris hadn't gotten out in awhile, so we went out for drinks. I had four sangrias and utterly failed to hit on the hot waitress I mentioned in a previous episode. However, a thirty year old gay Cuban immigrant named Noel Aquino took a shine to Chris because of the wheelchair.

"I give you free food at restaurant next time," Noel said to Chris. "I don't give free food to any sumbitch. Just you."

Noel claimed to be a surrealist painter in the tradition of Picasso and Dali. He did not like Magritte because Magritte was French.

Noel also claimed to have kicked Fidel Castro's ass, and that his sister and brother died on a boat finding their way over here to this land of milk, honey, and unnecessary paperwork.

I am looking forward to the wide release of Bob Woodward's book this week. It's been ages since he wrote anything interesting and unbland. Will be curious to keep an eye on President Bush's reaction: will they stick to their policy, pace "Wet Casements," of refusing to repeat other people's comments about themselves?

In short: weather's nice, wish you were here, whoever you are.