Spoke with a friend this weekend, and he sounded a bit off. He moved to the mountains just about a year ago, with his daughter, his new wife, a freshly minted four-year sheepskin and a plan to take on the world.

Im going to sell my house, not in this market. Right? I mean, its not like there was this huge bubble in Triad real estate, but my house is 10 years old, and there are brand-new ones going up in my neighborhood that look exactly like it and are going right now for about what Id like to get for mine.

Whew. For the most part Im happy with last Tuesdays results. Im pleased that Liddy Dole lost her seat to someone who actually lives in North Carolina. Im shocked that Pat McCrory didnt do better in his bid for governor.

Coffee. Thats it Ill make some coffee and plunge ahead. Im writing this on Monday morning, early, the day before the election the calm before the storm. And Im feeling the battle fatigue as an ache in my hips and lower back, where Ive recently begun carrying my stress.

When I was a kid I was afraid of the dark. I slept with the light on until it was no longer age-appropriate. If I stayed at a friends house past dark I would run home in a panic. I kept a flashlight near my bed. That kind of thing. Im no longer afraid of the dark.

Had a chance to sit down with Dr. Lawyer a few weeks ago in one of our semi-regular powwows, where we kick back and really get a good look, acknowledge the last decade of our lives and honestly assess the paths we’ve chosen. I get the better end of the deal: Dr. Lawyer is a psychiatrist and also a lawyer; people pay pretty well for his advice that I get for free because once, a long time ago, he threw up on my phone.

Ed Cone monitors the world from his thirdfloor aerie at the corner of South Elm and Lee streets, a tidy space of hardwoods and high ceilings with a bulwark of work surfaces and a d%u98EFr that might remind you of a cool older brothers bedroom.

So its to be a bailout on a massive scale, the biggest Band-Aid ever created to hold together the deepest wound our economy has suffered since 1929. And we have ourselves to blame. How much money are we talking about here? About $700 billion? No, wait almost $850 billion? Maybe more? Really? Really.

The friend requests have been tumbling in for weeks on my Facebook page, reaching critical mass this weekend with a final crush of long, lost faces. Im also getting Snapfish alerts and text messages, and my image is likely being tagged somewhere even at this moment.

How long, how longhowlong? the woman asked the young kid guarding the door. About five minutes he says. Evelyn Macomson was first in line. She got here early, 2 p.m., with her folding chair and her beach hat with The Price Is Right logo embroidered on the front and sat herself down for.

We knew something was wrong with Henry when he started peeing all over the house. That’s not something he normally does. Oh, he’ll bite your earlobes while you’re sleeping, and he’ll scratch the holy hell out of your shoes. Actually just my shoes. For some reason, Henry only scratches up my shoes.

And I remember bemoaning the state of journalism when so few reporters turn out for an event that boasted free food by three caterers and an open bar.

My wife and I watched Sen. Barack Obama’s historic acceptance speech at home Thursday night, two of the 38 million or so souls who felt drawn to the Illinois senator for one reason or another.

Right now I’m traveling through time. I’m looking at a version of myself from days gone by, a photograph taken a long time ago in a bar where I used to work, long since closed and the reopened by someone with a touch more business savvy than my old boss. I’m young, just about 21, with long, flowing hair and a face not yet made heavy by the rigors of responsibility and time. I’m drunk in the photo, of that I’m certain, with one hand on my crotch and the other flashing a peace sign, a wide, delirious smile pasted on my face because I was laughing at something. Back then I was always laughing at something.

Friday afternoon at Sedgefield Country Club, and the heat wraps up the golf course like a blanket fresh from the dryer. It’s Day 2 of the Wyndham Championship and the field is starting to settle down.

Among the other things John Edwards has screwed up in recent months — his marriage, his political future, the sovereignty of the mainstream media on a breaking story, the moral high ground for the Democratic Party and narcissism as a valid defense, to name a few — was a perfectly serviceable editorial that took the position that it didn’t matter if Edwards had something going on the side.

“You okay dude?” shouts Steven Jones, general manager of Greensboro’s newest car dealership, Lamborghini Carolinas. I nod. He taps the accelerator and twiddles the butterfly shifters.

After midnight on Greensboro’s Elm Street the shoulders are crammed with parked cars and circulation on the sidewalks flows like a tap has just been turned on.

What’s a guy like him doing in a place like this? It’s a Thursday night, for one, and “Steady Rollin’” Bob Margolin is a Saturday night kind of guy. He didn’t spend his green years seated at the right hand of Muddy Waters, sucking it up and throwing it down, to be the opening act on a freakin’ Thursday.

Do I want to interview George Clinton? Do I want to interview George Clinton?You damn right I want to interview George Clinton, the godfather of funk, the Atomic Dog, the Supreme Commander of the Mothership. I want to talk to that guy as long as I can keep him on the phone.