Sometimes, in the nervous hours before dawn, when the soul is closest to suffocation and the mind twitches like a hanged man, I lie awake with the quiet nagging fear that I am not suffering enough.
 
On the more apprehensive of these occasions I fling the sheets aside and leap to my feet--sending the dozing cat sailing across the room like a furry little football--and rush to the bathroom mirror to make certain that I am still adversity's pull-toy.
 
There, squinting back at me like an angry Mr. Magoo is the ravaged countenance that evidences a life of psychic betrothal to malevolent circumstance: the steadily whitening hair; the slight stroboscopic flickering of the eyelids, the eyes sinking into the skull so deeply as to require sonic location. I take heart at these signs of genteel anguish and inexorable progress to That Farther Shore and return to my unslumbered bed.
 
But there are other times when the glass is less reassuring, when the accustomed prospects for disaster and calamity seem more remote than usual. At such times, inspecting my reflection with the diligence of Dorian Gray, I detect just the faintest flicker of upturn at the corner of the mouth--the merest hint of an appalling cheerfulness that foretokens a creepy feeling of well being.
 
There is never a warning. The day may appear perfectly normal: the moths happily munching on my checkbook; my medical advisors insistent as ever that I will not last the night; friends and acquaintances still crossing the street at my approach...and yet I suddenly find myself humming something from Mary Poppins.
 
In such cases time is the enemy. When optimism strikes there is no time to lose, the restoration of a normal, balanced state of misery must be swift and decisive.
 
I survived such an experience this past year. In late September on an otherwise pleasant day, my wife--Mad Lillian--and I volunteered to take on several community projects, primarily because we are very civic-minded and because our guardians were stuck in traffic,
 
Earlier in the year I was asked to write a dramatic skit concerning the subject of civil liberties. What my patrons had in mind was something along the lines of a brief dialogue illustrating the evils of the USA PATRIOT Act. But they unaccountably neglected to post a guard over me as I was writing, and in the absence of such an embargo I whelped into being a 45-minute play requiring a twelve-member cast and musical accompaniment.
 
To my surprise--and certainly that of anyone who knows me--the play became a hit and was presented at several area venues and ultimately on local TV. Then, when Nursey's back was turned, my wife and I agreed to organize a complex fund-raising auction for which, just to make certain sleep would forever remain a stranger, I volunteered to write a comic murder mystery.
 
By now we were on a roll, and it seemed a good time to get that new home we'd always wanted but had forgone because we couldn't remember where we'd put the magic wand.
 
But all that was changed by our discovery that morgators--this is a wonderful country--apparently care nothing for money and would instead accept our check! And we were more than happy to give them one--or two, or three if they asked!
 
In late October, between the plays and the auctions we moved into our new home: a charming cottage that despite first impressions is not as costly as the Taj Mahal because the backyard pool is slightly smaller than the one in front.
 
Today my wife and I are nearly recovered from our excesses of community spirit, and here I want to take just a moment to say a special "thank you" to the physicians and counselors at Happy Valley.
 
Having learned my lesson I have these days pared my schedule down to the barest minimum: producing the civil liberties play in a few states; developing a musical version of the murder mystery; exhibiting my paintings this fall; writing a satirical political novel based on the "Fetlock" stories; lobbying state legislatures to adopt resolutions opposing the PATRIOT Act; adding a few built-ins to the new house (the local Home Depot has graciously named its new annex after me); and, oh yes, preparing a speech for my nomination to the Obsessive-Compulsives' Hall of Fame.
 
And yet of late it seems that even these trivial tasks leave me a touch fatigued--and my screams in the middle of the night are beginning to get to my wife.
 
Clearly, something has to go, and in order that it not be me, I've decided to cut back on this column--actually something of an improvement, since it presently appears less often than Haley's Comet.
 
At first I thought to publish it on a schedule to be dictated by Bush administration outrages, but then I realized that would make it a daily feature. I decided finally to publish it "every now and then"--an example of the kind of logistical precision that made me a legend in the American military, where I was honored with the rank of Lance Corporal several times.
 
Thus "W" will now be an "occasional" rather than a periodical. There will be a few changes in content as well. We will of course continue to follow the happy gang at Chez W, but I also hope to include more satirical personal accounts of my exploration of the American Political Delusion, paying particular attention to the political fecklessness that has abetted the reduction of the Bill of Rights to a few meaningless paragraphs. Of necessity this will require a focus on my own political party--the Democrats, as risible fate will have it.
 
I recall a time when Democrats were about as feisty a bunch as ever spit on an axe handle--FDR, Harry Truman, Adlai Stevenson, LBJ--a pantheon of scrappers. But now we have devolved into a sorry flock, characterized by weapons-grade stupidity and an eagerness to capitulate even before a challenge is issued.
 
We liberals need to do something about that--nullify it, stamp it out--something. If we can't get legislators and leaders with guts we can at least send the current crop home; it makes little sense to have no representation and to have to pay for it as well.
 
So I'll still be around. You can't get rid of me that easily.
 
See you in the funny papers!
 
Hank