And we also realized that time itself is fleeting for us. So when we are afforded these kinds of opportunities we must savor them with everything we have. And as far as mystical moments go, I couldn't imagine a better moment in time then spending it in a fast car with no particular place to go.

Adios until the next time...

F1 dreams and the continuing saga of life its own self.

By Dr. Bud E. Bryan

Austin. Well, it really is happening. I had an unauthorized tour of the new "Circuit of the Americas" track and I gotta say it is going to be frickin' spectacular. Yeah, I know, I was originally Dr. Skeptical, but forgetting all of the heated financial battles between The People With Too Much Money and The People Who Actually Give A Shit About The Racing, the fact that there's a brand-new natural-terrain road racing circuit of this magnitude coming together in the U.S. - and not far from our doorstep, I might add - is pretty damn incredible. And it looks like it's going to be faster than fast too. Blistering fast, even, as Peter would say. It's difficult sometimes to contemplate that it's really happening, but when you see it with your own eyes you get over that notion right quick. All I can say is that I am very impressed and I can't wait for it to officially open. We're talkin' some serious racin' shit here.

In other developments, I brainstormed an idea to Peter via email that we grab a ZL1 Camaro and the new Shelby GT500 Mustang and hammer 'em from Austin to Las Vegas. And he's all-in except for the fact that he says the likelihood of us getting the cars for that purpose would be slim and "are you frickin' kidding me?" from at least one of the companies. The GM boys alternately loathe and despise Peter (I know, who knew, right?), so, oh well. I plan on getting my hands on that Mustang one way or another so at least I can write about that monster.

It's a noble undertaking, too, because I figure these cars and others like them are not going to be around forever and the cost of owning such machines is going to go up exponentially and be almost too scary to contemplate. I've said it before and I'll probably say it again, but these are the good ol' days when it comes to high performance. Yes, the "new" definition of performance will be huggable and touchy-feely and all but who's kidding who here, folks? Electric cars make no noise, so I frankly don't give a shit how fast they go. And hybrid supercars? The new going rate seems to be $800,000+ if you're Porsche and Ferrari. That's insane. So appreciate what we have right this minute in the ZL1, the GT500 and Boss 302, and the hot Corvettes, because in terms of performance, they're as fast if not faster than 98 percent of the machines we considered supercars not long ago. And if you squint hard enough you can even afford one of 'em too.

(Oh, and before I get a ton of hate mail from the touchy-feely contingent for not embracing the idea of efficient performance, the new Subaru BRZ and Toyota Scion FR-S sports cars are nice little cars and everything, but after driving the Toyota all I kept thinking is that if you're going to go this route I'd get a clean used Honda S2000 all day long and be a lot happier. Somebody's gotta say it.)

The rest of life is going along down here while lurching between euphoria and imminent disaster, none of which I can talk about per my agreement with Peter. The point being that if I'm going to write about it it should be saved for The Book. Yeah, I know, who gives a shit, right? But Peter and WordGirl have had the manuscript for weeks now (admittedly I owe them three damn chapters) but I think that's meaningful progress, don't you?

I will say this: the Full-Tilt Nadine and the Irresistible Jolene are present and accounted for, and then some. Nadine has been occupied with some health issues with her mom that thankfully have resolved themselves positively, but she's fiery and cantankerous as ever, in a really good way. And Jolene? Well, what can I say? We've reached a level of communication that I figured was impossible to achieve given everything that has transpired, and it has never been better between us. And she has never looked better. And the lovely Janey is just relentless in that she just won't take "no" for an answer and I admit I like it, a lot. And Jesse has blossomed into an excellent writer, among, uh, other things. And Carrie Anne? She's busy bein' a smokin' hot mom and driving me absolutely c-r-a-z-y, but beyond that I must remain speechless is all I'm sayin'.

I would like to tell you that everything is smooth with my interactions and such with my "friends" but hell, you know that isn't even a little bit true. Play with high-strung fillys long enough and you're bound to get kicked in the teeth. And though I've managed to survive certain calamity more than I care to think about, one can duck only so much before the inevitable Bad Thing happens. Oh well, at least I haven't been shot at again. Yet.

Trying to catch-up after not reporting in for so long really kinda sucks, but, what can I say?

One crucial - and somber - development down here that I must mention because of its seismic significance is that the bar at the Four Seasons hotel - long my favorite watering hole as most readers can testify - no longer has a premium margarita on their bar menu. I know. WTF, right? It's as if an asteroid hit the place as far as I'm concerned and, you guessed it, I'll never go back. And the action is no longer there, either. Coincidence? I think not. The new hot spot? The bar in the W hotel.

That's all I have on this 13th day of June, except I neglected to mention the 13th Anniversary of Autoextremist.com. I won't go on and on about it but it's tremendously satisfying to know that Peter is still hammering away, still being laser-accurate in his assessments, and still pissing off legions of people who should know better but don't while doing something that no one else can do in my estimation.

And that's a Very Good Thing.

Adios until the next time.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. But in the end, all you need is Love.

By Dr. Bud E. Bryan

Austin. Yes, I am still alive and yes, isn't it just so predictable that I'd show up for the last issue? Okay, I get it. I'm lazy. I'm a scoundrel. A ne'er do well. A rake. A cad. A bad person even. And I don't even have the frickin' book done, which, as I've gathered, is my most egregious sin. I'm killin' y'all in other words. Well, I do have some news. Part I of A Bud's Life (current working title although that changes by the day) will debut on this site not too much longer after the first of the year (From our "We'll Believe It When We See It" File - ed.) and it will be available to purchase through PayPal. It will be available in our new and much improved AE store, which I'm not supposed to talk about but I am anyway. You'll find new, ultra-hip wearable stuff there to make your non-informed friends jealous, as well as Part I of my book.

Why a Part I? As in WTF have you been doing all of these months? Point not so well taken and please refer to our other website biteme.com. Here's the thing, it's because I'm still livin' the ending. And until I reach that final chapter - at least for the time being - there won't be a Part II. So there. I've finally said what people have long expected. It's The Book That Will Never End or something like that, because I don't want to finish the book because I don't want this swirling maelstrom of chaos to end.

Why? Well at times it's a really, really excellent chaos. Life affirming and invigorating even. And at other times, well, I wander off and "shoot myself in the head" as Peter reminds me, and for no good reason too. To say I can't help it isn't an excuse. I get it. To the few women readers I have left out there I ran out of excuses so long ago they've just transitioned to the "I'd run him over with my car if I saw him" camp. Ouch.

How complicated? Well if I get too involved in explaining things it will turn off the few guy readers I have left as well, because all they want me to do is to shut up and write about cars, and deep-six the domestic stuff. While the lady readers out there love when I write about my domestic travails because they can't avert their eyes from the sheer complexity and lunacy of it all. And it gives them a slight tinge of delight that however bad their scene is and however disgusted they are with their so-called men at least it's not as bad as the train wreck in Austin spelled B-U-D.

I get that. And I understand it. I even will own it in my deepest darkest moments. Now granted that's not very often but at least I have a passing glance of awareness, give me credit for that. Hey, but you gotta understand. No, you really gotta understand. Because this shit is complicated. Meaning this shit I call life its own self is more complicated than you could ever imagine. More complicated than you can believe. More complicated than, oh you just have no idea. Which is why you'll have to read the book.

How complicated? Well, I can give you the high hard ones in a run-on sentence synopsis that will probably draw small arms fire from the players involved - not to mention the disgusted English majors out there - but just consider it a giant teaser for what's coming, so here goes and it was nice knowin' ya.

I'm staying with Nadine now because Sir Charles dropped dead on the 18th green at his country club several months ago and Nadine didn't want to be alone and the funeral and subsequent fallout from the whole episode was just unbelievable and Jolene came back from L.A. with her tail between her legs this after flying the extra mile to lay me out with a figurative right cross to my face followed by a field goal kick to my my balls but then she had a very serious trauma and she's forever changed by it and it's weird because we're still technically married and we're still friends and I still see her almost every Wednesday for lunch but Nadine is okay with it (I think) because for the first time in a while I'm sorta coming home to her which doesn't make the deliciously delightful Janey very happy because she's at the breaking point with my antics and keeps bringing up the whole "the rest of our lives" discussion after her daughter Molly graduates and hell who wants to talk about the rest of our lives? because that just gives me the frickin' creeps like we should be lining-up our burial plots or something but she is mesmerizing and a fine person and a terrific mother and an incredibly sexy woman but Nadine is ultra sexy too maybe even more so than ever because she finally is at peace with herself and everything and she's spending more time with her folks and she actually appreciated me, I know, right? and as long as she doesn't go searching for a piece to shoot me with again I guess we're really good to go the distance but then there's The Woman I Can't Ever Mention Again who still rocks my world and who lights up the room with her incandescent smile and majestic presence and who makes my heart stop with the smallest of glances and who melts me with her kiss Melts. Me. and who is trying her damnedest to stay away from me and live her life but it's just so fucking hard. So. Fucking. Hard. Like oppressively can't breathe hard but then again that's life its own self and for serene relief I still tutor/mentor the wonderfully special Jesse and it's all good except when it's all bad and I drove some fine cars this year but then again nothing worth really waxing eloquent about at this point and I'm jealous of all the cars Peter and WordGirl drove but then again if I got my head out of my ass and stopped spreading myself too thin then maybe I could drive more cool stuff but then again when you live in the swirling maelstrom that I do things just lead to another and another and then I'm right back on the roller coaster and it's stupefyingly complicated and wonderfully all-consuming and when it comes right down to it I love 'em all for different reasons and I want them all for different reasons and if I go missing after you read this you'll know why and on my tombstone I want it to read "He loved them all. To his own detriment." Or something like that. Whew.

I know. It gives me a headache just writing about it. Let alone living it.

But just today I had a phone conversation with Nadine (she's visiting her parents in San Antonio for the week) that stopped me cold. And once again she managed to make her point loud and clear, which she's been doing quite often since Chucky passed. We were talking about the typical mundane stuff between couples when she suddenly paused and blurted out:

"Bud. Do you know you still make my heart sing?"

"Uh, what?"

"Do you know that you still are The One after all this time?"

"Nadine, I..."

"I just wanted you to know that Bud because things happen. Bad, unexpected things. And I just want to make sure you know. Because I couldn't bear losing you, even though you're the most consummate selfish asshole at times and you just can't help yourself from chasing it. All the time. Which is pathetic and it pisses me off. But I'm done worrying about it and fretting about it. You will eventually get tired. Or quit. Or retire. Something. You are loved Bud. Just know that. Despite everything you've got going on right now and despite the shit you put us - and your entourage - through, you are loved."

"I love you, Baby," was the only thing I could say.

Perspective. Courtesy of the irresistible Nadine. And on that note of heart-wrenching Love, I will say adios for now.

I hope you and yours have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year and don't forget the rest of the story.

It's in the book.

Three Cars worth driving at the Dawn of the Weenie-Mobile Age.

By Dr. Bud E. Bryan

Austin. Greetings to all of you WebVillians out there and yup, just when you thought it was safe to write the Ol' Budster off, I'm baaack. Back to confound you. Back to piss you off. Back to my old tricks. Back just because. You get the picture. Mainly I'm back because I've been so lost in my particular brand of self-induced RH (Relationship Hell) that even I needed a damn break from it all. Plus, I got so sick of reading all about Peter & WordGirl driving all of those hot cars up there that I had to get caught up by driving some my own self.

First on the list? A Ford Mustang GT 5.0. Yeah, I get that the Boss is back and Ford is cranking out new versions almost by the week, that's what you do when you have an aging car in need of a makeover and the replacement is two more years away at least. I get it. But I didn't want the Boss. I wanted a representative GT just to get a feel for the current state of the Mustang art. So I got myself a drive in a lightly-equipped Mustang GT Premium Coupe, with 6-speed gearbox, in Black.

It's hard to describe just how pleasing this package is. I'm not all that enamored with the current Mustang interior - it's not that bad but it's not really great either, it just feels dated - but that's really not the point of the car at all. Clearly honed to the nth degree by the Mustang development team, the 5.0 just feels right. Enthusiasts get that statement, so I'm not going to beat it to death for the Consumer Reports crowd. People with a proper amount of driving and car ownership experience all have come across machines over the years that just feel "right." Take the Honda S2000, for instance. Superbly balanced and fun to drive, in its early iterations it was the quintessential take on a contemporary sports car. And for my money it's one of those machines that just felt "right" from the get-go. So does the Mustang GT 5.0.

The Mustang is balanced, remarkably light on its feet, the steering, gearbox and pedal controls feel all of a piece and that they were massaged by people who not only like to drive, but who know what "right" should feel like. And that 412 HP 5.0-liter V8 sounds all kinds of right too and it feels really good. There are faster cars, sure. And there are more zoot-suited cars loaded with all of the Ricky Racer flaps, blades, wings, slats and vents that one could want too. But the reality is that a Mustang GT Coupe on a hot summer night with no particular place to go but wanting to get there quickly is one of the great high-performance bargains that you can drive every day. And it's damn near perfect for the enthusiast who has $35,000 or thereabouts to spend.

What about the V6 version with 300+ horsepower? I applaud the effort and 30 mpg on the highway is nice and everything, but if I'm going to ride out this Doomsday Scenario at the Dawn of the Weenie-Mobile Age, then I'm going to ride it out in a V8. You can lecture me all you want about my green responsibility as a citizen but in the immortal words of Cee-Lo Green, fuck you, I'm gonna drive a V8.

Next? I couldn't stand reading about the Camaro SS convertible (with 6-speed) that Peter had, so I just had to get my hands on one for my own self. Straight-off the Camaro feels heavier and more cumbersome than the more nimble Mustang, because well, it is heavier and more cumbersome than Ford's pony car, to the tune of 500 lbs. more. But I gotta tell you once you put your foot in that beautiful 426 HP V8 all that stuff just doesn't matter. Yeah, the Camaro is a bit "porky" as Peter said, but the reality is that Chevy's Camaro development team is clearly made up of enthusiasts of the first degree because it all works, and exceedingly well too.

I had a rip-roarin' time rumbling through downtown Austin making the thing growl for the teeming throngs, and I had an even better time when I picked up Molly (my friend Janey's U of T coed daughter) and two of her smokin' hot girlfriends and give them a late-night open-air tour of the city. The fact that these girls had never been exposed to big horsepower before made it worth every minute of it. It took all of about 6 seconds for them to get it, and I soon had a car load full of young converts taken in by the siren song of that honkin' V8.

So yeah, after cruising around Austin and seeing the sights we stopped at El Arroyo for a little late-night libation. After all, Margaritas at Midnight always has a nice ring to it, and I got to see these three 20-somethings emerge from the Camaro in their band-aid length micro-mini "skirts" (one was even pleated, which was borderline illegal) and their 5-inch "CFMs." And as I walked behind them they shook their hair and with their dangly earrings providing the soundtrack, they sashayed into the bar. And let me just tell ya' the view from behind left me in a speechless daze. Simply spectacular. Dang, sometimes it 's better to be lucky than good. Or something like that.

I mean, how often does a man my age get to enter a bar at midnight with three smokin' hot girls who turn every head in the place? Well, let me rephrase that, because if you've read my columns before... oh, never mind. In case you must know they rendezvoused with some other gal pals and I left after my two drink maximum. But being around that incandescent youth? Ah hell, there's just nothin' like it and I'll never get tired of it, so sue me.

Anyway, back to the Camaro SS. Yeah, it's a different flavor than the Mustang but anytime you can drive a sporting convertible with first-rate dynamic qualities and one that sounds just like a Trans-Am Camaro from the Glory Days, well, sir, it's all good. And if I managed to expose some impressionable young lovelies to the V8 religion and convert them in the process, then I would call it great car, and a hugely successful evening.

And last but certainly not least, after Peter and I talked one day I went out and got in a BMW M3 Coupe. After all, if I was tasting the latest in American V8-power, why not get a sample of some German V8 fare while I'm at it? And no, I'm not comparing these cars feature for feature, or cost, or anything like that. If you want to know which of these cars turns-in better at Willow while you're farting, there are plenty of other publications that will do that for you. That ain't me. But I will tell you after driving the Mustang and the Camaro, the M3 was a revelation.

I mean this is one seriously bad-ass machine. Fire up the 414 HP V8 and while taking in the snorts and growls you know right away that the team behind this car is made up of some hard-core enthusiasts with a wicked glint in their eye. How do I like the M3? Let me count the ways...

1. Even though the M3 is a couple hundred pounds heavier than the Mustang it's seven inches shorter and two inches narrower, and it acts much smaller and tauter than the Ford as soon as you set-off down the road. (The Camaro feels almost gunship-like by comparison.) And I know the Boss 302 was designed to be a M3 killer, but really?

2. The steering wheel in the M3 is the best I have ever encountered in my car life, bar none. It's thick, absolutely perfectly shaped and it's so fitting to the car and its attitude that I wouldn't change a thing. Even if you never have the opportunity drive an M3 go find one, sit in it and grip that wheel. If a smile doesn't creep over your face you're dead.

3. It looks the part. Put a BMW M3 next to a regular 3 Series Coupe and the differences are pronounced. The entire front clip is completely different. As a matter of fact except for the greenhouse glass everything appears to be different. It's hunkered down and purposeful, and there's a no bullshit quality to it that's just resonates loud and clear. And the carbon fiber roof? Simply delicious.

4. I know there are BMW purists out there who long for the days of yesteryear and wax-on eloquently about previous M3 iterations - any of the previous iterations - but not me. This M3's engine is one of the best-sounding V8s in the business. Period. And I gotta tell ya' when you hammer the M3 and bang-off 8,000+RPM shifts, it's like a drug they don't sell. The M3 is wonderfully raucous, it has a wildly politically incorrect attitude - as in a "you can mess with me if you want but if you do, you do so at your peril" kind of attitude - and if I weren't so sure it was conceived in Germany I'd begin to wonder about those Bavarian boys (and girls), because it's clear that even though mainstream BMW has lost its way in a lot of ways, the team behind the M3 gets it. OMG do they get it.

The BMW M3 is a true factory hot rod of the first degree and it's now officially one of my all-time favorite cars because the moment you get in it, fire it up, and go down the road, it's as "right" as a high-performance machine could ever be. Absolutely brilliant in fact. And I don't throw that term around loosely. Ever.

And so, if we've really arrived at the Doomsday Scenario, the end game that prefaces the Dawn of the Weenie-Mobile Age, then these three machines are worthy candidates for your consideration. Of the three, I'll take the M3 Coupe. Why? Because if someone says to me, "Bud, this is it. People like you aren't really going to fit-in going forward. And high-performance will be eliminated once and for all unless it's arrived at properly. So to minimize your impact on our otherwise Green Nirvana, you only get to buy one more car. And that's it. And when you're gone, we'll crush it so nobody else can perpetuate your political incorrectness..." 

I'll take mine in Black, please.

And for the record and in case you're wondering, I'll never tire of that V8 soundtrack. Or the jingle-jangle soundtrack of dangly earrings for that matter, either.

Adios until the next time.

Three Cars worth driving at the Dawn of the Weenie-Mobile Age.

By Dr. Bud E. Bryan

Austin. Greetings to all of you WebVillians out there and yup, just when you thought it was safe to write the Ol' Budster off, I'm baaack. Back to confound you. Back to piss you off. Back to my old tricks. Back just because. You get the picture. Mainly I'm back because I've been so lost in my particular brand of self-induced RH (Relationship Hell) that even I needed a damn break from it all. Plus, I got so sick of reading all about Peter & WordGirl driving all of those hot cars up there that I had to get caught up by driving some my own self.

First on the list? A Ford Mustang GT 5.0. Yeah, I get that the Boss is back and Ford is cranking out new versions almost by the week, that's what you do when you have an aging car in need of a makeover and the replacement is two more years away at least. I get it. But I didn't want the Boss. I wanted a representative GT just to get a feel for the current state of the Mustang art. So I got myself a drive in a lightly-equipped Mustang GT Premium Coupe, with 6-speed gearbox, in Black.

It's hard to describe just how pleasing this package is. I'm not all that enamored with the current Mustang interior - it's not that bad but it's not really great either, it just feels dated - but that's really not the point of the car at all. Clearly honed to the nth degree by the Mustang development team, the 5.0 just feels right. Enthusiasts get that statement, so I'm not going to beat it to death for the Consumer Reports crowd. People with a proper amount of driving and car ownership experience all have come across machines over the years that just feel "right." Take the Honda S2000, for instance. Superbly balanced and fun to drive, in its early iterations it was the quintessential take on a contemporary sports car. And for my money it's one of those machines that just felt "right" from the get-go. So does the Mustang GT 5.0.

The Mustang is balanced, remarkably light on its feet, the steering, gearbox and pedal controls feel all of a piece and that they were massaged by people who not only like to drive, but who know what "right" should feel like. And that 412 HP 5.0-liter V8 sounds all kinds of right too and it feels really good. There are faster cars, sure. And there are more zoot-suited cars loaded with all of the Ricky Racer flaps, blades, wings, slats and vents that one could want too. But the reality is that a Mustang GT Coupe on a hot summer night with no particular place to go but wanting to get there quickly is one of the great high-performance bargains that you can drive every day. And it's damn near perfect for the enthusiast who has $35,000 or thereabouts to spend.

What about the V6 version with 300+ horsepower? I applaud the effort and 30 mpg on the highway is nice and everything, but if I'm going to ride out this Doomsday Scenario at the Dawn of the Weenie-Mobile Age, then I'm going to ride it out in a V8. You can lecture me all you want about my green responsibility as a citizen but in the immortal words of Cee-Lo Green, fuck you, I'm gonna drive a V8.

Next? I couldn't stand reading about the Camaro SS convertible (with 6-speed) that Peter had, so I just had to get my hands on one for my own self. Straight-off the Camaro feels heavier and more cumbersome than the more nimble Mustang, because well, it is heavier and more cumbersome than Ford's pony car, to the tune of 500 lbs. more. But I gotta tell you once you put your foot in that beautiful 426 HP V8 all that stuff just doesn't matter. Yeah, the Camaro is a bit "porky" as Peter said, but the reality is that Chevy's Camaro development team is clearly made up of enthusiasts of the first degree because it all works, and exceedingly well too.

I had a rip-roarin' time rumbling through downtown Austin making the thing growl for the teeming throngs, and I had an even better time when I picked up Molly (my friend Janey's U of T coed daughter) and two of her smokin' hot girlfriends and give them a late-night open-air tour of the city. The fact that these girls had never been exposed to big horsepower before made it worth every minute. It took all of about 6 seconds for them to get it, and I soon had a car load full of young converts taken in by the siren song of that honkin' V8.

So yeah, after cruising around Austin and seeing the sights we stopped at El Arroyo for a little late-night libation. After all, Margaritas at Midnight always has a nice ring to it, and I got to see these three 20-somethings emerge from the Camaro in their band-aid length micro-mini "skirts" (one was even pleated, which was borderline illegal) and their 5-inch "CFMs." And as I walked behind them they shook their hair and with their dangly earrings providing the soundtrack, they sashayed into the bar. And let me just tell ya' the view from behind left me in a speechless daze. Simply spectacular. Dang, sometimes it's better to be lucky than good. Or something like that.

I mean, how often does a man my age get to enter a bar at midnight with three smokin' hot girls who turn every head in the place? Well, let me rephrase that, because if you've read my columns before... oh, never mind. In case you must know they rendezvoused with some other gal pals and I left after my two drink maximum. But being around that incandescent youth? Ah hell, there's just nothin' like it and I'll never get tired of it, so sue me.

Anyway, back to the Camaro SS. Yeah, it's a different flavor than the Mustang but anytime you can drive a sporting convertible with first-rate dynamic qualities and one that sounds just like a Trans-Am Camaro from the Glory Days, well, sir, it's all good. And if I managed to expose some impressionable young lovelies to the V8 religion and convert them in the process, then I would call it great car, and a hugely successful evening.

And last but certainly not least, after Peter and I talked one day I went out and got in a BMW M3 Coupe. After all, if I was tasting the latest in American V8-power, why not get a sample of some German V8 fare while I'm at it? And no, I'm not comparing these cars feature for feature, or cost, or anything like that. If you want to know which of these cars turns-in better at Willow while you're farting, there are plenty of other publications that will do that for you. That ain't me. But I will tell you after driving the Mustang and the Camaro, the M3 was a revelation.

I mean this is one seriously bad-ass machine. Fire it up and while taking in the snorts and growls you know right away that the team behind this car is made up of some hard-core enthusiasts with a wicked glint in their eye. How do I like the M3? Let me count the ways...

1. Even though the M3 is a couple hundred pounds heavier than the Mustang it's seven inches shorter and two inches narrower, and it acts much smaller and tauter than the Ford as soon as you set-off down the road. (The Camaro feels almost gunship-like by comparison.) And I know the Boss 302 was designed to be an M3 killer, but really?

2. The steering wheel in the M3 is the best I have ever encountered in my car life, bar none. It's thick, absolutely perfectly shaped and it's so fitting to the car and its attitude that I wouldn't change a thing. Even if you never have the opportunity drive an M3 go find one, sit in it and grip that wheel. If a smile doesn't creep over your face you're dead.

3. It looks the part. Put a BMW M3 next to a regular 3 Series Coupe and the differences are pronounced. As a matter of fact except for the greenhouse glass everything appears to be different. It's hunkered down and purposeful, and there's a no bullshit quality to it that's just resonates loud and clear. And the carbon fiber roof? Simply delicious.

4. I know there are BMW purists out there who long for the days of yesteryear and wax-on eloquently about previous M3 iterations - any of the previous iterations - but not me. This M3's engine is one of the best-sounding V8s in the business. Period. And I gotta tell ya' when you hammer the M3 and bang-off 8,000+RPM shifts, it's like a drug they don't sell. The M3 is wonderfully raucous, it has a wildly politically incorrect attitude - as in a "you can mess with me if you want but if you do, you do so at your peril" kind of attitude - and if I weren't so sure it was conceived in Germany I'd begin to wonder about those Bavarian boys (and girls), because it's clear that even though mainstream BMW has lost its way in a lot of ways, the team behind the M3 gets it. OMG do they get it. The BMW M3 is now one of my all-time favorite cars because the moment you get in it, fire it up, and go down the road, it's as "right" as a high-performance machine could ever be. Absolutely brilliant in fact. And I don't throw that term around loosely. Ever.

And so, if we've really arrived at the Doomsday Scenario, the end game that prefaces the Dawn of the Weenie-Mobile Age, then these three machines are worthy candidates for your consideration. Of the three, I'll take the M3 Coupe. Why? Because if someone says to me, "Bud, this is it. People like you aren't really going to fit-in going forward. And high-performance will be eliminated once and for all unless it's arrived at properly. So to minimize your impact on our otherwise Green Nirvana, you only get to buy one more car. And that's it. And when you're gone, we'll crush it so nobody else can perpetuate your political incorrectness..."  I'll take mine in Black, please.

And for the record and in case you're wondering, I'll never get tired of that V8 soundtrack. Or the jingle-jangle soundtrack of dangly earrings for that matter, either.

It never gets old.

Adios until the next time.

At home in The Land of the Bluebonnet Blur.

By Dr. Bud E. Bryan

Austin. Yup, it’s me, back for no good reason other than to piss y’all off and, oh yeah, to weigh-in on this speed limit “controversy” going on right now down here. Actually there is no controversy, it’s everyone else who’s doing all of the hand-wringing over it. Us? We just shrug our shoulders and say 85 mph instead of 80? That means we can go 95 mph all day long, and not get a ticket. Hell, you’d be lucky if you saw a cop for five hours on some stretches of the roads out there in west Texas. I’ll be glad when this news item becomes yesterday’s or make that last minute’s hot topic, so we can get on with our lives.

Speaking of getting on with our lives, I have so much to say about what I’ve been up to of late that it would take a book to fit it all in. I know, ha-ha. And yes, “the book” is still percolating and my deadline to finish it is by June 1, the 12th Anniversary of Autoextremist.com. We shall see, but I’m alive and well and Nadine, Janey, Carrie Anne, Jolene and even my fine young “pupil” Jesse are all present and accounted for in some way, shape, or fashion. It’s all kinda sorta perfect right now. Of course it could all blow up real good at any moment, too, but hey, if you can’t live on the edge a little, why bother?

I can also report that I’ve been sticking to my two drink maximum since the heart attack, even though Nadine’s concept of this is two GIANT drinks. Ah well, her heart is in the right place anyway and I’m the very picture of health, at least for me.

What else? We are in the midst of Texas bluebonnet season (it usually happens in the first two weeks of April) and I must say it’s a great time to be down here in Austin and the Hill Country. You really owe it to yourself to organize a trip down here and take it all in because when it’s good, it’s a spectacular thing to see. No, ol’ Bud hasn’t gone soft on y’all, it’s just something worth seeing once in your life.

But then again, that’s not really what I’m writing about today.

The bluebonnets are great and all – when you’re goin’ slow enough to see ‘em – but the other day I wasn’t going slow enough to see anything except the distant pinpoint on the horizon on up ahead, because I had my foot buried in the firewall of a Kona Blue Metallic Shelby GT500 Mustang Coupe – a magnificent beast of a car ­– and if I was goin’ to hell in a handbasket, at least I was gonna get there in a big hurry. And no, I wasn’t in west Texas, but I was on one of my favorite roads, which shall remain nameless because I can go as fast as I dare and no one knows, and I’d like to keep it that way.

Conditions were perfect. I was running late in the afternoon with the sun low at my back in true fighter attack mode, so that I could see way out in front and anticipate any enemy – whoever it may be – cops, critters, or anything else that could possibly ruin my day. I glanced at the speedometer and it was pinned right at 150, the supercharged wail of that 550HP V8 signaling to one and all that if this was indeed the end of the gasoline-powered era as we know it, then the last sound you’re going to hear will be heroic and unforgettable.

And the bluebonnets? They were just an electric blue blur at the side of the road.

When Peter wrote about this car last fall I couldn’t wait to get my hands on one. And even though it took longer than I expected, I gotta tell ya if this was the last car I could call my own then I would be a very happy man. And yes, I get the fact that the new Boss Mustangs are great and “balanced” and blah-blah-blah, but the last time I checked I wasn’t going to be lapping Laguna Seca anytime soon. Instead I was going to go out and man-handle that perfectly shaped metallic shifter ball, attack a few long sweepers and then jam my foot to the floor and hold it there for as long as I possibly can. And for that I’d take this GT500 all day over the Boss for the sound alone. Guttural and raucously irreverent, it’s the perfect machine for disrupting a Northern California “Alternative Transportation Day” parade, scattering the clown cars and fart-powered scooters like the death float in “Animal House” with a tire smokin’ exclamation point thrown in for good measure.

The Shelby GT500 is the antidote for the hand-wringers and the obnoxiously self-righteous who not only want to tell us what to drive, but tell us how and when we’re going to drive it and how much we’re going to pay for it too.

Some day in the future, when you’re strapped in to your computer controlled transportation modules and you’re all “locked-in” to the urban guidance system so that you can just ride along to your destination totally removed from the act of driving, I’m going to be far, far off the grid.

And when I bring my Shelby GT500 out late at night I’ll relish haunting all of you with that unholy wail from one of the all-time great V8s.

Adios until the next time.

Snarling V8s and ornery girlfriends, or was that ornery V8s and snarling girlfriends? Oh, hell, I’ve lost track. 2010? It’s in the frickin’ book, Part II.

By Dr. Bud E. Bryan

Austin. So there I was trapped like a rat in the hospital, undergoing tests and generally getting crankier by the moment, and with zero options to change the channel too. Yes, sir, I was stuck in Hell. And to make matters worse, even though I was eternally grateful that Nadine was there for me and basically hadn't left my side, I was now faced with the fact of asking her to give me my phone so I could call some people - okay, girlfriends - and tell them what was going on. It was eight in the frickin' morning on Friday, and I had been out of touch and basically down for the count since early in the morning on Wednesday.

"Nadine?"

"What, Baby?"

"Can I have my phone now?"

"What for?"

"Come on, baby, you know what for. I have to call some people."

"People? Really? You can do better than that, Bud. Besides, Tom was already here."

The sarcasm oozed off of every word. Tom had come by last night because Nadine had told him, which was good, but she clearly was going to make this as difficult as possible for me.

Just then a nurse came in and did her thing, gave me some meds, made sure everything was good, then left fifteen minutes later. With that, I just gave Nadine a pitiful look referencing the previous conversation and she responded.

"Goddamn it, Bud, if you weren't sick I'd kick your damn ass. Matter of fact, in your weakened state maybe it would be the best time to kick your ass. But no, I'm gonna take the high road here. After all, you were there for me when I desperately needed you and I will help you with this little assignment - damn reluctantly, I might add - just this once. Now, who would you like me to call?"

"Nadine, come on!"

"Uh-uh, Bud. I'm running the show here and we're going to do this my way. Now, who would you like me to call?" She held up my Blackberry and shook it at me.

"Well, at least let me find the number so you can make the calls in the sequence I want them made."

She handed me my phone, I found Carrie Anne's number and gave it back to her.

"Really, Bud?"

I just looked at her sternly and she punched the number, then she walked over to the far corner of the room where there was a slightly better cell connection. I watched her intently, knowing full well that she was capable of saying just about anything, and sat up a little in the bed listening to every word.

"Uh, hi. Carrie Anne? Yes, this is Nadine - I'm sure you've heard all about me - and I'm calling on Bud's behalf."

I could tell there was a pause on Carrie Anne's part and then Nadine continued.

"Bud's had a heart attack."

Despite all the usual hospital cacophony, I could hear Carrie Anne yell out something from here, maybe a "No!" And then the strangest thing happened, as Nadine, reacting to Carrie Anne's obviously wrenching emotional reaction, started tearing-up herself and spoke haltingly, trying not to cry.

"Yes, he's fine, he's going to be fine."

And then she told her where I was and wrapped up the conversation, and sat down in the chair in the corner, trying to compose herself. I didn't say a word, and then a moment later she looked at me with an expression I wasn't familiar with. She got up and walked right over to me, grabbed my right hand and started to speak through her tears.

"Bud, you know I've often wandered about Carrie Anne. All the times you've written about her I never told you how sad it made me, because I knew she had captivated you and it made me crazy. And now, she's going to be here in an hour, and I really don't know if I'm ready for this. Jolene I could handle, I mean we're not that far apart in age, and besides she never got you like I did. And don't get me started about Janey, because if you think I'm going to call that bitch you're nuts. But Carrie Anne? The 'magnificent chiseled form' as you often referred to her? She's kryptonite to women my age, Bud. You know that. She's everything we fear - that whole younger-hotter-better shit - wrapped up in a little black dress and 5-inch come fuck me pumps. It isn't fair, and it just ain't right."

And with that the tears pretty much let loose, and then she bent over and buried her face in my neck and shoulder.

Shit. Not Good. So then I proceeded to fill in the dots for Nadine, that Carrie Anne was six months pregnant - not mine - but that I so wished it had been mine. I just had to tell her, there was no point in holding anything back at this point. And I also told her that we still text or talk once a day, but she's down the road with her man and that was pretty much it. And after she had raised herself up and dabbed her eyes with a tissue, she only had one question for me.

"Do you still love her?"

"Yes. I will always love her."

With that Nadine turned on her heel, grabbed her purse, and left the room.

A new level of Not Good is all I can say. It's weird but I must have dozed off for a while because I came to and the first thing I hear is Nadine talking  - to Carrie Anne - and here come the two of them, Nadine looking all fixed up and put back together, and Carrie Anne, looking, oh hell, absofuckinglutely radiant with a black form-fitting mini dress, high heels, and her hair looking long, lustrous and heroic.

"Now Bud, I'm going to leave you two alone so you can catch up," Nadine said, and she made a point to come over and kiss me on the cheek before disappearing out the door and down the hallway. Carrie Anne burst into tears and raced over to me and just about crawled up on the bed with me. She was overwhelmed, just saying "Oh, Bud, Oh Baby" over and over again as she kissed and hugged me and stroked my hair. Yeah, I cried too, I couldn't help it. I was so happy to see her yet I felt so powerless to do much of anything other than to hold her as best I could and whisper an "I love you" in her ear as she did the same.

When she finally regained her composure she asked me what had happened and as I reconstructed it for her, she remained teary the whole time but smiling just enough to make me feel better. So much better. We were only interrupted briefly by my regular nurse, and then that was it. We caught-up, she started flashing her megawatt smile for me again and then she just had to bring up Nadine.

"So that's Nadine, huh?" She said with an evil little grin on her face.

"Yup, that's Nadine alright."

"Well, she's quite striking, a very pretty woman. And I'm really thankful that she called me."

"Well, I insisted, believe me, she wouldn't have done it on her own."

"Well, I appreciate it just the same, however it happened."

We visited some more and then she had to go to a doctor's appointment but I promised I'd call her and text her and keep her posted, and she promised to be back again later in the day. And then she was off, that "magnificent chiseled form" looking pretty damn magnificent, even six months pregnant.

Five minutes later Nadine strolled in, fixed her gaze on me, walked right by before planting herself in the chair. There was a brief, albeit slightly painful pause and then she launched in.

"Well now, you weren't exaggerating one bit, I'll give you that, Bud."

She had kind of a pained expression on her face. I had nothin'. I was already exhausted from the emotional roller-coaster ride from Nadine, which was then amplified x 100 by Carrie Anne, so I didn't bother mustering anything.

"That girl is absolutely stunning and shit, she's so polished and so personable and so engaging. We had a nice little visit on her way in and on her way out. I gotta hand it to you, Bud, she is one magnificent package. And damn, she's terminally nice too. The whole thing makes me want to puke."

Oh boy. Nice visit? My head hurt. And it was clear that Nadine was very impressed with Carrie Anne, and who wouldn't be? But it bugged the living shit out of her too.

"And do you know what, Bud? Now you're the talk of the hospital."

"How so?

"Well, these nurses were quite used to the sight of me in your room and hanging around but when I escorted Carrie Anne down the hall I could hear the jaws dropping as I went by. And of course after Carrie Anne left I could see the gals at the nurse station looking at me wondering 'WTF?' so I had to stop and give them a brief rundown."

Just shoot me.

"What did you say?" As if I needed to know.

"I just told them that they had quite the celebrity on their hands - at least in your own mind - and that we had a long-term relationship a while back but that you got sidetracked by another woman and lost your mind and married her but that y'all are now estranged. And that you have nothin' but perpetual major league women trouble - like about four too many - and that once you get out of here I'm going to step in and take care of you. And that Carrie Anne was the classic Younger Woman that you had but couldn't have - if you know what I mean - and that you're just pathetic and over the moon for her like a hopeless lovesick school boy and that this too shall pass except now there was this other woman around your ex's age who was trying to horn in on you but that was going to happen over my dead body and that they should expect some other female visitors too, but I was in charge of who gets access to you and I'd run anyone off whom I didn't approve of. That about covers it, don't you think?"

"Oh shit, Nadine, really?"

"Hey Bud, these gals have to know, I mean, they really live for this kind of shit. Needless to say, they were entranced with my little State of the Union speech."

Just then I hear some civilian female shoes coming down the hall - the nurses' shoes don't make any noise - and goddamn if it wasn't Tom's wife Annie (with Tom too) and none other than Jolene standing in the doorway. Before I could say anything Nadine jumped up and marched right over to the two women, introducing herself to Annie and extending her hand to Jolene - which Jolene shook briefly - and she gave Tom a hug, I'm certain just to piss Annie off for good measure.

Annie and Tom came over to me and she took my hand, which was odd, considering she loathes every inch of my being. And Tom reached down and grabbed my shoulder with one hand and took my other hand in his.

"I'm glad you're feeling better,"  Annie said only semi-convincingly. I could tell Tom was freaked out about seeing me in the hospital - believe me it freaked me out too - and he just mumbled "You okay, man?" before they left a minute later and went down the hall with Nadine.

And then, it was just me and Jolene together again after many months and with our lives irreparably changed. She looked beautiful but very sad, and she reached over and gave me a lingering kiss on the lips, her hair falling over me in a wave. Then she pulled up a chair and held my hand in hers the entire time she was there. We basically exchanged small talk about a lot of things, and then she laid it out for me, tears flowing.

"Bud, I just want you to know that I know I hurt you deeply - I know you had it coming, but now, in hindsight, what I did to you and more the way I did it was really wrong - so if there's any way you can find it in your heart to forgive me, maybe we can give it another chance."

I pretended I was getting really tired and I mustered a wan smile for her, but I wasn't going to offer much else. There was too much to cover and I wasn't firing on all cylinders by any stretch, certainly not enough to get into that. We visited some more but I could tell the fact that Nadine being the Queen Bee in this whole deal was just devastating to her and that she could barely stand it, but there wasn't much to say about it because that ship had sailed. The rest will be in the frickin' book.

Oh, there were a few more episodes to deal with, but fortunately Nadine left the hospital to take care of some things and I was able to get Janey in and out with no one knowing for the better, except for one nurse who gave me an interesting look afterward. Sort of between a "who is this asshole?" kind of a look, with a touch of mischievous curiosity at the end. It was interesting is all I have to say.

Right before I was discharged I had a long talk with my doctor (when Nadine had gone for some coffee) - who happened to be a reader of my column of all things and a very cool young guy - and he just shook his head and smiled regaling me with all of the nurses' comments that he was hearing. It had apparently gone viral in the hospital and the entire other wing was talking about it as well, like it was the latest soap opera news. I'm really glad we could keep everybody entertained for a couple of days at least.

But then my doctor got serious with me and I knew it was coming:

"Now Bud, I'm the last guy who wants to do the whole 'you need to change your life' speech thing for you, especially since I - and a few select buddies - get so much enjoyment out of reading your exploits. And I gotta tell you, man, here I thought these women were all figments of your imagination and all I have to say now is holy shit! They're all incredible in their own way, but wow, Carrie Anne? She's just unbelievable. I don't know how you keep your head from just exploding. And that's my point Bud, you're not 26. You're not 36 either..."

I just looked at him and listened, which was the point, I guess.

"You know what I mean, Bud. I am absolutely convinced that this episode was stress induced. You're in emotional turmoil all the time and it's more than any one person can take. You've been given a stern warning, Bud. And that's a good thing too. You don't need a lecture, at least I don't want to give you one, like I said, but it's my job and I take what I do very seriously. You have to start meaningfully re-directing your life so that you're able to enjoy it. I know you've had a great time and I'm damn jealous of it too, but please listen to me. You know some great women and far be it from me to tell you what to do in that department, but it would be helpful if you settle on one. That's as far as I'm going with any of that."

Just then Nadine strolled back in and walked right up next to us. I was sitting in one chair and the doctor was in the other, and she basically stood off to the side and just listened.

"You absolutely need to cut back on your drinking. If you go to El Arroyo, I should say when you go to El Arroyo, I want you to limit yourself to two Margaritas. Not two plus one for the road. Not three plus another couple because you're feeling good, but two. That, my friend, will be a big help to you and make me very happy. And you must stick to it too. And two doesn't mean two at lunch and two at dinner either, because I know you end up sitting there all afternoon sometimes."

"I will make sure he adheres to that, Doctor," said Nadine adding in her two cents.

Surprisingly, the doctor turned to Nadine and said, "Will you? Really? I mean will you do that for him Nadine, because you know what that means, don't you?"

She just looked at him like a school girl that had just been called down to the principal's office.

"It means that you can have only two drinks too. If you're going to be taking care of Bud and you're going to be with him, you have to be right there with him, every step of the way. Do I make myself clear?"

We both nodded silently.

"Good! Now, I think we've arranged with my office when I want to see you again, and I want you to be cool, lay low, relax, watch a lot of football and enjoy life its own self, as you always say."

And with that, we shook hands, hugged - Nadine gave him a big hug too - and not ten minutes later I was out in the fresh air and a free man once again.

It was 11:45 in the morning, and I was hungry.

"Know what I'm thinking?"

"El Arroyo?"

"Yup."

"Well Bud, I'm going to have to say it: Not today," Nadine said emphatically.

"Damn. Are you serious?"

"Deadly serious, Baby."

 We were home not fifteen minutes later.

She wanted me to come stay with her so she could take care of me, but I just wanted to sleep in my own bed again, so ever since I've been home it has been a whirlwind of Nadine, Carrie Anne, and Janey flitting in and out, fluffing my pillows and doting on me. I can say it hasn't been all bad, either. As a matter of fact it has been pretty damn nice. Jolene has been emailing me but I got nothin' to say, and other than that it has been low key all the way.

Carrie Anne stopped over earlier New Year's Eve day and brought me some soup for lunch, Nadine cooked dinner for me New Year's Eve and then went to visit her parents New Year's Day, and Janey came down to see me New Year's Day and watched some football with me before heading home on Sunday.

I'm alive, I'm happy, and I'm frickin' bored to death. Other than that, it's all good. Happy New Year to all of you WebVillians out there and I'll see y'all on down the road.

Adios until the next time.

Snarling V8s and ornery girlfriends, or was that ornery V8s and snarling girlfriends? Oh, hell, I’ve lost track. 2010? It’s in the frickin’ book.

By Dr. Bud E. Bryan

Austin. Last Wednesday dawned like every other day for the Ol’ Budster. I checked my email only to find my daily reminder from Renzo, as in “How’s that damn book coming, Bud?” Followed by some emails he forwards from cranky AE readers that run the gamut from 1. I’m a lame-ass for not writing and that they’d never read me again, usually followed by some sort of expletive, to 2. Something about “so I get the fact that you can’t/won’t write about your life cuz it’s supposed to be in that alleged ‘book’ you keep whining about, but why don’t you get off your lame ass and write about cars again?” Followed by an expletive. Geez. I hate the sound of angry readers in the morning.

Anyhooters, I moseyed over to the Whole Foods mother ship, got my usual – black coffee and an oatmeal raisin cookie, if you must know - and sat down to read some actual newspapers. Yeah, I know I’m so terminally un-hip because I actually like the feel of newsprint in my hands instead of some sort of new-fangled electronic device, so sue me, but I will adopt the “Popeye” defense every time, as in, “I am what I am.” Now admittedly, it doesn’t work so well with ornery girlfriends - who are pretty damn fed-up with my tired old “Popeye” self – but, oh well, I must press on. And yes, more on them later. Much more.

Just as I was comfortably settling in, minding my own business, I feel a pair of hands grab my shoulders from behind, and then I’m instantly enveloped in a waterfall of luscious, beautifully smelling long hair, followed by a moist kiss on my left cheek.

“Hey Bud,” she half-whispered sweetly.

Yes, it was my pupil, my understudy, my “project,” my Jessie. The University of Texas coed of heroic form, prodigious talent and undeniably mesmerizing beauty.

She stood right next to me in her black yoga pants – her long legs set just slightly apart with one foot slightly behind the other, posing for me for full effect – with matching sleeveless workout top, holding a water bottle. Ah, incandescent youth in all of its spectacular glory.

“I didn’t expect to see you today,” I said, smiling. Okay, grinning like a fool, I mean, how could I not? How often do you get to be this close to such natural hotness – at eight o’clock in the frickin’ morning?

“I know, I know. I just wanted to say hi. I’m on my way to meet my girls for a kick-ass yoga class and I just wanted to see you and brighten your day,” she said, knowing full well that is exactly what she did.

I mean, who could argue with that? I find it to be a refreshing way to approach the world, especially when you have the ability to cause grocery cart wrecks in Whole Foods as guys lose track of what they’re doing and where they’re going, just to steal a glimpse at you.

We chatted for a bit, she gave me another little kiss on the cheek – god, she smelled good – and she was off. And as I tried to concentrate on page three of The Wall Street Journal’s marketing section, I looked over the top of my paper to watch as that taut and truly magnificent ass disappeared from view.

Like I said, what more could a man possibly want at eight o’clock in the morning? Well, let me skip answering that, it’s probably best to leave that right there for any number of reasons, but suffice to say, I was happy to be alive.

Little did I know how happy.

The rest of the day was uneventful, I did some writing on the book – yes, it’s really true – and I caught up on some other reading, including the latest editions of the car mags which, by the way, are growing more tedious by the month, and before I knew it I was at El Arroyo meeting by buddy Tom for a little late afternoon snack and a margarita, or three.

We awaited the usual call from “The Warden” aka Annie, his wife, about two hours in, demanding that he get his ass home and sure enough, there she was, two hours in on the dot, telling Tom to get his ass home.

“Does she half a digital anti-me timer in her phone or something?” I asked, half jokingly.

And Tom, not missing a beat shot back, “It’s a new app. It’s called ‘the BudTimer’.”

We lingered another half-hour and had a few more laughs, then that was it and I was home by 7:45. Not bad, I guess. I allowed me to catch a bit of “Old School” on the dish – no, it never gets old, come to think of it – and I wrote again for a bit and there I was, in bed by 10:30.

The next thing I knew I woke-up, feeling shitty. Or did the fact that I was feeling shitty wake me up? I was sweating and uncomfortable, I can’t really describe it, but I knew something was definitely not right. I got up, drank some water, looked at the clock (it was 2:18 a.m.) and felt dizzy moments later. No, this wasn’t right. I wasn’t hung over or anything near that. The wasn’t a familiar feeling at all.

I stayed on the bed for another 15 minutes, and I actually started to feel worse, so my plan was to get up, get dressed, and see if still felt bad, which I did. Worse, even.

So, I picked up the phone and punched a number of the only person I could think of at that very moment who I trusted would know what to do, and I heard a very groggy-sleepy voice on the other end of the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” It was about then that I realized I could barely talk.

“Bud? Is that you? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, I’m not feeling well. At all.”

“What’s the matter? What are you feeling like?”

“I’m dizzy, and my chest feels tight.”

“Oh shit, Bud, don’t move. I’ll be right over.”

“Okay.” I wasn’t convincing. It wasn’t good, I knew that much.

“Hell with that, Bud. I want you to call 911, right now. Hang-up the phone and call 911, or do you want me to call for you?”

The next thing I knew I was looking at the ceiling, being wheeled down the hall.

I heard Nadine’s voice.

“I’m right here, Bud, it’s going to be okay. They’re going to take care of you.”

I never did call 911, apparently, but Nadine did, thank goodness. She had raced over to the house and got there, but the EMS people were already there. They had pounded on the front door and no one answered, and Nadine ran up to the front porch and just opened the front door. I actually hadn’t locked it, even though I had been trying to get in the habit of doing it of late.

They found me passed out in the hallway, and they had to drag my ass out of there. That’s all I know about that.

The next thing I knew I came-to in a hospital bed, all wired-up with nowhere to run or hide.

To say I felt like shit was an understatement.

“Hey, baby.” That was Nadine’s voice again, and she was starting to come into focus. Right about then she looked like an angel. She bent over and kissed me and squeezed my hand, and I could see tears streaming down her face. She could tell I wanted to know what was going on, but I was just kind of mumbling.

“Bud, you’ve had a heart attack, but we’re waiting for the doctor to come up to get the full word. It’s good we got you here when we did.”

All I could muster was a long, drawn-out “Shit.”

 I looked over and saw that Nadine had the presence of mind to grab my cell phone and my wallet, so that was good. I motioned for her to give it to me and she said,

“No, Bud. Really? Come on…”

She squeezed my hand harder and I squeezed back. I had to contact some people.

“Nadine, I have to call…”

“You have to call whom, Bud? I will be glad to help you with that but not now.”

Just then the Doctor came in. A strapping young guy with an easy smile. He introduced himself and laid out what happened, that I had had a mild heart attack, that there was some very minor build-up, but not something that needed be to dealt with anytime soon, and that I was going to be fine, but that they would be keeping me for at least a couple of days so they could do a full battery of tests.

I felt somewhat relieved, and a little better, but mild or no, a heart attack didn’t sound all that good to me. As a matter of fact, it sounded like a giant bowl of Not Good. We visited some more, and after he gave fairly lengthy instructions to the nurse in attendance, he was off to deal with other things.

And then there we were, just the two of us - Nadine and me - alone in some bad hospital room. Nadine leaned over and kissed me and snuggled with me and held me as tight as she could get, given the circumstances, then all of a sudden I felt very, very tired.

Now you’re probably wondering right about now, Nadine? Huh? Yeah, well it gets better, much better, or much worse depending on which part of the story you walk in on. But you’re going to have to read the frickin' book to find out the rest of the whole story.

In the meantime, this is only Part I of my hospital story, and since I’ve been cautioned about the time I spend at the computer now that I’m back home, I will file the rest of it in the next day or so.

It’s good to be back, even though I feel like I’m runnin’ on only about half my cylinders, and I’m damn glad to be alive.

Adios until then.