TIME Magazine's '100 Most Influential Celebrities who Paid for Face Space' issue's out.   It so shamelessly panders to the 'People' set that it's almost unreadable.   I'm so happy my subscription's running out.   All TIME is good for is as reading material when you're sitting on the throne.    It's got as much substance as a churro.

                                                                 ***

It's as gray and dreary a morning as you could possibly imagine.   Well, at least it's not raining.   I'm walking down my street, when, to my surprise, a very familar sight begins coming my way.   A beige Mercury Grand Marquis, with a taxi light housing on the roof reading 'Aces High'.   It sees me, and stops in front of me.

The driver's window comes down, and Brenda says, "get in."
"Huh?"
"Don't ask questions.   Get in.   Back seat."
I do as she says.   After I step in, I notice Dawn Rice sitting on the passenger's side on the front bench seat.   "Dawn?"
"Hi," she says, softly.   Sadly.
Brenda accelerates, and soon points the cab in the direction of Trenton.
"You wanna tell him what's going on?"  Brenda asks.
Dawn turns around, and stares a bit, then faces the oncoming traffic again.
"Dawn left your house last night, and went someplace else.   The Happy Clam."
"The what?"
"The Happy Clam.   You remember the Happy Clam, right?"   Of course.   The Happy Clam Motel, over on Route 130, south of Hightstown.   You go to the front desk, and a rather large cockroach comes out, and takes your information and your money.   Seriously, though, that's a drug trafficking location, what the hell would Dawn... "You know the place, George."
"Yeah, what the hell would-"
"Well, listen," Brenda says.   We're on Hamilton Avenue now, in the middle of Sunday morning quiet.   In Hamilton Township, the street signs are royal blue, with white lettering.   The signs turn green when you enter the State Capital.   "Dawn went to meet someone."
I sigh.   "For what?   Meth?"
"No, not meth!"   I hear upset and the residue of weeping in Dawn's voice.   "No, George, I went to meet somebody!"
"Somebody?   Who?"
Silence.   Finally, it sinks in.
"Ah," I say.   "Somebody."
"Yes, George, my needs were finally being met.   And, I got caught."
"By who?"
"Rob's sister, Shari.   She knew what was going on, she followed me there, or somebody tipped her off, I don't know.   When the door opened, and we were leaving, she's standing outside shooting video with a digital camera."
"Oh, boy."
"Yes, oh boy.   I'm more worried for HIM!"
"He stands to lose, apparently," Brenda interjects.   "A lot."
"Yes, he does.   I'm only looking for love in all the wrong places, but HE gets to be thrown down a volcano now."
"In other words," I say, "two married people,  I guess,  fooling around with each other.   Happens every day."
"He's toast," says Dawn, sadly.   "He's a United Church of Christ minister.   Might make the papers."
"Good God Jesus!"   I bark.
"Exactly!"  Brenda replies.
"He's a nice, warm, giving guy, who wouldn't hurt a fly, it's just that his wife's such a bee-atch, she's impossible to be with."
"How long?"   I ask.
"Oh, he's about average."
Brenda hits the brakes hard; she just misses hitting an Italian People's Bakery truck in the rear.   She turns to Dawn, and says, calmly, and not without a smile, "I think he means, how long have you been seeing him."
"Oh."   It's as if Dawn's been snapped from a reverie.   "About a month.   His name's Michael.   He's very nice, George.   I have needs, George.   I'm a human being.   Rob's not there anymore, and he's never gonna be there anymore, he's gone.   His sister always hated me."
"And this was her way of trying to end the marriage?"
"Yep.   Thing is, she ended Michael's.   His marriage.   His livelihood.   There's nothing she can do to me, that's for sure.   She forgets, I know people.   It's Michael she hurt."   That's the truth.   Dawn's very well connected here in Mercer County.   It would take a while to describe how, but trust me on this one.   "I'm crying for Michael."
"So, like, I have to drop someone off at the Happy Clam," Brenda says, "and I see Dawn sitting in front of one of the units.   I ask what's going on, and Michael comes over, and they tell me the story.   I take Michael back to his brother's house in Yardville, we drive around for two hours, and here we are."
There's silence for a bit.   We're driving down South Clinton, through an ordinarily bad neighborhood turned quiet by the mystique of Sunday.   "It all sounds like a George Jones song," I say.
"George Jones," Dawn says.   "Right."   Dawn, the Country music enthusiast, agrees, obviously.   "Except that George Jones songs all have an ending.   Nothing in my life ever ends."