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This morning began with the unmistakable alarm clock known as Whiskey Kitty. No snooze button. No mercy. She launched onto the bed with full enthusiasm, alternating between playful bites, enthusiastic licks, and the unmistakable message: Wake up, human. Life is happening. I tried to sleep in. Whiskey disagreed. Once I surrendered to the day, I turned my attention to another challenge: booking a hotel for the LA Times Festival of Books at USC. This event matters to me. It’s part of the bigger picture, the growing list of art and book promotions I’ve committed to this year. But the universe...

Today’s entry steps away from the daily stories about Whiskey Kitty and into heavier territory. This is one of those days when the curtain pulls back and the stage lights feel very bright. I’m facing three potentially fatal illnesses. That has a way of focusing the mind. When your body starts sending serious messages, you don’t just think about the future. You think about the past. You start asking the quiet questions. What have I done with my life?Who have I helped?Was I a good man? The answers don’t always come wrapped in sunshine. I haven’t always been a good...

The doctors have given me a lineup I didn’t audition for: risk of COPD, prostate cancer still watching from the sidelines, and the possibility of thyroid cancer making an unwanted encore. When I write this blog, I keep the tone positive. But underneath the optimism is something stronger than cheerfulness. It’s resolve. With those health risks on the table, this isn’t a gentle lifestyle adjustment anymore. It’s time to go full force, all engines forward, against the cigarettes. This morning I took my usual walk to the 7-Eleven. The old path, the old ritual, the old battlefield. I bought tea....

Yesterday I saw the pulmonologist, and the news landed with the quiet weight of reality: my breathing problems aren’t just anxiety. They’re likely COPD, damage left behind after years of smoking. That’s a hard sentence to hear. Anxiety can tighten the chest and steal the air, yes. But this was different. This was the body keeping records. The lungs, it turns out, are historians. They remember every cigarette. The doctor explained that anxiety still plays a role in how breathing feels and functions, but the physical damage is real. The next step is a specialist follow-up with my primary care doctor....

This morning began with a familiar routine and a small dose of adventure. Whiskey Kitty crawled into my bed, soft and warm, her way of saying good morning without words. I carried her downstairs where Mom and I gave her post-surgery medicine. She handled it like a little warrior, patient and trusting with a smaller bit of resistence. But the real action came afterward. When I brought her back upstairs and opened the door to feed her, she slipped past me like a furry bar of soap. Down the stairs she flew, across the dining room, and straight behind the...