'SO FAR, SO BAD, THAT'S HOW IT GOES...'

Another day, another setback, another distant glimmer of hope.

Without rehashing the details, suffice it to say that another severe disappointment has been batted my way, and the persistent volleys have worn the threads of sanity on my tennis racket of resilience. (Warning: Do not attempt meaphors like this except under the supervision of a trained humor professional, such as Dave Barry, or if he is not available, that weaselly-looking guy from "Encino Man.")

So, hollow platitudes notwithstanding, I'm once again hopeless -- well, nearly hopeless. There's still a faint wisp of hope alive, sustaining itself on sheer will, because it has to. And life will be manageable, if not enjoyable, as long as the bruised and battered hope can purloin a couple quick stabs of oxygen and remain vibrant. Alive.

When we appreciate the value of hope, we can begin to turn our attention to other matters.

For example, that weaselly-looking guy is Pauly Shore.