Painting night is never a good night for yours truly, for reasons I've already gone into on uninterestingly numerous occasions, which is further proof, if I needed any, that going into things fixes nothing. What you see here is what's left after I ruthlessly lopped off every part of the painting that was so unskillfully rendered as to cause me to throw up a little in my mouth, as the kids say today. My apologies to Meredith, our model, for the hatchet job; she performed stellarlike. To add a light sheen of melancholy to my slough of despond, I learned that Gerry Rafferty died today, a year younger than me. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right. A sorry painter stuck in the middle.