Well, we're all excited. What sort of other things?

Well, I come home at night and have a shot of whiskey, straight, but sipping it, you understand, over time, time that often stretches into minutes. Then I pour a second shot and kick back to feel the world fuzz out around the edges.

And?

And, in this heightened state of awareness, a state I examined in detail when I was younger, I think, well, what to do this evening now that I don't have an entry to write? Do the dishes? Do the laundry? Clean up the pile of paper sitting beside my computer - Oops! How old is that? It was due when? Ouch! - and read photography magazines. Leaf through photography magazines, well, look at the pictures in the photography magazines and read the captions, some of the captions, no need to actually read any of the articles as they often point to deficiencies in my own technique. Basic stuff: Focus, lighting, exposure. All the usual suspects.

And that's it? That's "other things"?

Well, I have done some web work for the office. I've scanned and printed a couple of photographs I might not have gotten around to if I'd been keeping the journal. Over the weekend I ran errands and picked up two rolls of packing tape and packed up a couple of boxes. I stared at the back wall with the speaker columns and stereo components and thought, well, I bet I could find two floor lamps at Scandinavian designs or some other not so expensive furniture store so I could read my record and CD labels in the evenings, which might mean I would play these records and CD's in the evenings and then - and this is the part where it gets hot - I went out and bought them. Do I now play records and CD's in the dark of night? No, but I have these two lamps, you understand, and they look just great sitting up there against the wall, particularly if I turn them down low while I'm drinking whiskey. You remember the whiskey? Two shots? High living?

Well, that's pretty lifeless. I'll be taking more time to study my navel, I think. Most of what I've written above is bullshit, of course, a Reader's Digest reality, writing without writing. Hi, ho. Time cures all things.