Certainly Not I
Wednesday. Well, I continue to feel like shit except it's now after noon and the head is better. I've made a run to a local PC store and bought a wireless keyboard and mouse which, after futzing about, seem to work. I will naturally try using them in bed this evening because that's what one does with wireless devices, but I hope it isn't all that comfortable as being able to post from bed would allow me to live my life in pajamas. Isn't that how Hefner conducted his empire? In pajamas? In a house filled with young women who went about in bunny costumes? What kind of life is that? Unless, of course, we could do something about the bunny costumes. Wine glasses can be managed well enough in bed, come to think of it, yet I keep my wine drinking to times before I turn in, so maybe this concern about moving data entry to my pillow is ill founded. Here in Portland.
Are we now ready to start now? Have we blown all of the nonsense out of our system?
Well, another sunny day, but cold, cold mixed with stiff gusts of wind that drill right into the bone of coastal Californians, cold to the point the car heater finally starts heating the car only after you've arrived at Starbucks for your morning coffee.
And this is a problem? This is all you've got?
They didn't get a NY Times delivery this morning and there was an unusually long line waiting to order coffee concoctions so I left in search of a paper. I couldn't find a place that sold papers. Yes, I didn't look very hard and I suspect if I'd been willing to park and go into Fred Meyers I could have found one, but not many stores in this area carry newspapers. The one 7-11 I stopped at didn't carry the Times. So I guess I'm roughing it here in more ways than one.
Later. I'm learning typing in bed isn't altogether straightforward, even with plenty of pillows to brace various parts of the body, but we're working on it. I've given up on Air America for the while - it, like sugar, is perhaps better taken in small doses - and the television news programs have proven depressingly inane so we're streaming my local San Francisco station for the next hour over the Internet. I'm not sure this can be described as “getting out of my comfort zone”.
No, I haven't shot a single new picture today so I've gone back and pulled an old photograph of Lady C and used a group picture taken on my last visit here that I wouldn't normally run because I look like an old derelict barely clinging to his mind after a glass or two more vino than might be recommended (to the old and less ready). I do measure a photographer's potential and talent on his or her willingness to display pictures of themselves that are good pictures, but not altogether flattering to the photographer. Self portraits taken by the photographer in particular. My thought has always been an honest examination of your own image is part of the process of becoming a more honest and interesting creator of images. So that's my justification. I can't really complain when someone takes my picture when I take (mostly without permission) so many pictures of them. Who is that guy? Certainly not I.
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