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Plump the Pillows Found a copy of the New Yorker and scanned the cover at work today, adding it to the March 2nd entry. Surprised how easily it scanned, dropped into PhotoShop and then transferred to the web. Took no time at all. Now I want to get a scanner at home, of course, clearly a necessary toy. I have a film scanner, but not a flat bed and I'd like to put some book covers up on the 100 books page to keep Horse Badorties company.
I got two phone calls, one from the phone company today saying
they were scheduled to come to my house to
Well, what the hell, I've had so much blood taken out of me over the years a couple units more or less, what's the difference? Wonder what a unit is, though. A pint? A half liter of red put in the refrig in case things get out of hand? This isn't a complaint, this is the way it should be done. They have a shortage of blood these days throughout the system and you don't want to get any of those aids doohickies because someone screwed up the doohickie test and let of couple of pints get through.
Well, now have this copy of the New Yorker magazine sitting here
on the desk. Three bucks to scan the cover, what the hell,
I'm tired, time to sit back and let the mind empty of thought. Turn on the air pump and plump the pillows. |
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install the DSL line Monday
afternoon and another from the surgeon's office scheduling the jaw
operation for April 6th, one month from now. I guess I'm looking forward to
both. Recovering from the jaw operation should give me plenty of time to
work on the web. I'm sure that's your first reaction too: Home in bed with
your jaw wired tight your first thought is to sit down at the computer
and type some lines of deathless prose, sipping frozen Margharitas
through a tube. They want me to come by and give them a
couple of units of blood in case they need them for the operation.
Of course. Thinking ahead. I'll be right there.
maybe I should
read it too. Lots of history with the New Yorker. Many were
the years as a teenager and young twenties something or other that I
spent reading the thing. Much attention paid. Haven't picked
it up in years. There's a month's worth of journal entries in explaining
why I don't read the New Yorker any more and I'll skip writing
those altogether, if you don't mind, the very thought brings back
depressing memories. Odd, I read some very good things there in the 50's
and 60's, but like television, it eventually takes it toll. I have similar
feelings about Saturday Night Live and The Howdy Doody Show.