Thursday, June 05, 2003

June 5, 2003
Well, I had three doctor appointments yesterday. The first one said, "You’ve never smoked, your blood is normal, your liver is normal, your heart is normal. You really are a normal guy aren't you?" And I said, "This is the one time I'm taking that as a compliment."

Got the artwork and photo layouts down to Daniel at 8:30. Got some good input from him. He definitely thinks we need a photo of the dead Pancho (he’s shot to pieces). “We’ll run it small,” he said with a grin.

I got a physical at my third doctor appointment and they had me strip down. The doctor, a female, said, “Lean down and put your elbows on the examining table like this,” and she shows me. I go down and say, “Man, I’ve heard this one before,” as she pokes a gloved finger in one of my more introverted orifices. Then I had to cough but evidently they don’t ask you to turn your head anymore. A few more probes later, the doctor leaves and the nurse comes in and says, “Wow! Why was the doctor laughing so hard in here?” And I say, “Probably because she had to look at my penis.” And the nurse looks at me like I’m an animal. Actually, like I’m a dead animal—squashed road kill. Is it just me or have most of the people in the medical profession had humor bypasses?

Got back to office around three. Caught the tail end of a financial meeting, then bailed into finishing Classic Gunfights. Here’s four of the pieces for that feature. I think these are a little more successful than the Pancho marathon stuff. I’m anxious to see the real Turkey Creek Canyon (we are flying over next weekend) and gauge how far off my imagination took me.

Got home around six, ate and swam laps (don’t worry, I waited 20 minutes). Beautiful night out. Water great. Realized people from France would probably pay big money to be swimming in this pool in the middle of the high Sonoran Desert, right across from a Hohokam cave, with a fetching blond in a pool deck chair gazing languidly at a cherry pink sky. Although they probably wouldn’t pay for our dog Peaches, the chicken killer, who was panting and looking perplexed at me with a look that seemed to say, “Why would anyone voluntarily go in the water like that.” Maybe Peaches was a nurse in a former life.

“Painting a picture is like fighting a battle. It is the same kind of problem as unfolding a long, sustained, interlocked argument.”
—Winston Churchill

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