Friday, September 02, 2005

September 2, 2005
My office computer sighed and died at about ten this morning. It’s barely a year old, some Mac-ish blue-glass-state of the art deal. The entire production department is on vacation so I had no one to help me resuscitate it. I hate to admit this, but I felt naked without it. No wonder my office is a mess. I hide on my computer and “work” all day long. I also hate to admit it, but I think I’m addicted to Email. I get upset when I don’t have “good” Emails, I tell myself I’ll just answer one, I deserve a little nip, then I look up and it’s three hours later. But I don’t think it’s a problem because I’m still getting my work done.

I chose to think of it as a blessing. I cleaned and organized several piles, filled out a bank deposit, answered several phone calls, had lunch with Mad Coyote Joe at Saba’s (a new Greek food place up in Carefree, had gonzpachiga type salad, I made that up, it's Greek to me, and iced tea, Joe the same, $11 cash, includes tip), went to the bank, dropped in at El Pedrigal to affirm Kathy’s choice of a late wedding present salt and pepper shakers for Ed and Rose Marie Mell. Then came home, fired up my studio computer, got online and checked my Email.

Painted a new passage on the big Mexican storm picture, trying to add more dramatic color. Not happening. Feel incompetent. Made a conscious decision not to check my Email.

Swam laps instead. Did ten passes. Still hot out. Buddy Boze Hatliller came out and laid down right next to the water, on the semi-cool deck and watched me the whole time with some disinterest.

My wife listens to Air America so naturally, she wants to take in four refugees from New Orleans. She told me she has requested four black men between the ages of 19 and 29. I have no problem with this as long as they check their AK-47s at the door and I’m trying to be positive and I’m hoping that perhaps one of them can fix my computer so I can check my Email.

”No matter what kind of trouble a man has, he is sure to prefer some other kind.”
—Old Vaquero Saying

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