Music Will Never Be the Same

This is not how I wanted to start the year. . .

Before I found out about Lindsey Stirling, I would have called Neil Peart my favorite musician. He was obviously my favorite drummer, but that’s not saying much, as I know nothing about drumming. But I do know lyrics, and he was my favorite lyricist. His songs were poetry, as were his books. Ghost Rider is still my favorite noon-fiction book.

I was waiting at a bus stop when I saw the news on social media; someone said it looked like I got punched in the stomach, which is pretty much how I felt. But as sad as I was, I got over that quickly, because I then thought of how much his daughter and wife must be hurting. My feelings are inconsequential compared to what they’re going through.

Neil Peart, Rush, The Professor, Drummer,

For those who couldn’t appreciate Rush’s music, perhaps this video of the three of them having dinner will show you what we fans see in them. . .

 

;o)

Dream of Mexico

So on Travel Thursday Encore last week, I wrote about one time in Mexico City where I did some spy training. . . part two coming up tomorrow. I’ve also been watching a Netflix show about several large cities around the world and their problems, with Mexico City the latest one.
And now, to my shock, I wanna go play tourist. . .
Mexico City, skyscraper, Torre Latinamericana
Similarly, I was huge into archaeology as a kid, thanks to that darned Indiana Jones. But even before that I found it fascinating, as I was looking through my mom’s photos and found myself at Monte Alban when I was about eight. Traveling throughout Mexico throughout the years, I’ve been to just about every site. . . except I always miss Tula!
Then in college I made the mistake of taking a field archaeology class. So it turns out I suck at both digging and examining what the digging uncovered. I was pretty good at finding sites, but that’s another story.
So that was that as far as a career, but I still love visiting sites. Just a couple of years ago I was in Jordan for my third time photographing Petra, and spent two days shooting everything, not just the famous part. Also whiled a day away at Jerash, a site hardly anyone has ever heard of.
Flash forward to thirty years later, or more like a couple of months ago, when I’m watching a Great Courses series on Mexican archaeology (if you have a Los Angeles city or county library card, you can watch them for free on Hoopla and Kanopy). As well as the series on South American archaeology, I find myself wanting to get back into that, especially finding sites. At the end of the Mexico series the professor, who is awesome, talked about wanting to look for evidence of a South American connection with the western coast of Mexico, and since that’s where my dad lives, it would be really easy for me to nip down there for some scouting. . . were some archaeology department disposed to pay my way, of course.

;o)

Heightened Senses

So, I have heightened senses.
The most famous person, even if he wasn’t real, to suffer from this was Usher. . . no, not the rapper, the character from Edgar Allan Poe’s story. That was fiction, of course, because no one could live like that; he would have killed himself a long time before. So yeah, I don’t have it anywhere near that bad, but I still had to grow up with everything being. . . too much.
Why does it suck most of the time?
As I age, my hearing and eyesight are fading, but unfortunately not my sense of smell. That’s as strong as ever. Every time I pass a dumpster, or even a trash can, I have to remember to internally close my nose, otherwise it feels like getting hit by a sledgehammer.
Taste is also hard to deal with. The way you feel when biting into the hottest pepper around is the way I feel with any small amount of any spice. . . except cinnamon. I have to order everything bland; my burgers consist of meat, cheese and bread, with the occasional bacon thrown in. Steaks have nothing on them. Waiters hate me, dates are embarrassed (only one of many reasons, apparently), and no one really understands.
Then there’s the last one: touch. This is the most difficult to explain, as there are two components: touching someone or something, and being touched.
My touching is as strong, or as sensitive, as ever. I’ve pleasured women just by rubbing their eyebrows. Being touched, however, is declining in a bad way.
In talking smack with guys and being honest with ladies—try it, it works—I’ve known that pleasurable sensations are off the scale for me, compared to most. The physical delight people achieve with orgasm, I can achieve with a lot less, so just imagine what a climax feels like. Unfortunately, with great pleasure comes great soreness. Even worse, as I age I’ve lost even more of this stamina, getting sore quicker, in some cases a lot quicker. It’s a bummer, though usually you don’t feel it until after. It does usually preclude an encore, though.
And regular pain? Please don’t pinch me. Getting a flu shot? More like a stab wound. And going to the dentist? No thanks, haven’t in 25 years. I’d rather have my teeth fall out.
Now imagine sunburn. . .
I’m writing this next section while eating at Juanita’s, my favorite place at Olvera Street, in downtown Los Angeles. I’m eating a bean and cheese burrito, just about the only thing on the menu I can have. Even with this relatively plain dish, I’m getting a slight buzz from the cheese. And right after, I go to Kitty’s for a soft serve. . . vanilla, of course.
So yeah, most of the time it doesn’t matter, but that just makes the times it does that much worse. Chronic pain is my closest friend. So for those who have asked me to go out with them, to nightclubs in particular but really anywhere loud, I hope you understand a little better why I always say no. If you invite me to a Cajun or Indian restaurant, I might have to shoot you. So don’t. Leave me alone and let me decide, okay?
;o)

Government Office Bliss

Friday morning found me walking up desolate and weed-edged Rosemead Blvd. in El Monte toward the complex of federal buildings tucked next to the freeway, across from the outdoor mall anchored by a giant Target. I had to fix some errors that had cropped up in my mom’s benefits, so that she wouldn’t lose all that lovely health care she’s getting now and make my financial burdens even worse than they already are.
Knowing the drill, I put all the stuff from my pockets into my backpack, especially the coins, and then sent it through the x-ray machine; that way when I passed through the metal detector I only had to remove my hat, my glasses, and my phone. And my belt. Have I mentioned I’ve lost 60 pounds? Luckily my shorts did not slide off. The security guard was jovial enough to joke around, so that was fun.
Having been there before, I managed to pass by the info desk this time and go to the next help person further inside. She sent me to a line that I thought was wrong, where the guy quickly told me to go back to her for a number and enter the waiting area where I’d been before and knew I was heading. Luckily that didn’t take long, especially when I saw so few people there, including no one at the no-number line; it got pretty full by the time I left. And the guy with the baby was there with someone already being served, so it was hardly a wait before I was sitting down on one side of the giant circular desk in the middle of the room holding five workers.
It felt similar to the DMV, though not as harried.
And then the worker I got, a pleasant Hispanic gentleman in his forties in glasses and tie—the only downside was the Raiders lanyard holding his ID—proceeded to take care of everything I needed, glancing between the paperwork I’d gotten in the mail and his computer. It felt like it went by so quickly, even though it was a solid half hour, and part of that was when he was searching for his staple remover. (I realized what he wanted without him saying, which surprised him tremendously. When he asked how I knew, I told him, “They don’t call me Sherlock for nothing!”)
It was such a pleasant experience—I felt like I’d made a new friend—that I stayed to fill out a survey card, giving Ernest as high praise as I could come up with on the spot. And even though the supervisor was helping someone else, when she saw me holding the yellow card she took it with a smile and a genuine thank you.
I’d budgeted two to three hours, depending when I got there, for the experience, and much like my times at the DMV, I was out quickly. As always I gazed longingly at the ice cream factory across the street, which I blame for the brain fart I had at not boarding the bus pulling to a stop in front of me, which would have left me in the same place I needed to go, and instead walking half a mile in already-warm temperatures to the other bus stop. On the other hand, that heat and sweat, along with the feelings of triumph and relief, led me to drop into the Carl’s Jr. and get my first Oreo milkshake in years.
So props to one government employee who doesn’t fit the cliché. . .

;o)

For My 50th Birthday, I lost 50 Pounds

In ten months. It might actually be sixty-four pounds, according to my doctor, but who’s counting?
Here’s the big thing. I did it without basically changing my diet. Yes, I gave up peanut M&Ms, golden Oreos, and a lot of 7-up. I even cut down on ice cream, though with this weather that’s already changed. But I still have sugary cereal every morning, and a lot of days feature bacon and eggs, ham and cheese, potatoes of some kind, waffles, bean and cheese burritos, burgers, and country fried steak.
Not so funny story: I actually haven’t had cereal in five days. At first it’s because I ran out of milk, but on Friday I bought a gallon, along with a huge container of ice cream, and managed to stuff them into my backpack. It was 108 degrees that day, so I walked as fast as I could toward home after getting off the bus. Somehow the milk jug managed to open the zipper on the backpack and suicidally plunge to the sidewalk! Argh!
But back to it. I’m sure people are going to ask how I lost the weight, so here goes. The first thing to mention is that I have a fast metabolism. I gain weight quickly, but I lose it too. There were days when I lost five pounds in about three hours, and no, I don’t know how that happens, it just does. But that’s not the most important point.
I’ve lived with chronic pain since my spinal injury in my early twenties. Since then I’ve picked up numerous other injuries, especially to my knees. Recently I’ve had a torn rotator cuff, which I decided not to have surgically repaired (best decision ever, physical therapy took the pain away!). Most importantly, I have arthritis in my knees, hips, and every part of my spine.
Last October I found myself having to change domiciles. That meant three weeks of packing, and seemingly hundreds of trips to the dumpster. Worse—biggest of all—was the hundreds of trips back up the stairs to the apartment, stairs being the worst thing for my knees. While there was pain from using muscles that had been dormant for a long time, I quickly realized that my chronic pain did not get worse.
That was the key. In those three weeks, I was shocked to discover I’d lost twelve pounds.
Now knowing I could do things without pain, or without more pain, I joined an aqua arthritis class at the Y, did a lot of treadmill, and managed to get some pretty cheap equipment for a home gym. I’m talking some small dumbbells and resistance bands, rollers, a yoga mat, things like that, not actual giant machines you’d find at the gym. Most of the exercises are courtesy of the people at Bleu Physical Therapy in Alhambra, a place I highly recommend.
So that’s it. The big 5-0. Here’s hoping I manage to get through the day without anyone surprising me with some stupid party. . .

;o)

Selfishly Helping

I don’t do this often, but this is one of those exceedingly rare times when I feel the need for it. A couple of weeks ago something happened that’s been nagging me, and I feel that if I write about it, maybe I’ll get some closure.
I’d just gotten out of physical therapy and was heading for the bus stop when I came across an old Asian man in a seersucker suit, using a blind man’s cane as though he’s not familiar with it; I mention he was Asian because the language barrier was insurmountable. He hands me a card that says Lanai Motel, which I assume is the one I just passed, though I’ve never seen its name. I really wanted to make the next bus, but knew there’d be another one soon, so I gather his elbow in my hand and lead him toward the hotel as he talks about who knows what.
I had some trouble navigating him; I didn’t want to pull on him too hard, but he kept going in all directions. Eventually I got him on the handicap ramp of the hotel and let him walk up it alone—with cement borders on both sides, he couldn’t get lost—and go up to ring the bell and get the desk clerk. When the guy looks out the window and nods, I go back down the ramp and, sure enough, the poor guy can’t navigate the slight turn. Luckily the desk clerk, who thankfully spoke Chinese, shows up and takes over the navigation, and I leave before either can say anything.
In her book Lindsey Stirling talks about being selflessly selfless, as opposed to selfishly selfless, which she defines as doing something nice for someone for your own selfish reasons, even if it’s something as simple as wanting to feel good about yourself. So was I being selflessly selfless? Not sure. I do know that if something had happened to him—from falling down to being hit by a car—and I hadn’t helped, I’d feel horrible. Does that make me selfish? Probably. What I can’t get over is why this philosophical conundrum is getting to me so much. You’d think after a few days my brain would just let it go. . . oh crap, that song just exploded in my head again. . .
Yeah, that pretty much explains how confusing the whole thing has been. . .

;o)

INsiders: Tale of Two Cities

The start of my third year with this prestigious group turned out to be one of the best meetings yet, much more fun than one would expect in a lecture about a famous and often-discussed book/play/story.
First, a little background: The INsiders is a discussion group that meets during the run of each play at A Noise Within (not counting the annual A Christmas Carol). Some people liken it to an old-fashioned salon—a term invented in 16th Century Italy, but that’s another story—where people gathered to banter about the art of the day, usually literature and poetry. For those who don’t know, A Noise Within is a relatively famous theater company in Pasadena, known for being a tiny powerhouse amongst the giants of the stage world. The theater is easily accessible, as it is right off the 210 freeway, as well as being directly at a stop of the Metro Gold Line light-rail train.
Every INsiders gathering has two guests, one a distinguished scholar who usually teaches the work being discussed, the other an actor involved in the production. At this past Tuesday’s meeting the acting guest was Emily Goss, who portrays Lucie. She’s one of the few actors at A Noise Within whom I was familiar with before seeing her on the stage here. In this episode of the You Tube series Princess Rap Battle, she played Goldilocks (behind Cinderella, not the one in red), but with her newly brown/red hair she no longer fits that role.
The scholarly guest was Dr. Lana L. Dalley, a professor of English Lit at Cal State Fullerton. Far from the stereotype of a stodgy academic in tweed, she was instantly notable for her short blonde hair and script tattoo on her right arm; when asked about it later, she admitted it read “Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress,” which is the first line from Middlemarch, by George Eliot. She’s also an X-Files fan, as we’ll see later.

Armed with computer slides that were both amusing and educational, Dr. Dalley regaled us for the next two hours with little-known tidbits on the life of Charles Dickens, as well as placing his life and works into context. The first note that struck me was the reveal of Dickens World! Yes, an amusement park was built around his novels, with such features as a water ride, haunted house, and animatronic show. Even though I would have never thought to go, I’m disappointed I won’t have the chance, as it has since closed down.
Unlike most famous authors, Dickens never wanted to be a writer. Like Shakespeare, he was more interested in acting, but missed his first audition due to sickness. He did eventually work on the stage, but ended up writing to make money, eventually becoming so famous that at the height of his popularity he did tours around England as well as America, and was reportedly quite the diva about it. He even had a rider that would put most rock stars to shame.
One of the most intriguing tidbits for me was his friendship and collaboration with Wilkie Collins, a vastly underrated author whose most famous works were The Woman in White and The Moonstone, some of the best early British mysteries.
At one point Dr. Dalley showed movie posters of some of Dickens’ works, the first being a recent Bleak House production starring Gillian Anderson. . . except she called her “Scully.” Anyone who can reference The X-Files during a English Lit lecture is more than okay in my book.
The lecture ended on a fun note about Tale of Two Cities having the first ever mention of potato chips:
“Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in every farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant drops of oil.”
I don’t know how oil can be reluctant, but it sounds awesome. I might argue, though, that since fries are called chips in England, this isn’t so much about potato chips as French fries, which I love a thousand times more, but I digress.
It felt like there wasn’t as much time for questions as usual, but since Dr. Dalley let us interrupt her whenever we wanted, there wasn’t much left to ask. The lecture was so entertaining that poor Emily spent most of the time as a fellow listener, but did get to bring some insights into her portrayal of Lucie.

If I’ve piqued your interest in attending, here are the remaining dates for the 2017/18 season:
The Madwoman of Chaillot | Oct. 24, 2017
Mrs. Warren’s Profession | Nov. 21, 2017
Henry V | Feb. 27, 2018
A Raisin in the Sun | March 27, 2018
Noises Off | Apr. 24, 2018

In addition to the guests and discussion, you get refreshments—cookies and strawberries are the favorites—and if you arrive early you can join a lot of the attendees for dinner beforehand, usually Chinese food (I go to the burger joint).
Fair warning: it does cost, though it counts as a tax-deductible donation. For more info, contact Alicia Green, the Director of Education & Community Outreach, at education@anoisewithin.org or call 626-356-3104. (Don’t be scared, she’s a sweetie.)

;o)

Travel Thursday: Lindsey Stirling on Jimmy Kimmel

I always give myself 15 minutes to walk to the bus stop for the ride downtown, even though it takes less than ten. (If you’ve followed this blog for a while—yeah right, welcome—you’ll know my fave Shakespeare quote is “Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.”) But thanks to my favorite app, I see that the bus that runs on my street and takes me to the light-rail station is coming in 5, so I do that instead, and thankfully there was enough of a break in the traffic to let me run across while it was about a block away. I do so love living on the edge. . .
The great thing about the light-rail, besides everything, is that it has a perfectly moderated air conditioning setting, whereas most buses will put it on freezing in the mistaken impression this is the way to go when it’s searing outside. And no matter how many times I’ve told them they don’t need to do that, some people are just allergic to logic.
Since I took the rules spelled out on the Jimmy Kimmel ticket email a lot more seriously than most people, as I saw when I got there later, I took as little as possible with me: no backpack, no water bottle, and definitely no headphones, so no music on the long rides on the train and subway. And they said no shorts! In this 95-degree heat my legs were very confused. (And there were a lot of people in shorts that were allowed in, dammit!) Stopped off at Olvera Street for my usual bean and cheese burrito, followed by a softie vanilla; after that I was ready for anything, including the boring non-musical subway ride that left me at Hollywood and Highland.
The irony did not elude me that I was in the place where I first saw Lindsey Stirling—The Dolby Theater—and I’m about to watch her again right across the street. I hope she plays her Christmas show somewhere else, though not too far away.

Finally I find the right line on the sidewalk and stand between an older couple from Texas and a younger couple from North Carolina; kinda felt weird being the local. It was at this point that one of the employees came by and said we might not get in if enough of the “special” people in the other line came and filled up all the seats. My back was already hurting and I truly felt like giving up, but stuck through another half hour until they moved us up and in; many people after me made it, so thanks a lot for the drama, dude! I regret giving you that fist bump.
You don’t get to put your phone on silent or airplane mode; nope, if you don’t turn it completely off you don’t get in. Then we waited on the stairs leading into the studio, moving another step every time the people in front were slowly told where to sit, off in pairs like we were heading into Noah’s Ark. Turns out the only other person there not in a couple was a girl from China standing next to me, so after a cheery “Hello!” to me—I shoulda remembered to say “Ni Hao!”—she led the way as we were escorted to the very back row. I didn’t mind, though my knees would have preferred not to do all the stairs. The guy doing the talking, a rugged lumberjack type named Linc, then came to the front to run the rules by us, and did a pretty good job with the humor, enough that I thought he might be the warmup. When he said, “Don’t do the El Lay thing, where nothing impresses you,” I realized I’d have to act excited after all, dammit. After he was done everyone rushed to the restroom, which is downstairs—great, more stairs—and are right next to the green rooms. I looked for Kit or Drew for a quick hello, but the glaring security guards kept me from lingering.
Once I climbed the damned stairs back up to the studio, the actual warmup guy was there, a balding big guy who thought he was Rickles, and was almost as good. Being from Michigan, he couldn’t stop heckling the guy from Ohio, and was all gaga for the girl from Virginia who was in the clip about finding North Korea on a map; he named her Queen of the Day and gave her a crown, in fact.
On to the show. Since I don’t watch the series he’s in, had no idea who Milo Ventimiglia was. Have to disagree about his name winning Scrabble, as it has too many vowels. And I didn’t know he was a fellow Bruin until I just now looked up how to spell his name. BTW, after Kimmel’s monologue, while the crew was setting up the desk and chairs behind him, he talked to one guy in the audience who just moved here from Massachusetts to attend UCLA, so it was a beautiful non-Trojan day.
After him was another celeb stranger to me, Jenny Slate, who turned out to be a pretty funny comedian, in that offbeat-sorta-weird coocoo cloudlander kinda way; she’s like a wannabe Zoe Deschanel. Her love for chicken fingers and beer ruins any potential romance with this guy, though.
Okay, on to the important part. Because I was in the last row, I had to wait for everyone else to stream out back toward where we entered, because on the west side of the old lobby was the stage where Lindsey would play. Those in front got to stand right in front of the stage, whereas by the time I got there I was in the very back, behind a pillar, plus there was a camera rig in front of me. I got occasional glimpses of Lindsey and Rooty, could see Kit most of the time, but didn’t glimpse the drum set at all. I did spot Adina once, if that makes up for it.
So there goes “Love’s Just A Feeling,” with all the musicians playing extraordinarily well; they brought it, for sure. Unfortunately the audience didn’t seem to know what to make of it; they were faking it as well as they could, but seemed confused as to whether they liked it or not, or were possibly stunned to see a violinist dancing. Because the crowd energy wasn’t at the level needed, the stage manager informed everyone that the song would be done again, which was fine with me. And then we got the bonus of the full version of “The Arena,” with the same video stuff as the concert playing behind her, and that seemed to be a bigger crowd pleaser. For once I forgot to notice which violin she was using, though I was too far away to tell if it was Excalibur or Bushwhacker anyway.
There were two guys standing in front of me, and during the first try they just stood there like they’d rather be anywhere else, even though everyone around them was at least faking the enjoyment. But when “Love’s” played again they were feeling it, clapping along, tapping their feet. By the time “The Arena” came along they were fully into it, as was most of the crowd around me; whereas before they might have faked the woo-hoos for the camera, this time it was totally genuine. And with Kimmel’s close-to-two-million-viewers nightly average, it’ll be interesting to see if Lindsey gets an uptick in sales and social media follows.
I got to say hi to Drew after, but he was too busy breaking down the skins to hang out.
Looking back, I was surprised at how quickly and smoothly the show went, especially in comparison to other shows. Sitcoms that film in front of a live studio audience take at least four hours for 20 minutes of screen time, while dramas sometimes need eight days! We were done in less than two hours—no idea as to exact times, as my phone was off—almost real time, and it’s a testament that only a few hours later it was airing on the East Coast; they must have been editing as they went along. I know there’s a ton of work that needs to be done beforehand, but they made it look so easy, so kudos to everyone. It felt like we spent more time in line than in the actual show, which for all I know is entirely possible.
With all that done, I debated where to eat. The McD’s fries are always there, and In-N-Out isn’t far away, though always full. I haven’t eaten at Mel’s in a long time, mostly because the price doesn’t equal the flavor, but then I remembered how much I love the Orange Freeze there and set out eagerly. As is my wont in this place, I sat at the counter, ignoring the mini juke boxes while I caught up on the world via my phone. It took longer to be served than for them to make my delicious treat, and they added more whipped cream than I remember, but no complaints here. As usual I took the cherry off and placed it on the napkin, this time leaving it there, not daring to ask anyone if they wanted it, not since the infamous “taking my cherry” debacle of 2009.
Uneventful ride home, the best kind.
And now as I write this I’m watching the show on TV, and now I understand why they put me in the back row (on the other hand, the guy sitting next to me was much better looking). It’s pretty intriguing to see the differences. I remember everything that was shown, but there were also some parts that were edited out. The concert was actually better on TV; as I mentioned, I was stuck in the back behind a pillar. (I promised Drew I’d yell out his name, but he couldn’t hear me from back there.) So while it was nowhere near as good as a full concert, especially one where I sat in the fifth row, it was a pretty interesting experience to see Lindsey with my eyes instead of a TV or computer monitor. It was my day off, and nothing is sore or achy the next day, so no downsides at all.
Now point me to where I can get tickets for the Christmas show, Lindsey. . .

;o)

So. . . What A Lovely Weekend It Turned Out To Be

Here’s hoping you had more fun.

Saturday
1:00 P.M.
About a week ago I got a notice popping up on my computer that Window/Microsoft/whatever needed to make a download that would take a while, so did I want to do it then, or hit the snooze? (Yes, it had a snooze button.) Since I was in the middle of a hot writing session, I postponed, but when I was ready I looked for the program that had popped up—assuming it was right there on the task bar, or maybe in settings—but couldn’t find it. Oh well, no big deal, I figured, I’ll do it myself.
But that rebooting didn’t do it after all, as today at around one o’clock it popped up again. This time I set it to do its job at 2, but I finished quicker than expected and this time the settings program stayed open, so I clicked on “Start now.”
They weren’t kidding when they said it was a big one. I have pretty fast internet and at the very least ok computer RAM, but that sucker took FOUR HOURS!
5:30 P.M.
Finally done, I tried to get back to work. . . except my writing program wouldn’t open, or at least it opened a little and then asked me to log in, only to report an error. It told me to fix it by going to my Office program, except it deleted it instead. So on to downloading it again, only that didn’t fix the problem. So, not able to do any writing, which is at least half my work, and the other half—working on photos—wasn’t available because at the moment I had no photos to work on, I read a lot, even more than usual, and watched two hours of Katherine Heigl on TV before going to bed early. . . on a Saturday night.

Sunday
11:30 A.M.
Things got off to a late start, so I wasn’t able to get onto Microsoft’s chat help until 11:30. Wasn’t sure if this was a smart thing to do, as I had to shower and get ready to go to the monthly Sisters in Crime meeting soon. But I did it anyway. First I got Rajesh—I remember because it’s the same name as the guy on Big Bang Theory—who did his best to get Word up and running, only to fail after about an hour.
1:00 P.M.
Once he ran out of options I was transferred to main support, in the body of a pleasant young lady named Adrianne. She told me there’d been a number of people with such trouble after the big download yesterday, and knew just how to fix it. By now I figured I’d be arriving late for the meeting, and possibly with only a whore’s bath instead of a shower. . .
2:00 P.M.
Not exactly a plot twist, is it? Not when you’re expecting it. That solution didn’t work, and she went away for a while to try to figure something out. When she came back a few minutes later, it was to completely remove Windows 10 and then redownload it. As you can guess, there was no Sisters in Crime meeting for me today; was gonna go to In-N-Out, too.
4:45 P.M.
By the time the download finished I’d lost touch with Adrianne, who probably went off to help other people. Luckily when I tried Word it worked. Relief is too small a word. The best I can say is that it was a cooler day than most in the past month, so not too bad spending it in the apartment. On the other hand, would have been a great day to go out, since tomorrow it’s supposed to be hot again and I have to go to physical therapy. . .

;o)