Meanderings: March 3, 2000

Friday,
March 3, 2000

The things I get up to with Photoshop and a digital camera. Although it's not bad for a half hour of puttering around with layers and filters. I need to see what I can do with the 300 ppi CMYK version -- there may be a Bulletin cover in here somewhere.

It seems that Tina is off to England for a weekend of riotous fun. When I came back from the store this evening, she poked her head around the doorway and asked nervously if she could go to London to see her newest boytoy J. I said fine, as long as we didn't have to pay for the plane trip. It seems we don't -- J is flying her over for the weekend (this is the nice PR guy with the interesting piercings -- he's a professional piercer on the side, and sent her a CD-ROM with mpgs of some of his, ahem, adornments. I'm personally amazed he doesn't set off airport metal detectors with the penile piercings alone -- his thingie looks like it's been assimilated by a steampunk version of the Borg). So tomorrow at 0h Dark Thirty (4:30 am, to be precise), muggins here is getting up to take her to the airport, mainly because I have no cash on me and don't feel arsed enough to walk up the hill and take out some there. It's easier to take a taxi to Arlanda, hit the ATM there, and then take a bus back to Kista to do some work.

Oh, well. Early rising is good for the soul. And she promised to write up a report as her first guest entry here, so that should be interesting (oh, stop snickering -- I hear you, you know).

And, of course, the best news of all -- Lyndon is home from Boston. Apparently the flight home was somewhat nervewracking, as he flatly refused to fly KLM ("We'll Lose Your Luggage AND Insult You In The Bargain!") and was put on Icelandic Air. Which doesn't sound bad, until you realize that because of their strategic placement in the middle of the Atlantic, Icelandic Air only owns medium-distance narrow-body 727s. These are the same types that have a bad habit of falling out of the sky like a stone if the pilot sneezes on a control. Landing, according to Lyndon, was akin to riding a bucking bronco because the plane was lurching from side to side, forwards AND backwards. How fun.

But no matter -- he is home, lounging around in a Batman T-shirt and a pair of Animaniacs boxer shorts, and looking fabulous. There's something wonderful about having a man wander about in an undergarment that allows for so much. . .availability. Ahem. And he bought me prezzies -- a new 56K modem to replace the one that blew a few months ago (I've been subsisting on a 28.8K -- uck) and my very own Timex Indiglo sports watch. Now we can both find our way through darkened rooms just by pressing the winding stem (if you haven't seen an Indiglo before, these things are bright).

And I'm almost finished with "Bartok and the Unicorn" and the story I started last night is chugging along (working title "I Play Dead" -- this is what happens when you write with Björk playing in the background) with a full head of steam. Life is good.

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