Writing Comic-Con

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I keep thinking of these two as two aliens. Perhaps they are two aliens on an airfield. 2008.

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Us: He keeps having these great days, I keep feeling myself fragmented. Only at one this morning, for instance, did I remember that my leg finally healed because of the antibiotics. Gee, maybe I had another stroke. I’m sure not all here. At least what is here is looking forward to the trip. Travels: We leave Friday at 0400 for Vernal, Utah and return Sunday night. OD Friends: Please keep several of our OD friends in your thoughts: Marion B, Dave Dog, who is home again, and Thomas. who is playing with his oysters. Thank you. Duck: Duck’s Flickr album: easily accessible.

I spent most of my day working on the Comic-Con piece. It’s been hard to get online. Once I got plugged into the websites I needed, the research was at my fingertips. I’m allowed four, double spaced pages for class. I have five pages when I add photographs, and there are four double spaced pages without. I cannot imagine reading about something so visual without photographs to punch up the text.

Working title: Leave ‘em Laughing: A quick look at Comic-Con. Contents a summary of how it was, what happened to get it where it is today, and what it was like the two days we were there.

Photos: All Photoshopped by me. I’m continually embarrassed that I don’t have a better eye with a camera, but I do admit that I can manipulate an image to achieve the desired end. George has a far better eye, and I am grateful that he lets me play with his pictures.

First there’s school today without the Comic-Con piece, then I will come home and Iron. Yes, that’s what I said. Me. Two pair of my favorite pants came out of the dryer looking like India Wrinkle fabric. Since I dropped my vastly expensive, and much appreciated Rowenta iron and it stopped working, I replaced it yesterday with a thirteen buck, cheapie iron.

Just for a moment, I watch the world outside my window before I too head out. A jet roars over….the morning rocket to Los Angeles. Our neighbor, Lon, walks out sleepily to move his truck out of the red zone. There’s nowhere else to park when he gets home from work in the dead of the morning. A young woman with long blond hair and a pink squishy hat skips up the nearest walkway. I haven’t seen anyone skip in years. Another neighbor staggers out to her older Thunderbird, dumps her arm load of paperwork on the seat, starts it up and hangs a U turn just on the blind spot on the hill.

Just for a moment, I appreciate the silence.