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sixteen inches
Monday, February 22 2010
Now that my laboratory is reasonably tidy, I can once more do wheelchair tricks and even get back to the little "playstation" (lowercase) I'd built around a Sony PlayStation2 and a small Sony color television (the brand loyalty this suggests is purely coincidental; the former was a gift and the later was nearly free). The only game I play on the PS2 is Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. It's rich enough experience that I don't crave anything else, and I certainly wouldn't want to be wasting any more time playing games than I do. The fact that I'm content with one game on an essentially-vintage game console is proof enough that I am no gamer. It's an old PS2 and sometimes it can't read from its DVD drive, so the game will sputter and hang, which is another bug that ends up being a feature. I wouldn't want the console to work too well; indeed, the last time I played it was at least eighteen months ago, when the DVD problem eventually caused me to lose interest.
I went into town today to run a few errands including buying groceries, mailing a package and picking up six pounds of Zanzibar from Catskill Mountain Coffee out on Route 28. As always, I
walked the dogs to Onteora Lake afterwards. The lake was frozen solid and there was even a guy ice fishing out on it. So I walked all the way across on the frozen surface to the steep-sided eastern shore, which is normally inaccessible to pedestrians. Sally came along, but there wasn't enough Celexa in the world to get Eleanor to follow us. I found an ice fishing hole that had recently sealed itself with a pane of ice only a sixteenth of an inch thick. Using a stick, I broke through and probed the inside of the hole, determining the ice I was standing on was approximately sixteen inches thick.
My main mission while I was driving around was to get my yearly tuberculosis test, which is required in order to be allowed regularly into the prisons.
For routine medical procedures such as tuberculosis tests, our preferred destination is EmergencyOne, a private medical center on Hurley Avenue in Kingston, and so that's where I found myself late this afternoon. The problem with required medical procedures is that they require one to sit around in a waiting room full of sick or potentially-sick people. There was a young man in the seat to my right talking to his father in a gravelly voice about his sore throat, and I heard the father casually mention how it might be contagious. If that anachronistic tuberculosis test results in me suffering from that young man's sore throat disease, I'm going to blame it on the prison industrial complex.
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