Dr. Clark had a young intern working with him, and after asking me if I was still blogging and if I used Twitter, he said to us, "You two are going to find this funny, but for Christmas, I made my mother a Facebook page. She's in her mid-sixties, disabled, stays home a lot and is always on her computer."
The intern and I didn't think it was at all funny, rather, we thought it incredibly sweet, and we both said as much.
"Thanks," he said. "She has already reconnected with someone from her high school graduating class, and there were only 25 people in her class."
While talking about Twitter, Dr. Clark told us about a church in California that had tried an experiment—using Twitter during a church service. I googled it, and found it very interesting in spite of not being a church or religious person at all myself.
With regards to my eye health, I'm supposed to have had, via email, pictures of my retinas to include here, but alas, they haven't yet arrived. They're pretty much going to look like this, though, so I'll add them here if they eventually come, but no big deal if they don't.
With regards to my eyesight, it is in the exact same place as it was last year. Even enticing me with the, "Which is better? Number 1? Or number 2?" several times, I unknowingly, but steadfastly, chose my exact current prescription each time.
Upon returning home at about 9:15, I had breakfast with Kevin (av8rdude). We first planned for the gym at 3:00, then moved it to 5:00, and eventually made it there at 7:00.
I did the elliptical machine again for 30 minutes, no hills, and burned off 465 calories. I did up the resistance at one point, but only for about 2 minutes. I could feel it a little in my knee, and I didn't want to push my luck.
I was going to do a few ab crunches or some stretching exercises while I waited for Kevin to finish up, but when I had a little over one-minute left, he came up to my machine and said, "I can be done or I can do about 15 more minutes."
"Let's be done," I said. And so we were.
I got a holiday card in the mail from a name I didn't recognize and an address that wasn't in my address book. After some detective work, I determined that it was from Vaughney, one of my fellow delegates from my trip to China. Very affirming card from a very beautiful person.
Kevin, Kurt, and I had dinner at Mojoe's, where I had their Inferno Burger—with way too many jalapeños on it—and a side salad.
We sat in their outside area, which is enclosed with plastic flaps and contains one of those mushroom-shaped patio heaters to cut the chill in the room. We took a table right near it, and in fact, pulled the table as close to it as possible.
We met Joe at 10:30 at Flex, where he'd just received a call from his sister that his dad was back in the ER. His parents' health situation remains totally precarious, not unlike a lot of peoples' I know these days.
It was 120 Minutes night at Flex tonight, which as always, means a lot of straight people and Goth people. Not that there's anything wrong with either.
During my first trip to the bar, this already drunk guy leaning on the bar leaned against me, and said something about needing someone to f---.
"You are so barking up the wrong tree," I said to him, "but you should have no problem finding yourself someone here tonight. But be careful, there are a lot of straight guys here tonight, and you don't want to get killed."
He went off, with an alcohol and mayonnaise cocktail of breath odor, "I'm a fucking marine. I can snap someone's neck with something-point-5-something pressure to the neck at such-and-such an angle..." blah, blah, blah.
"Oh, you're a marine, are you? What's your rank?" I asked.
"That's classified information, man."
"It is? My dad was a marine for 30 years, and his rank was never classified information," I said.
"Yeah, well was he a..." he blathered on indicating that he was in some highly-classified security position, or some such rubbish as that.
I let it—and him—go.
Later on in the evening he called me over to him, and rearranging the stuff between his legs, he said, "Hey man. Can you get me some Tina or powder?"
Oh, so the wrong tree again. "I don't do any of that stuff man; I don't even know what it means. In fact, I only know of one person who deals every now and again in this bar. Let me see if he's here."
"Well, what I'd really like is some Crystal," he said as I walked away from him, never to return to him for the rest of the evening, or at least for the next twenty minutes at which time Brigner (the manager) and the door guy—who's built like a bouncer—were escorting him to the door.
The four of us left at about 12:30, as Kevin's flight back to Seattle is tomorrow around 11:00, and Kevin, Kurt and I are meeting Kevin's friend Dave at Pam's Farmhouse Restaurant for breakfast at 8:15.