When the Going Gets Tough...

...the tough get writing.

About anything.

Ya see, the toughest part about writing this blog is coming up with ideas to write about.

I've been babbling on here, on the PGS blog, for about 3 1/2 years. One thing I've learned is that it isn't the writing part that's difficult--I can deal with that easy enough--it's the idea part that sometimes stymies me.

Like it's doing right now.

How so?

Well, I'm writing about having nothing to write about. (The easy part.) Technically, that's something. But it's still nothing, idea-wise, if you get my drift.

In fact, I think it's pretty lame that I'm writing about not having anything to write about just for the sake of writing something, anything...

Even nothing.

I feel like I'm writing an update that's akin to that Seinfeld episode: You know the one, the one that's about nothing.

I suppose I could write about something semi-interesting slightly weird that happened to me recently, although it has absolutely nothing to do with pretty girl shooting.

But it is something.

Anyway.

I was at the VA medical clinic the other day waiting to endure the indignities of a medical procedure. (Getting old really sucks!)

A man approached me. He looked to be in his 70s. Appeared like a very kindly person. Big warm smile on his mug.

"Do you remember me?" He asked.

"Nope." I answered politely, returning his smile.

"Good." He said.

Good?

Then he asked, "Do you have diabetes?"

"No." I answered, still remaining polite but now a bit hesitant to continue the conversation.

"How about hypertension?" He asked.

"Yes." I said, some caution showing in my voice. "That's why I'm here."

"You'll be cured of your hypertension, your high blood pressure will disappear, in six months." He stated rather casually.

I just stared at him, not sure what to say.

He didn't explain how this would happen. He just said it would. All he needed was my name which, for some reason, I gave him. He wrote it down on a small notepad, leastwise, he wrote something down on the notepad. He never asked for the correct spelling of my name. He just wanted my name. Nothing else. That was it. My name. And then he jotted something on the notepad. The cure.

The man then told me it was too bad I don't have diabetes. I asked why? He said he cures diabetes in 4 months. Again, no explanation how he does this or why diabetes only takes four months to cure while hypertension takes six. According to him, that's just how it is.

I asked if he cures anything else.

Nope.

Just diabetes and hypertension. Four months or six. That's it. That's the Full Monty of his healing skills.

A short time later, I was lying on an examination table with a medical technician probing around my groin area with an ultra-sound device. Unfortunately, the med-tech was a guy. Anyway, he was looking for blood clots in my legs which, it happily turns out, I don't have. (It's too tedious of a story to explain why they were looking for them.)

While the technician probed, I told him about my encounter with the man who claims a healing gift.

"You think I met an angel or a whacko?" I asked.

"A whacko." He answered.

I guess I'll find out which he was, angel or whacko...

In six months.

The pretty girl at the top is Lupe from a shoot a few months ago.