There’s a delicate balance regarding a few things when it comes to a show like Doctor Who. Take, for instance, the notion of the Doctor having three traveling companions.

These days, we just shake our head when we see how Yaz, Ryan and Graham are written for, or *not* written for in Yaz’s case. Note, an effort was finally made in S12.

There often seems to be a general dismissal of the convention.  Three companions are too many, you can’t make it work.” 

I think we tend to forget that there were three companions nearly the whole first two years the show was on. And since they filmed nearly all year round, that was almost the equivalent of four seasons these days. 

This was because of how the show was crafted and built by Sydney Newman and Verity Lambert. They brought together two women and two men with a fairly broad age range to present different narrative perspectives from the main characters. Then depending on the story, the crew could be divided up, yet still have a fellow crew member to share the experience with. This tended to give the characters a chance to mix and match and bounce their different personalities off each other, thus generating more interesting personal moments, potentially leading to more character growth. It also helped to have fantastic actors in the form of Jacqueline Hill and William Russell as Barbara and Ian. Hartnell’s Doctor had wonderful exchanges with each of the TARDIS crew back then, whether they were happy, tender moments with Susan or Barbara, lecturing them, like when Barbara wanted to change Aztec culture as a god, or just arguing with Ian about their next move in any crisis. 

The four person TARDIS crew concept even survived Vicki replacing original member Susan. Even though Carole Ann Ford did a fine job, she didn’t think Susan was really being given enough substantial material to work with, often being treated like the screaming, helpless 15 year old –and she wasn’t wrong. But honestly, the team traded up by bringing in Maureen O’Brien, who wouldn’t stand for being written like a dumb kid, and good for her! The updated team worked just as well as the original. 

And though some are quick to point out that part of the reason for three companions with Hartnell was due to his age, he needed others to carry some of the action, this is true. But this sharing the burden worked well with Hartnell, Vicki and Steven or just Steven for that matter.

After Verity Lambert left the show, it would be decades before there was a producer or script editor or showrunner who could handle multiple companions and handle them as well as the original crew– and sadly, even that wasn’t long term.

The next time three companions were attempted was during the Innes Lloyd era, or as I like to call it, “the era of bad companion handling.” 

Lloyd had cleaned out the previous stable of companions (Steven and Dodo) and brought in two new ones (Ben and Polly). But after only a few stories, he then brought on Jamie at the end of The Highlanders because Frazer Hines was popular on set with the crew. This last minute change complicated things, because the scripts for the next couple stories didn’t have a part written for Jamie, so he and Ben had to share lines. This led to some desperate story measures as in The Moonbase, where, due to having no lines, they just had Jamie lay ill on a medical bed delirious the whole story. You’d like to think maybe that during the filming of the previous story, the Underwater Menace, someone might have rewritten Moonbase a bit to expand Jamie’s part but no. It seemed writing for all three of them was not an option. But they brought in a third companion. Note, they may have filmed stories in a different order from transmission too, but still, they had to compensate and it was a tad clumsy.

During the filming of the Faceless Ones, Lloyd wanted to jettison Michael Craze, who played Ben but keep Anneke Wills (Polly). Wills, to her credit, didn’t like that maneuver and opted to leave with Craze. It was this type of back stage manipulation by people like Lloyd that showed how little some of these producers cared about their  regulars. Quite unfortunate. I wasn’t really a fan of Ben either but you don’t like to hear about the leads being treated like cattle. But bottom line, the powers that be couldn’t handle three companions.

Flash forward to the end of season 18, and it was almost as if Tom Baker couldn’t leave fast enough, as his TARDIS was overrun at the end by the most annoying kid ever in pajamas, a meek fairy princess and a mouth on legs, soon to be joined by a new, young, Doctor. Producer John Nathan Turner cast these new companions because he wanted to recreate the type of TARDIS crew they had at the very beginning with the Hartnell era. More companions, more complex back and forth dialog between the crew and a sleeker character dynamic in general.

It didn’t quite work out. First, 5th Doctor Peter Davison was not William Hartnell. Even allowing this new young Time Lord his individual style, Matthew Waterhouse, Janet Fielding and Sarah Sutton were not nearly in the same class as Russell, Hill and Ford. Nor was the season 19 writing and producing of the same quality as that of season 1. You still had a mix of two men and two women, albeit all around the same age. For whatever reason, you had instances like Nyssa not feeling well and sleeping it off in the TARDIS for the duration of a story. It just seemed difficult for the writers to handle three companions again, even though that was expressly the point. So, goodbye Adric.

Now, leaving the classic era behind, there are a couple honorable mentions in the new era of showrunners knowing how to pull this off.

In Boomtown, Russell T. Davies manages quite a nice tale balancing The Doctor, Rose, Mickey and Jack, along with the Slitheen baddie in the story. All comfortably packed into 44 minutes too.

In Journey’s end, RTD handles Sarah Jane, Donna, Rose, Jack, Mickey, Jackie, Martha, another Doctor and even throws K9 in. That’s quite the balancing act.

During the Moffat era, he brilliantly handled ongoing stories featuring Amy, Rory and River, but most impressively in the Impossible astronaut/Day of the moon two parter. 

The other stand out was Dinosaurs on a spaceship, where the Doctor had a whole gang working with him, and all of them were written wonderfully. Chris Chibnall got the writing credit, but no, sorry, in hindsight, I am *forced* to believe that Moffat rewrote the devil out of that one. I’ve seen how Chibnall works *without* The Moff looking over his shoulder. I seriously don’t think that what we heard coming from Amy, Rory, Rory’s dad Brian, Nefertiti and the game hunter came from Chibs’ processor. It would not compute. 

*Actually, before we found out the true nature of Chib’s abilities and limitations, I was half hoping that he’d bring back the gang from DOAS into his era AS the companions. I mean, come on, how about Graham, Nefertiti and the Hunter? They’d be a heck of a lot more entertaining than the current configuration. 

Which *brings* us to the Chibnall/Whitaker era proper. Chibnall wanted to create that dramatic four person dynamic again that they had back in the Hartnell era, much like JNT tried. And like JNT, Chibs’ eyes were bigger than his stomach. While Whitaker might be somewhat comparable to Davison, she’s definitely no Hartnell. And although Bradley Walsh is quite good–the best of everyone in the TARDIS, in fact—Mandip Gill, and Tosin Cole are not even in the same wheelhouse as Sarah Sutton and  Janet Fielding. Actually, I take it back, they in fact are in the same wheelhouse. That’s just not a compliment. The mix of sex, age and ethnicity were about as thoughtful as you could get and you even got a disability thrown in. A shame three quarters of the acting isn’t there.

But again, we have a situation where a producer specifically puts all these people in a TARDIS on purpose and then has nothing for Yaz to do for all of Series 11. And there’s absolutely no character growth to speak of.

But we do know from past eras that the showrunners, producers and writers who know what they’re doing had no issue with this convention whenever they chose to employ it. 

I’d love to see the Doctor have a gang again. 

As long as you’ve got the right person at the helm.

This happened probably 15 to 20 years ago. An average night during the wee hours. For whatever reason, I was awake, rolling over, worrying about something stupid, trying to get comfortable when I heard… something. 

Downstairs.

NOW I was awake. I didn’t know what the sound was, couldn’t make it out. It might have been my imagination but I couldn’t be sure, so I lay there. At least a few minutes pass and eventually, I relax. Hearing nothing, I got comfortable and soon I started to drift—

There it was again. Faint. Downstairs somewhere. What WAS that?

So now, I have to go downstairs and check it out. I don’t WANT to check it out, because how often does a strange, unknown noise work out well? But, I have to check it out. *Someone* has to be the dad to protect the family who were all blissfully, and unhelpfully asleep. 

I grabbed the all purpose wooden club from under the bed. Can’t remember how I came into possession of it or what it’s from but it’s possible it was the wooden handle to a plunger we used to have– minus the plunger. Good, decently weighted stick, length of a forearm and if you got rapped in the face with it, it would hurt. A lot. You just might run afoul of it if you were an intruder skulking around my house making a strange noise every ten minutes or so. 

You can’t make the trip downstairs to the main level of my house without some creaking stairs, so there’d be no surprising a burglar. So I had to opt for the aggressive “I’m coming down stairs, whatever you are, so you’d better be ready to fight or take flight, because I might have a weapon and although it’s not a gun because they make me nervous, I may indeed have a decently weighted plunger stick!” approach.

I hit the main level, pop on the lights and scan my surroundings. Dining room, kitchen, bathroom, family room, front room, office… nothing. Nothing’d been disturbed.

Sigh. Had to check the basement. Gah. Grip the stick tighter. Alright, pop on the light down there and proceed. No sooner do I get downstairs to look around —

There it is again upstairs on the main level. 

Up I go to the main level again…..I was JUST up there! What WAS that sound?!?!?

Scan the rooms again. Now I’m just walking around the main level scratching my head. There is no intruder, but SOMETHING is making a sound, roughly every ten minutes. 

I think I was in my office when suddenly I hear it again from some other part of the main level. Slightly louder. But where? Sound tends to bounce around my house at times, and a small, unfamiliar, weird noise was that much harder to track. That last time I heard it, there was something about it, tickling the back of my mind…did I recognize it or not?

What WAS that?!?

Having determined it was definitely coming from somewhere on the main level, I positioned myself dead center in the middle of the dining room and waited. I would wait as long as it takes for whatever it was to make its sonic move…

THERE it was again– FAMILY ROOM! I was narrowing it down!

Okay, family room. I placed myself middle of the family room. And waited.

Yeah, there’d be no sleeping tonight.

As I waited, I just couldn’t imagine what it was. I looked around the room. Tv was definitely off, wasn’t the smoke detector, as that damn thing was another story. No radio in the room, all other electronic devices were off. Sewing stuff, couple kids toys, all off. 

It was when I turned toward the writing desk and spotted the Dalek in the corner that it uttered, in a low, guttural tone…

“Exterminate”

But I wasn’t blasted to atoms, no. 

Eyes wide in amazement, I walked over to my three, prized Dalek figures from Product Enterprise. These fantastic toys said four or five phrases whenever you pressed the button. Evidently, when the batteries wear down, these Daleks let you know they were losing power the only way they could. Their timing was not ideal though. 

There being three of them, a red, a gray and a black Dalek, I didn’t know which one was trying to kill me, so I had no choice but to get the tiny Phillips head screwdriver and set about disarming the tin potted terrors. On one hand, it was a shame, because it was fun to hear the Daleks at the press of the button and that was now over if this was what I had to contend with whenever any one of the three of them had a low battery. On the other hand…

I didn’t need or want to be woken up by Roy Skelton in the middle of the night. 

Winky the giraffe was ambling around the plains, enjoying a lovely day. His left eye occasionally exhibiting evidence of the nervous twitch which is part of his condition, and is really the driving force of this story. That, and his itch.

Winky scanned the horizon for other giraffes but saw none. This was a problem because of his itch. Located on his rear inner haunch, it was the one place he simply couldn’t reach to scratch and it was driving him bonkers. Even rubbing up against the rare tree wouldn’t do the trick, undignified as it was. So, he wandered, in search of a scratching savior. 

Eventually, he came upon a group of elephants, led by a brusque fellow by the name of Baraloton. Winky decided to ask him for help, he and his flexible trunk.

“Hi-de-ho, Baraloton, king of elephants!” Winky said, with what he hoped was just the right amount of respect and whimsy.

“Rumf, rumf, rumf, yes, hi-de-ho… why, it’s Winky, isn’t it? Yes, I never forget a face, by gum!” Bataloton proudly reported.

“We actually spoke yesterday, but yes, great memory on you, for sure, Baraloton. *wink*” Winky remarked.

“No need to be sarcastic, dear boy, I am an aged old duffer after all, got to take the small victories where I can, you understand…” the elder elephant decried.

Winky tried to interject, “No, of course, I meant no disrespect *wink*, I simply wondered if you would do me a–” 

Baraloton reared up in fury, “Mean no disrespect, you winking, spotted, long necked, insurrectionist! How dare you mock the king of elephants! I ought to uproot a tree, and thrash you with it, or better yet, uproot and smash YOU!”

Suddenly, Baraloton’s subjects surrounded Winky in a menacing fashion, fire in their eyes. 

“Wait, wait,” Winky nervously cried, “I have a nervous condition of some sort! *wink* I beg of you, noble elephants, *wink*, you’re my favorite animals! *wink*”

And they bashed him up pretty good. Later, after gaining consciousness, Winky hobbled off, realizing he was lucky that elephants are not cruel or mean or carnivores, and had just roughed him up. The worst part was that he still had that itch driving him crazy. 

Soon, he came upon the remains of some victim of a higher member of a food chain. There wasn’t much left of the beast, but ol’ Barry the vulture was was tucking in for sloppy fourths.

“Hey Barry.” Said Winky. “Good feast?”

Barry looked up, “oh, hey Wink, yeah, it’s somethin’ ta do, y’know, catch as catch can.” Then he turned his full attention on Winky, fully aware of his condition. “Heeyyyyy, you look pretty much beaten up. You a…. you okay there?”

“Had a run in with some elephants *wink*.” Winky said, tiredly.

“Hunh” grunted Barry, “Hey, sure, ha HA!, whatever floats your boat, am I right? You giraffes, kinky dudes, heh.”

“No, seriously, *wink*, I got beaten up by a gang of elephants! *wink*” Winky said more forcefully.

“Hey, hey, hey, none of my business!” Barry eagerly added, “But hey, if you feel like you might take a turn for the worse, let me know, okay? Ya know, a little professional courtesy, circle of life, what have you?”

Winky just shook his head. He didn’t feel like arguing and ending up blinking even more, so he moved on. It was a minute later when he realized maybe Barry could help him out with the itch! Excited, he turned, but the vulture had already flown away, off to find other meals. Onward went Winky. Bruised, tired, itchy.

It was late in the day, when the world weary Winky skirted around some rocks and suddenly froze with fear. There on the ground, seemingly asleep was the feared lion, Haunch-Ripper. Slowly, Winky started to back up.

“I’m awake, giraffe,” growled Haunch-Ripper, “but at the moment, you need not fear me, for I have just finished a rather large meal. I’m certainly not in the mood for a chase.”

“Oh!” Said a relieved Winky, and relaxed.

Haunch-Ripper appraised the giraffe’s condition “What the devil happened to you, giraffe?”

“Oh,” Winky uttered, “Elephants.”

“You know, I find I don’t really care. After this big a meal, I get pretty loagy. I just want to sleep, you know what I mean?” Haunch-Ripper said with a yawn.

Winky started to say something and then stopped. He too was weary, yet still a bit anxious.

“What? What do you want to say? Speak up, giraffe.” the lion commanded lazily.

“Well,” Winky offered, “I know this might seem odd *wink*, but could you scratch an itch for me *wink*?” 

“You got a nervous eye, kid?” Haunch-Ripper asked.

“Yes!” exclaimed Winky, “I DO have a nervous eye! I’m so glad you recognized it! It usually causes me nothing but trouble, with misunderstandings galore!”

“I figured,” added Haunch-Ripper, “Because a giraffe asking a lion a question like that, in that way….it just seems weird. But it turns out, I too, have suffered from that affliction in the past, so I understand completely.”

Winky was overwhelmed with relief. “Wow, that is the best news I’ve heard today *wink*. So, you’ll help me out?”

“Yeah, sure, where’s the itch?” asked the large carnivore.

“It’s right here,” Winky moved closer and started to position himself in front of the lion, “on my rear inner…….haunch.”

“But of course!” Said Haunch-Ripper, flashing his claws and smiling…

“Let’s take care of that little itch. *wink*”

DC comics is one tiny little cog in the massive machine which is AT&T/Warner. As such, the profit generated from all of those silly little comics with those silly little character’s doesn’t mean a hill of beans to the AT&T/Warner’s bean counters. They deal in great mountains of beans, not lil’ hills.

So when the massive corporation got a new head honcho, changes were made all over, I’m guessing but there were definite changes at DC. Long time DC boss and chief kibitzer Dan DiDio got the axe. He was part of a trio of bosses at the helm, along with Geoff Johns and Jim Lee. Johns has been focusing the vast majority of efforts on writing for DC television shows, and isn’t really involved with the comics anymore. That leaves Lee. If he was ever anything more than a mouthpiece for the company, it’s hard to say. That’s regarding the business half. Lee still illustrates from time to time with his inker/partner Scott Williams. They’ve been together for upwards of 30 years now. 

DC has also recently ended their exclusive distribution with Diamond Comics after 25 years. Diamond, a fairly ruthless monopoly in all but legal status, had had a stranglehold on comic distribution since 1995, when Marvel left them and tried to distribute on their own. Diamond was quick to sign DC and other companies to exclusive deals, so they couldn’t pull what Marvel did. The maneuver killed two other distribution companies at the time. Marvel’s new service soon failed and they crawled back to Diamond, who then had everybody at their mercy. Now, with comics going digital, Diamond has been losing its grip. The move by DC is less mercenary than what Diamond did a quarter century earlier to its competition.

But as far as the comics themselves, it’s been reported that the company is in the process of dramatically trimming down their monthly line. Over the decades, DC has usually had, at different times, some 30, 40, 50 or more comics coming out each month. 

The new plan has that chopped down to about a dozen. 

Most of them focusing on Batman, Superman and Wonder Woman related stuff with a few other characters tossed in. It’s presumed that the process is all about keeping certain copyrights alive and well, while continuing to grind out grist for future DC movies. Because those two things are far more valuable than the meager coins the comic sales nets the company. 

As far as the creative talent, I know all varieties and levels of talent are already getting gigs at Marvel, and I’m sure others will find their footing with cash grabs at Kickstarter and other go-fund-me pages, and failing that, other smaller comic companies. 

The big winner here might just be Marvel. They’re going to be quick to snatch up the extra two thirds of empty space (be it physical or digital) that used to belong to DC. The big, decades long, monthly battle for sales is finally over. Marvel has won. I did say the big winner “might” be Marvel though. Marvel has been shoveling enough of their own manure onto the stands next to its quality stuff– just like DC. There’s risk in expanding too big, too quickly, so we’ll see.

What all this restructuring at AT&T/Warner ultimately means for the dark and gritty comics, the so-so box office for DC movies and other sections of the company, time will tell.

“Previously, on Rick Lundeen, Blobby Delight….”

Back in January of 2019, the powers that be, perhaps trying to “keep things interesting”, saddled Rick with a diagnosis of an extremely rare cancer known as Mantle Cell Lymphoma. 

Flash forward to the present, where Rick was at his primary physician to get treatment for what is believed to be a sinus infection of some sort–

(It wasn’t, it was COVID, but NOT the point of the story).

Anyway, I didn’t fully comprehend just how rare my particular cancer was. When talking to my doctor, she was astonished that I’d contracted it. Only time she’d ever had a patient with it in some 30 years or more of her practice. She actually had to drag out the medical books to find out more about it. It was kind of like winning the reverse lottery, me getting that. Yay? 

The point was that it was very very rare, not very much was known about it, and it was pretty amazing that I came through it. She was just very excited and happy for me, and that was nice. 

But finding out today *just* how rare, or unique it is, I had to tell her about something that happened to me on a job the year before, and I’ll share it here as well because knowing what I know now, it’s doubly weird.

So, a month or so after receiving my Mantle Cell diagnosis, I was going to work on a rare on-site Illustration job. An agency was doing a pitch and needed some illustrations done right there at said agency.

The first odd bit was that once I settled in, I was briefed on the product by the creative director in charge. It was a cancer medication. 30 years in the biz, and I never worked on a cancer medication before. Then, the CD patiently and thoroughly told me the ins and outs of how cancer works, and all the behind the scenes stuff. 

Little did he know. 

I think by this point, I had only had one chemo treatment. I was just starting my path down the yellow brick road. But I certainly wasn’t going to say anything, because it might get awkward. And hey, it’s a job, and I needed the money.

The next bit was disconcerting. This entire team was learning about cancer, tossing around all these interesting facts. As the one art director was describing one concept to me, he marveled at one detail and had to share. 

“Did you know,” he asked, wide eyed with wonder, “that some tumors can actually grow teeth?”

“I did NOT know that!” I said, “That is wild!”

And I in fact did NOT know that, nor did I WANT to! JESUS! 

Guh.

But on and on it went. I ended up coming in three times over three months to work on concepts for this cancer drug, drawing well over 100 illustrations. But the one that really stuck out, was when the main writer on the project came in and described the next concept. It was just going to be the tag line rendered in some three dimensional type sitting on a platform. I readied my pen to write down the headline:

“How To Stay Ahead… Of Mantle Cell Lymphoma”

Yep. 

He had no clue why I laughed when hearing it. Again, I wasn’t going to say anything. But as far as coincidences go, that’s top of the line crazy.

I related that to my doctor and she was REALLY blown away. Jaw drop, you name it.

But until today, I didn’t *really* know just HOW rare it was. 

Go figure.

MODERN MEDICINE!

No, it’s not a gas aid. 

It’s rare, really really rare– only 200 recorded cases in the last 300 years– but it happens.

How about that?

That’s a very short blog entry, so I’ll expand– but hey, not to an explosive extent!

Seriously, it can happen and for some reason, this frustrating day got me thinking about it. Nothing major but you kinda get in that fed up mood with little things, stupid things that make you angry, blah blah blah.

I tend to blah blah blah during a sentence when no one including me will benefit from it ending in any meaningful way. Not that I throw a lot of meaningful blah blah blah.

So you get miffed and you feel like your head is going to explode.

Then you happen to think about SHC and wonder just how rare it is. 

What tends to cause it?

Some guy wrote a book about it called “Ablaze!”, which I can’t decide if that’s an horrific or hilariously funny title. Here are a couple stats on SHC:

“[…]the recorded cases have these things in common:

1. the victims are chronic alcoholics;
2. they are usually elderly females;
3. the body has not burned spontaneously, but some lighted substance has come into contact with it;
4. the hands and feet usually fall off;
5. the fire has caused very little damage to combustible things in contact with the body;
6. the combustion of the body has left a residue of greasy and fetid ashes, very offensive in odour.”

Oooof. Well, that’s all horrible. 

So if you’re an old, drunken woman with dangly hands and loose feet, maybe shape up, dry out? 

On the bright side, the immediate area around you generally doesn’t seem to ignite, so hey, less property damage.

Unless you still have the presence of mind to fling your burning carcass onto the new couch or just stand there and ruin the ornate Turkish rug you *just* bought.  

All in all, brutal, but it does tend to put your worries in perspective. 

…here’s a link to a larger version…https://rickjlundeen.wordpress.com/2020/11/16/horse-guy-5/

Back in art school, pretty much all of my friends and contemporaries wisely diversified their skill sets. The first year, amongst the two classes each day, it was mandatory to have fundamentals for one and life drawing for the other. 

But the *second* year, you could start taking other classes. I think most people –that I knew–took more life drawing and added an oil painting class. I did not. I kept life drawing and added Illustration. I think that this once and for all classified me as an illustrator, not an artist, at least in my mind. Third year, I took cartooning, which makes sense because I’m a HELLUVA lot closer to being a cartoonist than I am a “fine artist”.

Sure, it probably could have helped me immensely to learn about color theory and so many other facets of painting. But for whatever reason, I needed to put down lines. Maybe this was a lack of confidence in myself, an insecurity, maybe I was lazy, I’m not sure. Maybe I just can’t grasp the mechanics of painting. Maybe I just needed the immediate gratification of putting that image on paper. Maybe there was a bigger reason. I hate mess.

Oil painting creates a helluva mess. I’m about 70% of the way to Felix Unger (look it up, kids). Where as Illustration is much cleaner. There’s still a bit of clean up, some eraser crumbs, maybe some smeared ink here and there, but nothing as bad as the whole oil painting process. 

Yes, Bob Ross would probably kick me in the cajones for such heresy.

There might be a bit of impatience there as well. I’m much more comfortable doing storyboards where I’m almost never spending more than an hour on a piece. Part of why I’m not an “artist” is that I don’t relax, or embrace the zen of letting the universe step into your soul and from there onto the canvas via your brush (I’m basically too uptight). And then have to clean it up afterward. 

Nothing I hate more than cleaning brushes. I’d rather just throw them out.

Back in the early days of my career doing storyboards, I’d of course be doing everything conventionally. Penciling, then inking with a certain thin black marker for the clean line, then coloring with a huge variety of markers. I had hundreds of colors and after a job, hitting some deadline, I’d have several hundred markers scattered about that I’d have to put back. That wasn’t bad.

But *refilling* the markers was ridiculous and I destroyed many a rug back in various offices. I was really happy when I went all digital. Best of all possible worlds, with absolutely no clean up. But aside from the whole mess angle, I don’t really think my right brain is in charge. 

There is the ongoing debate on left brain/right brain. That’s where if you’re more analytical and methodical, you’re considered to be left brain dominant, as opposed to the artistic, free thinking sort who’s considers right brained. Some say it’s all a myth and been debunked. I think we all can probably name people we know who are just all artistic, free-thinkers, just like we can probably name people who are 100% all analytics and methodology.

That’s all well and good but if ever there was a left brained illustrator, it’s me.

Is that bad? I suppose it’s odd more than anything else but it would explain a lot. How I work and operate. 

Maybe I’m a mid-brain? Hare-brained? Numbskull?

It’s not earth shattering but I thought it was somewhat interesting. 

DRAWING!

You might see a number of these entries inserted into the mix, as when my body’s finally settled, and the wracking, debilitating, near vomit inducing cough from hell as quieted, I can at least type. I’m writing this on Thursday, November 12th.

If nothing else, I hope this educates, especially those who think this is just a rough three day journey, or a bad cold. If you’re lucky enough to get a mild case, more power to you. I’m starting week three.

I’m actually hoping this takes a turn for the better soon because we’re not too many steps from the ER option. Matthew’s doing fine (ah, youth), but Lin and I are moving around like 90 year olds. Constantly exhausted, we might be good for a five minute burst of energy, then it’s twenty minutes of coughing, because any exertion triggers the cough. 

And we’ve still got the chills. We’re constantly starving yet after a bite or two, we’re full. If I need anything, I’ve got to message Matthew because I can’t talk without engaging the coughing machine. 

Oh, and hey, I’m currently a stool to sit down in the shower. Exciting!

Wish I had better news to report. 

More as it happens, but I’ll pepper in some typical entries as well…

Linda Louise Potts was born into this world to Joe and Sylvia, joining siblings Mike and Karen (Brian came later). She was often referred to as The Happy Child. She was a bit of a tomboy and she had a cat named Peanut Butter who acted more like a dog, yet ironically, she was never a big fan of dogs, ever since she was bitten by one as a child. 

I’d love to be able to state categorically that she’s still the Happy Child but frankly, the last two years have really put that to the test. Putting up with me in general is one thing, adding cancer really pushed the limits of endurance, but she is a saint that I don’t deserve. 

In truth, she is the Delight. 

Then all this COVID shit, months of lockdown, then the entire family getting infected to boot… well, the saving grace is that we’re all in it together. It’s really more coughing, chills, and ambling around, then napping together, but at least it is together.

And Trump lost, so we got *that* going for us….which is nice.

Happy birthday to the Happy Child. 

I just wish it could be better.