The People (yes, that would be a big P) of Andrew Cuomo hunted me down to insist that I troll The Archive for more more more images of him and Eliot and Hillary. I complied but not before a question - OK, so your deadline is in like how many minutes, how long did you HAVE this deadline.
The woman I was in actual contact with transitioned from the ennui-laden voice of a campaign chair in the Shiney Apple to the squeaky all-girl high-pitched We Are Conspiratorial Pals voice.
Well . . . Nancy . . . you KNOW how campaigns are.
Onwards.
So here I am in the Mac store in the former wetlands of Cheektowaga, in the dismal mall - a universe away from the clubbiness, the buzz of the SoHo/Preferred Mac Joint.
Working in said Mac hangout in the former wetlands on a demo model just like the one that the nice Apple folks constructed per my requests out in Cali. And, just like the machine of Yours Truly, the freakin' trackpad does a very odd skip and jump.
It is time to wend my way out of this happy land of machines and digital pageantry to the land of deadlines, and requests.

Honeyed Love.