Good To Sleep
Sunday. The evening evolved well, picking at the guitar for over an hour, watching the end of a very so-so movie before watching my Korean soap at nine-fifty (a bit late, but what the hell?) and then putting on a DVD movie about the life and career of Atlantic Records Tom Dowd (Tom Dowd and the Language of Music).
Hmm, dangerous thing to do, got me immediately involved, that nice opening sequence with Layla playing in the background, the guy having an even more interesting history and career than I'd imagined. So I got to bed right at midnight managing to tear myself away in the middle of the movie just as they'd entered my own period of peak interest in the late sixties and early seventies.
Up now sleeping in until eight, a drive to breakfast two hours later than usual to discover my waitress had saved my usual table with a “Reserved” sign. This not the first time. It makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, particularly if it looks as if the room is full and people might have been made to wait with my empty table available. This morning was crowded, but not that crowded, and I was able to spread myself out, spend the time I needed reading and still not cause anyone a problem.
So we're back at the apartment feeling better than yesterday, the sun bright, the sky clear and the day ahead. I noted yesterday I'd seen in Facebook that Mr. & Ms. W had attended Wondercon on Saturday and they were thinking of attending today. Haven't seen either of one of them in too long, be nice if I could get over there to see them later this afternoon, so maybe the decision has been made to attend.
I mentioned the head was clearer and the various muscles were behaving, but then I mention a lot of stuff, little of which translates into anything that can be understood. One day you feel “funky”, the next you don't. “Funky” seems as good a term as any, ultimately better than others. Covers so much territory, funky. But I guess I digress.
Hardly a surprise.
Hardly a surprise on a Sunday. A sunny Sunday, though. Did I mention it? Highs in the low seventies, lows in the high fifties? God in Her heaven, the devil in his deep, the kid with his camera after a good night's sleep?
Later. A trip to Wondercon: a bus, then BART, a walk to Moscone Center; the eyes seeing double this late morning, early afternoon, nothing too terrible, nothing that really gets in the way if you close one eye or the other when you really need to focus. Funky, in other words, nothing too over the top, but the kind of thing that tends to make you want to stay inside and not venture out to a convenience store, let alone San Francisco to a Wondercon.
The crowd was much like last year's crowd. I wandered around a bit looking for Mr. & Ms. W, finally finding Ms. W manning their booth on her own, Mr. W not being up for a second day of dealing with the crowd. Too bad, but we said hello amid the bustle and I ran into Ms. S and her companion, someone I've known now for some time, the wife of a good friend from the old days in San Francisco, but had yet to meet other than earlier through the journal and now on Facebook. So good.
Otherwise Wondercon is a product for another, younger generation, the old underground comix having a place in it's history, but fading now into the distance behind the branches and shoots that have grown up in the intervening years from, beyond and around it. Underground comix are a chapter in the history of comics, but comics that have branched out over these last decades into everything from computer games and graphic novels to movies and undoubtedly other genres of which I have no clue. So I took one or two pictures and headed back to Oakland.
Early evening now, back at the apartment, the head better (why better in the early morning and evenings, never the late mornings and afternoons?). Guitar, I think, finish that Tom Dowd movie, go to sleep. It's good to sleep.