You'll Need Cable
Saturday. Well, the same unlit regular gas price section at the top of the station sign this morning, except on the pump itself it said $4.07 for regular instead of the $4.09 it displayed yesterday. Which makes me wonder if it was really $4.07 yesterday and my memory failed in the ten minutes it took to drive home and sit down to write. I don't think so, but I'm wise enough in my ways to wonder. Question. For no good reason. We're just rambling. Babbling. Getting the engine started.
To bed last night after eleven having watched the third Deadwood DVD after, as mentioned, bailing on The Rum Diary. Didn't work, The Rum Diary. No it didn't. A lame script, probably abetted by the conflict between the later Hunter Thompson writings, for which he became famous, and this first book (as I'm recollecting now as it's been a while, no way I wouldn't buy and read it when it first came out), was pretty much a straight narrative, Gonzo still in the fetal stage waiting to be born in the later outings. But, what the hell, making movies is a chancy business and most seem to fail for reasons too numerous. Still, would have been nice if.
Up with the alarm, to breakfast and back (as noted), the sky overcast but not quite yet looking like the rain projected over the next couple of days in the forecast. We'll see if we can't get in our walk before any of that gets started.
Later. A nap. No surprise there, getting to bed after eleven, but a better than an hour's nap before getting up, looking around and seeing sun outside. No rain as they were forecasting. I'm not upset.
So a walk over to the morning restaurant passing through the Saturday's farmers market. A picture of the inflatable shark. I'm sure they've had this design in place before, there's always a children's slide of some similar kind at the corner, but I obviously needed a picture. An apple turnover and a small cup of coffee at the café, just two other people with me out on the patio. The crowd has seemed a little lighter in these last few weeks, I hope it's not a sign of something. Hard to tell.
A walk then back by the Grand Lake theater and on through the market again, a picture or two if only because I've pretty much stopped trying to get an image that shows the feel of the place. One last shot of the now patched hole in the sidewalk, the workman having added texture to the cement so you won't slip when it's wet. My assumption, anyway. I assume the project has now been completed when it's finished setting, although I don't remember quite how long that takes. Two, three days? Cement? I suspect it's set beyond the point anyone can carve their clever phrases and initials, but you never know. I didn't give it a poke to check.
Again, the sun is shining out there through the balcony door, I'm sitting here thinking maybe tune the guitar and start a practice session. Once it's started, the earlier the better, it rolls right along. Pick it up and play. Put it down, do something else, pick it up again without thought or effort. You can get in multiple hours instead of one, something you may have noticed I ramble on about. Even on weekends.
Later still. One last walk taking a little closer look at the sidewalk repair as I passed. Oops! But OK, nothing too over the top.
On through the farmers market area heading for the ATM as the last of the stalls was packing and then back for an ice cream cone. One cannot live on ice cream cones alone, but one can come close. Back now in time to listen to Al Jazeera on PBS at four. Standard netroots liberal behavior, although these various labels never quite apply. Let's just say for me tea party means a gathering where they serve tea.
Again, a really nice afternoon, lots of people walking and running the lake, sitting on the grass, throwing footballs and such to pass the afternoon. No complaints.
Evening. The six o'clock Scandinavian police procedural was indeed a Swedish police procedural (called Beck). I'm trying to decide if it seems more than a bit strange to me because I'm seeing a difference in cultures and attitudes or it's just, well, strange. It's evidently been a big success in Sweden, so it has an audience, but.... Well, thinking of the various serial killer series we've become addicted to here, none of which I can watch anymore, maybe it's a bit of both - cultural and strange, all that snow, you know - and I'm just blowing smoke.
You've been watching it.
And I'm bitching.
Anyway, some guitar, a ten minute start into Johnny Depp's last Disney pirate movie - I'm not sure I'm going to get as far with Captain Jack as I did before I bailed on The Rum Dairy - and so now I think to bed. Read something other than a Scandinavian police procedural (translated from the Swedish) before I turn out the lights, perhaps something more soothing, set in Cairo, written in say, Japanese.
With or without the serial killers?
Whatever happened to good old (consensual) sex?
You'd need cable for that.