Can They? Really?
Friday. Yesterday's entry took many a minute to rewrite and edit to make it palatable and I'm saying “palatable” with some misgivings. Funky days lead to funky writing and there's been a lot of funky writing around lately.
Still, however the day went yesterday, the evening went relatively well. Drinking the bourbon seemed to work out just fine, consuming it over three or so hours, easing into the evening, feeling pretty good without losing much other than some discomfort in the sinus-upper palate battleground. Which is good.
To bed early, up with the alarm, to breakfast and back at the usual hour. Some fairly extensive editing then, as mentioned, before heading out on the bus to get the damned monthly blood test done. It was good for getting in some walking, back now at ten-thirty to look over yesterday's entry again before posting. I suspect I need to take a break for the journal schedule, but we'll think about that for a while and not do any more whinging about it here until I've decided. A change, I have to admit, from my usual practice.
No sign of UPS with the camera yet, which is good, as I was half suspecting it to arrive while I was at the lab, forgetting to tape my little note to the mailbox asking the delivery people to buzz the building manager if I was out. I forget these little things more often than I like. Been wondering about them - are they a real problem on the horizon? - although I have yet to come to any particular conclusion. I write my age down on paper (OK, I visualize my age written down on paper) and I think - whoa! - what's this?! The younger I was skeptical that I'd ever see such a number, given the history of the family male line. Then again the women have lasted a whole lot longer, but either way, or anyway, we're well into unknown territory here, yes we are.
And you seem to keep bringing it up. This leads to what? Anguish? Fretting? Fear?
It enables the excuses I use to buy more camera gear. If I don't get it now, I never will. And besides, who needs to save beyond say another whatever number of years? Eat, drink and shoot pictures.
Ah. What have you ordered?
Nothing that's due for a while.
Later. A better day than the last two, I'd say, the head reasonably clear, the horizon not overly constricted, the afternoon warm and sunny. Out the door and down the way (leaving a note on the mailbox for UPS this time) to do the usual walk along the lake and on to the morning café for a blueberry scone and coffee. No detours for an ice cream cone, but a walk straight back home stopping to sit briefly in both Splash Pad Park across from the theater and by the white columns to tarry by the lake.
It's now three in the afternoon, UPS nowhere in sight (I'm assuming it's coming today, based on the two days it took for the first camera, but you never know with all the unknown variables involved), the PBS News Hour starting soon, a good time to begin the day's first guitar session. Yesterday was a good long session day, although I never know if I might not use it then as an excuse to fritter away practice at some time later. Say today. I think I won't. Probably won't.
Evening. A walk down the hill for sushi and sake. I don't do that unless I'm feeling pretty good and can get my head around (or, more accurately, my stomach around) the thought of sushi. Feel pretty good. Returning to the apartment (yes, I left the note for UPS) the camera had arrived. I set it up and took a picture of a blank wall to check for dust. No dust. Nice. The D3s goes out tomorrow morning. Life in the fast lane. Maybe I'll get it back by the Chinese New Year Parade, maybe I won't, but I'm hopeful and betting on the better outcome. Hup.
More time now on the guitar. The six o'clock police procedural series they run on Fridays during the week (why they're all police procedurals, I don't know, but then all the few American stations I can get seem to be running CSI and its derivatives all of the time too) is an abysmal Italian thing I find unwatchable. As I've mentioned, I can only take so many serial killers before I, well, turn to Scandinavian police procedurals with the exception of the ones made in Italy. This one is definitely made in Italy.
I'm guessing Italy has work to do on more than just the people they send to elective office. Some of the Scandinavian police procedurals are palatable, more so than the current American examples, but the Italian procedurals are mostly hopeless. Unless the two available here aren't representative. Could be. They can't all behave like Berlusconi. Can they? Really?