To Bed. Now.
Saturday. Drove to downtown Oakland, last night, found a parking space next to a BART entrance, took BART to the city, met with the usual crew (plus or minus a couple of members) and drank Guinness into the evening. Haven't done that in a while, got home around midnight, don't need to do that again. Took a picture or two on the way to Harrington's, took a picture or two at Harrington's, took a picture or two on the way home on BART. A long evening, an interesting morning awakening and going to breakfast, the head in a recognizable bubble. Don't need to do that again for a while.
Off to a town called Murphys in the Sierra foothills some hundred and forty miles from here to hear Pladdohg play (just for the hell of it, the trip decided on last week before a long night at Harrington's was contemplated), so I'm heading out to pick up Mr. E at the Rockridge BART station at nine, three hours on the road to Murphys to hear the band play at one, back then to Oakland to finish the day. Hey. Ouch! (Is how the head is feeling at the moment, a mild ouch!, but an ouch! none the less.)
Later. I wondered why the band was playing at ten in the morning and one in the afternoon at a place called Main Street until we arrived in Murphys and discovered hundreds of cars and motorcycles parked along the roads as we approached the town. The were playing, not at Main Street, but on Main Street as in road. Murphys was having its annual St. Patrick's Day Fair and there were hundreds and hundreds of people jammed along Main Street as far as the eye could see. Silly me.
Let us just say the day was long, the pictures crappy, even with all the equipment I'd brought, the drive to and from a long drive, Mr. E and I done before the day was done. Mr. E and I done before the day was started. To bed, I think. Now.