I Can't Believe It
Friday. Overcast, the weather people saying sun and clouds, so maybe it will clear up later. Still, up with the alarm, to breakfast and back at eight. Got to sleep after ten last night, reading the first half of Thomas Perry's The Informant that had arrived late yesterday afternoon, the published this year twenty four years later sequel to The Butcher's Boy that I mentioned reading on the Kindle.
I recommend it only in the sense I've actually been reading it, something I haven't been doing for too many years. Maybe the worm has turned. Returned. When I say I'm not reading it means I'm reading maybe a dozen books a year instead of four or more a month. There was a time, well, there was a time, but not a recent time, when I read much more.
Dinner and a club recommended by a friend after in Berkeley with two of the usual crew later this evening, something to look forward to. Don't much do that anymore. My fault, of course. They say it's not so good to stop getting out and meeting people, something that's too easy to fall into when you're retired. Old man mole. Something to keep an eye on here, tending the vast tulip farms of Oakland.
Later. It's now noon, I've been up for six hours. Spent the last couple getting farther into the novel - terse prose written about people who are wired spring tight, lots of bullets and office politics, the politics the nastier of the two - and spent some time, but not a lot of time, on the guitar. Yesterday I probably practiced for three hours. We'll keep that in mind, won't worry if today I only do two.
The sun, by the way, has arrived and I need to get out for a walk. Just like clockwork. You'd think I was in a rut.
Later still. A odd little walk down the way thinking I'd catch a bus downtown and walk through the Friday farmer's market and shoot some pictures, getting to the stop for the bus ahead of time, so I went across the street and bought an ice cream cone (you'll notice the number of ice cream cones I consume, you probably don't find them living in a nice vitamin heavy section on the food pyramid) and returned to the stop before the bus arrived.
Did I really want to go downtown to the farmer's market? The bus had arrived and we were waiting for the woman in the wheel chair on the platform to be lifted into the bus when I realized I didn't, so I walked on back toward my apartment along Grand thinking I'd check out the lake, see what I could see. I'd brought along an older D2Xs with a 180mm f 2.8 lens thinking I needed to change my perspective a little and would be useful for candids at a farmer's market. So, down by the lake, I sat on one of the benches contemplating art and life. The cell rang. It was a delivery guy saying he had a package for me at the front door of my building.
I knew I had two spindles of blank printable DVD's coming, but had figured they'd come later in the afternoon. OK. Good timing. I told him I was four minutes away, leave them on the stairs out of sight next to the front door, I'd be there to get them in, well, four minutes. Which I did.
So no walk today other than a short quarter mile loop down Grand and back, but the DVD's are in place, the walking attempted and I'm feeling tired. Tired isn't quite the right word, but some combination of the crap I've been experiencing these last couple of years that can usually be cured by an hour's nap. I lay down, opened the book and got in another hour's reading instead of sleep. We're getting close to the finish, we are. Of the book.
It's now two, time for some guitar to get it out of the way before I head out for dinner. An ice cream cone for lunch, maybe something more nutritious for dinner. Some actual vegetables perhaps. A salad. (Hup!) Meanwhile guitar.
Evening. Dinner at T-Rex in Berkeley. Ribs and such. One or two vegetables. Interesting place. Mr. E said we, along with the usual crew had been there some years back to celebrate Mr. M's birthday, but I have no recollection of it. I'm forgetting things, but not whole lunches in somewhat unique looking restaurants. I don't think. Mr. E is known for pulling one's leg with such stories. An art, more than a prevarication.
We then crossed over San Pablo to Ashkenaz where they were giving a benefit to raise money to reintroduce wolves to California. Three bands, no standing room, the third and final band playing Romanian folk music. Lines of dancers jumping to the beat, a large circle of dancers composed mostly of the women present dancing on the dance floor. I may have been out of my element. Our companion, Ms. R, is a dancer. Mr. E and I, old bumps on a log, are not. Still, a good evening, over by eleven. Two beers, a Guinness with dinner and an Indian Pale Ale at the club. Hup, hup! We're such a goody two shoes I can't believe it.