Another day under the gun under the sun in Oakland.
My, my. That's dramatic. What seems to have happened?
Pretty much nothing. ”Under the gun, under the sun“ has a certain patty cake quality to it that I find pleasing. When you get to my age you hold onto your “youngster at heart” images; another step, I suppose, on the path to “doddering old idiot”.
You seem upbeat. Odd, don't you think? For you? With the holidays approaching.
Well, you know, I'm having dinner with friends and lunch with friends and photography sessions with friends and exchanges of email with friends and it's breaking down my genetically ingrained natural pessimism. I may even buy a Christmas tree this year, although I wouldn't bet on it.
You certainly have been a grouchy old fart for these last many years.
I hope it's no more than just these last few years. You look back and you tend to gloss over, you know, the stupid stuff. I'm not certain I haven't been spending my life accumulating stupid stuff. Maybe it's the mood altering drugs, maybe it's the occasional one minute microwaved flask of piping hot saki I've been injecting into my blood stream now and again in the evenings, maybe it's age and wisdom. I'm thinking age and wisdom, but I'm believing hot sake. (And the little pills.)
You're going to have to quit the hot saki.
It affects your writing.
You probably shouldn't give up the drugs, though, without the advice of a doctor.