Friday. I broke a pattern and decided fifteen minutes before the movie started this evening to drive down to the theater and see The Banger Sisters, Susan Sarandon and Goldie Hawn. Once known throughout rock and roll-dom as the Banger Sisters, Hawn and Sarandon collide again "twenty years" later. (Thirty years, my dears, thirty years, if you're going to talk about Jim Morrison.) I arrived as the crowd for the last show was leaving and found a parking space thirty feet from the theater. A nice light weight forgettable easy to digest couple of laughs summer flick, nothing to remember, nothing to burden the soul. And it killed the rest of the evening. I wanted to kill the rest of the evening.
Saturday. It's going to be hot today. No fog this morning, clear, bright sun, a typical warm fall Bay Area day after breakfast, Car Talk playing in the background, so it must be after ten, my bedroom fan sitting six feet from my chair turned on low, a nice little breeze, today, Saturday, in Oakland.
And I'm out of film. And I have a wedding to shoot next weekend, a long day in Tiburon that will end on a yacht. A wedding dinner Thursday evening, also in Tiburon, to which I have yet to commit. I don't want to go to a wedding dinner in Tiburon. I don't even know if I have a suit that fits. Come to think of it, I should probably buy a pair of slacks to wear with a sports jacket. A photographer like a plumber is allowed to dress for his job. I have to think about this over the weekend and order film from B & H tomorrow. Three hours into the day and already it's complicated.
Later. Tired on the one side, feeling a need to get out of the house on the other. A need, I think, to keep moving, tired or not, so as not to think. The prostate, sure, but I've been this way I now suspect for most of my life. When I was five? When I was twenty? I'm not sure. Keep on moving, keep on moving. How about all those years reading books? Do fidgety people read books as they lie in bed reading? Or are there various shades of fidgety? MTV fidgety, book fidgety, Internet fidgety, photographer fidgety? I don't know if I come across that way with the people I know, it's hard to see how others see you. You have to crank your head so damned far around to look at youself you don't do it. The view, good, bad, is uncomfortable. Who is this guy? Am I this guy? Up on his feet, running from something? What something?
Later still, after a bus ride and a walk around downtown, a salad and a Coke at the City Center. It was a good salad. My bottle cap had a number printed inside, so I dialed into the web site printed on the label and discovered a music site. I keyed in the number. A dozen selections, the first of which was pretty good. I actually ordered the damned thing. I actually bought a fucking music CD through a Coke promotion. Which is to say (in a round about way) this has been a good day for all my carping.
The weather is perfect. I set out dressed in a t-shirt carrying a camera and a fanny pack with a telephoto lens and four rolls of film: Jeans and t-shirt, two pairs of socks (more comfortable), walking shoes, fanny pack and camera. No bags, backpacks or bulky pockets. I wandered all over, had lunch in the City Center, as mentioned (I was hoping the Coke cap meant I'd won a million dollars) returned to the neighborhood, had coffee out on the sidewalk at a cafe down the way, came home and here I am, having ordered the music CD by a band who's name I can't remember.
So does that mean I'm fidgety or crochety or what? I guess it doesn't matter. One morning I'm thinking hell, go back to bed, by afternoon I'm off and singing. Or is this just me? Pushing sixty and I haven't learned what all the world knows at four. Or five.