Sunday. Watched the first twenty minutes of Close Encounters of the Third Kind last night before bailing, having forgotten how it started. I did see it when it was released in 1977, but then I went to see most things of any note when they were released in 1977. Finally, twenty minutes in, remembered how it was going to get from where it was to how it ended. Good movie, no complaints, but not one to keep us up past our bedtime.

And a good night's sleep. Lights out by ten to awaken briefly once after midnight and then coming to consciousness again after six to find the Chronicle had arrived, but not the Times and the Tribune which are delivered by another distributor. OK. This has happened before. Wait a bit, clear the advertising sections out of the Chronicle, wait a bit more and then check again downstairs. The Tribune had arrived, but not the Times, making me think the Times production people had screwed up and not delivered to their distributor.

All of which means I still walked to breakfast in a pretty good mood, had breakfast and walked back toward the apartment, arriving at the Grand Lake theater stop just as the bus pulled up and so took the bus the rest of the way home. OK, so far, so good. I guess. No Times when I got home, but that's what I'd been expecting.

The Oakland Pride Parade at ten-thirty followed by the Pride Festival that runs from eleven to seven. We'll photograph the festival and skip the parade. Too much effort, too much running around on the streets with the cameras. Safer, easier and more productive to spend the ten bucks on a ticket and photograph the festival instead.

Is that a “good” excuse or a “lame” excuse?

Not a bad excuse. We've only done the festival in the past and the parade is a more recent addition. And it would be more effort to photograph the both of them than I'm up for. Really. Maybe get this damned photography operation off the ground again and tamp this paranoia thing back down into the ground.

Later. The pictures aren't the best, but otherwise a decent outing. I did (for a brief moment) think of not going, but packed the long lens camera in the backpack and headed to the bus with the second camera over the shoulder, the usual routine. To the bus stop, on the bus only to learn the bus route had been changed due to the parade along Broadway and so not allowed off the bus until Broadway and 12th, eight blocks from the festival entrance.

Which means I carried the camera along the same route I'd walked when the old camera was stolen and wondered about it as I was progressing. But not as much as I have in the recent past. A picture while passing Latham Square (they've made quite a bit of progress) and then on to 20th and the entrance. No problem carrying the two cameras, one in hand, the other over the shoulder while shooting. Lots of security about and I suspect it's not the best place for thieves to practice their grab and run routines, so again, around and about shooting pictures going back and forth between the acts on various stages.

And that was about it. Much like other Pride Festivals, for all the people in drag/costume/leathers, it's proven hard in the past to collect a decent set of pictures, this one no different. So a section for the web sites, a single section, but still a section, no crapping out.

Left after an hour and a half of shooting, exiting at 20th on Broadway and waiting on a bus right there at the 20th and Broadway stop with plenty of people about. It was a short block on to 21st where the old camera was stolen, but again, feeling better now, more as I have in the past. Keep the eyes open and the perspiration in control.

Are we not flogging this to death?

Probably, but nice to see distance forming and the energy dissipating. Be even nicer if the pictures had turned out better.

Evening. I went through maybe ten of the pictures taken at the festival before crapping out and spending most of my time on the tablet, watching one of the Netflix series. Did check the second half of Arthur & George on the PBS station, having skipped the first half that ran last week. No surprises there. Still have this antipathy for set in the nineteenth century and early twentieth century British television, stuff I once watched with pleasure as a youngster. Not sure why.

Because you've become an old fart.

I've been avoiding coming to that conclusion. We are still working on an advancement in discernment, a triumph of experience over a less discerning and somewhat callow past.