Second off: those photographs I took at the Cherry Blossom parade look awful. Clear enough, sharp enough, well exposed, the new lens performing fine, but the guy behind the camera does not have a future in photography. Of course, these days, digital camera days, Internet days, very few people have a future in photography, including the photographers. Now that's off my chest I can get on with it. (No dizziness, though, knock on wood....)

Steve and Chuck came by Saturday, Steve having spent Friday night with Lucy and her husband, Chuck flying up Saturday morning, taking possession of the Yamaha at the Oakland airport before driving here. (Low, black, a 98 cubic inch V-twin. The neighbors were impressed.) They looked, well not dangerous, exactly, but as if they were into serious motorcycle shit. Guys who could be up to anything. Anything, in our case, turned out to be Sushi down the way and shooting a few photographs around the lake. And a long wandering talk of art and life, weddings and funerals, paupers and kings. And this is good, this is good.

Emmy, by the way, was also good. I noticed, a couple of hours after they'd arrived, Emmy was nowhere to be found (as in hiding under the bed) and I thought, well, a regression here, a temporary loss of ground, kitty cat trauma, cries in the night. Under the bed did not last. She came out and checked us out ("Hi guys! I'm Emmy! I'm a cat! Are you guys cats?"), allowing us to pet her and wandering out later into the living room after dark to check out these two guys in their sleeping bags: were they packing?, cat food?, tuna surprise?, stuff like that?