No Complaints
Thursday. A good turn out last night at The 500 Club, many people I remember from my own days working at the Press in the early and mid to late seventies, many people who worked there during the early eighties whom I'd never had a chance to meet. Sat and talked with Mr W for most of the evening, he working presently on various projects; drank some Guinness, took a couple of pictures of the men's room (for obvious reason); woke up this morning feeling pretty good, said goodbye to Mr. B when he called, hit the road back to Oakland about nine as, after calling their room, I learned Mr. D and his wife had probably already left the motel to go out and see more of the city. Complicated, this modern existence.
I did note that I seem to feel better more often in the mornings after drinking than I do when I haven't. I wonder what that's about? Not a good enough reason to do more drinking, but I wonder. Anecdotal evidence only, this observation, although a reasonable rationale to justify a more rigorous study.
Anyway, there's a certain paparazzi quality to shooting pictures of old cartoonists (Mr. W pointed this out) and, I have to admit, although I would have liked to shoot some pictures of some of the old bastards, I said fuck it: these are friends, I'm not a collector and none of these guys are paparazzi level movie stars. I didn't, however, all this notwithstanding, give Mr. D up top the opportunity to duck.
So it is now two in the afternoon, the bags are unpacked and I'm thinking I should go out and get some air, do the daily walk, clear the head now that I'm back in the apartment. Ms. Emmy was waiting just outside the apartment door when I entered, letting me know her dish was empty (did I remember to mention to Ms E who was feeding Emmy that she needed two of the little cans a day and not just one? I think I did.) and that the dry cat food sitting on the floor on either side of the empty dish wasn't going to cut it. (She is now fed and sleeping on the bed. Cats do that. No complaints.)
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