Saturday. We met at Lefty O'Doul's near Union Square last night, raining like crazy, Lefty's crowded as crowded can be. What you'd expect, I'd think, just after work on the Friday before Christmas. Or any Friday after work I'd guess in San Francisco. A Guinness at Lefty's standing at a crowded bar before finally finding a table. Seven-fifty for a Guinness. Such is life. Then again this is downtown San Francisco opposite Union Square, there's a certain overhead involved.

No cabs of course, the waiting lines in front of the local hotels were amazing. Amazing to me, at least, so we decided on John's Grill for dinner, a short walk down the way to Stockton near Powell, Dashiell Hammett's old hangout described in The Maltese Falcon. They say it hasn't changed since Hammett's days and maybe so. I had a single Anchor Steam at the bar as we waited on a table, which I found undrinkable, so my consumption for the evening amounted to two glasses of beer, most of the second left on the table unfinished. No complaints, no stretching of the libido required going easy on the sauce.

Is that a correct use of “libido”?

You'd have to stretch. Perhaps at my age libido expands from primarily sex to cover the rest.

A single picture taken outside Weinstein's Gallery in the rain waiting on Mr. E and Mr. S to arrive, the Gallery itself showing prints by Matisse and Picasso. No thought whatsoever as to what they might cost. They're prints, but they're prints commissioned and signed by Matisse and Picasso and I suspect they're up there in a range that would encompass every piece of camera gear I've ever owned and still require a loan to cover the rather large balance. The people who buy such things don't take out loans.

Back home by ten, crapping out on my companions as they headed on into the night to other bars and adventures when we finished at John's. Again, no complaints, particularly this morning when I arose with the head screwed on what seemed to be reasonably straight, getting up with the alarm no problem.

Some small shopping runs to make later this morning: a card for the nephew, a Christmas tree ornament or two as gifts for the Seattle family gathering (a tradition), and then back to pack the cameras. They say two carry on pieces of luggage are allowed on the train. No guns, knives or explosives. OK. I can do with two, maybe a backpack for a camera, plenty of gear to handle whatever might come along as I travel. Laptops don't count. How about guitars?

Later. Interesting conundrum: although I had essentially but one Guinness last night, I still feel quite tired and the sinus-upper palate issue is giving me problems. If I'd had any more to drink last night I'd have blamed it on the drink. One reason I'm loathe to assign blame to one transgression or another for whatever is ailing me at the time. I do blame, do it here, but there's a little voice that reminds me that two things happening at the same time does not necessarily mean there's a correlation. Ho, hum. This sinus-head-palate thing will pass along in the afternoon, but I may have to say the hell with errands and barricade myself in the apartment, get ready for the trip, yes, but otherwise goof off.

Most people would describe going out to take the odd walk with a camera “goofing off”.

Most people know in their hearts and souls that we, as a society, have wandered far from the path. What we've come to call goofing off is essential to a good life. Naps take a similar rap.

Later still. Naps and more naps. I did walk down to Walden books to check out their cards, found nothing that appealed, and walked back by the farmer's market and around on Lakeshore to a greeting card store where I found what I wanted. A minimum walk, but enough to count. And it did tire me out, flopping on the bed when I got home.

We'll see. Tomorrow is a day to pack, not an onerous task, wrap those few gifts and prepare to depart. One thing about the calendar, the days tick by, ready or not.