So, anyway, getting back home I had a mild ocular thing arrive that kept me from finishing out the day's journal (one sign is it and everything else you may read like something even more god-awful than it does when the head is on right) and so I sent me to bed for a nap. It's now after twelve, the day is both sunny and warm (I say warm, but I haven't been outside yet) and I'm getting ready to go out for a walk. Probably to the morning café for lunch. (A very safe and sane lunch, none of this corned beef business.)

So that's the way I've started my Christmas Eve. Sounds about right.

Later. Walking along the lake I remembered I hadn't sent the nephew his Christmas gift. Simply occurred to me for the first time as I was walking: had I done this in the past? His birthday is the first week of February, I've always remembered that, but a Christmas envelope? Well, yes. You've sent one for decades now. Obviously. Knock, knock?

OK, I'd been headed for the ATM, easy enough to instead go into the bank when I arrived and talk to a teller and then head across the street to buy a Christmas card, the same trip I'd made for the birthday card I'd managed to lose yesterday and then go back and find because the card hadn't fit properly into my jacket pocket.

Fine, doing well. We headed then to the morning café for lunch, wished everyone a Merry Christmas as I was leaving and then walked back home taking the usual route. Sitting on a bench by the lake I realized I'd forgotten about the card and it had evidently dropped somewhere along the route.

What the hell? I had another card at home in the desk, not as good as the one I'd found and bought, so all was not lost, but two days a row? Am I simply not paying attention? Maybe focusing the mind on pictures is a problem, maybe that makes it more likely you'll forget a small package you've half stuffed into your pocket (where it can be easily knocked loose and silently flutter to the ground) and maybe you are just getting old, old man, forgetful and vague.

Your typos seem more common too.

Yes they do.

Later still. A walk to the burger drive-in across Grand to pick up a steak sandwich (no cheese, no onions) to bring back to the apartment. I thought about walking on farther to pick up another of the small bottles of Jack Daniels, but figured I was just thinking out of habit, no real desire for a drink really, but the idea seemed right for tonight. Tomorrow could have another story.

We'll just cruise. I forget what's on at six, but I'll know soon enough. There's always Netflix, although I've been struggling in finding anything I'm willing to watch straight through. I suspect it's not Netflix's fault. I have trouble watching any of it anymore, including all that stuff I've bought over the years on DVD and tape. When's the last time I went to a show?

There's always guitar.

You may bite your lip.

Evening. I did remember finally, Monday's there's a Father Mateo mystery series on at six, The Octopus, another one of the Italian soaps I'm not willing to watch follows at seven. Too much piety in the one, too much blood in the other? I have no idea, but I'm no longer surprised they elect someone with Silvio Berlusconi's habits to office.

But again, it's Christmas Eve, there must be something traditional up on one of these shelves I can watch, something other than a classic Samurai flick or a Quentin Tarantino. I haven't gotten quite that reclusive, cranky and fucked up yet, right? Certainly not. Hrumpf!

I think a pat on the head and a long night's sleep is in order.