It's now approaching noon. I spent quite a bit of time doing my best to turn yesterday's entry into something readable, made progress (but never enough), makes we wonder a bit when I say the day on which it was written was clear headed, a good day, when the writing is so bereft of wit or logic. But I only wonder for a minute. Wonder's another thing you don't need to add to a pile.

Later. It is cold out there, so my first trip out the door resulted in my turning around and coming back to the apartment. Much better to futz online and wait.

Sometime after one I set out for the morning café wearing everything in the closet (good move it turned out) and had a half chicken salad sandwich, a raspberry pastry and coffee out on the patio. I was the only one (obviously) and there were but three or four customers inside at tables. Still, we'd set out, we'd had lunch, time now to walk back, no urge to wait the five minutes or so for the bus, but with a dogleg added to the Dreyer's ice cream parlour on Lakeshore for two scoops in a waffle cone. It's cold, and ice cream, once the sugar hits, is warm. Warming. Eventually.

Still overcast, still cold, still a chance of rain so we'll listen to the news and tune the guitar. They're saying more days of cold weather. It's probably always been thus, a period of cold overcast weather in January. I can remember thinking there were always about two weeks of really cold weather every January when I lived in San Francisco, later in Napa, but these cold days now seem to be something new, the memory seeping away in more ways than one.

Evening. A nap come late afternoon. Seems to have worked. Another one of the Don Mateo programs at six that we've avoided (I've liked Terrance Hill in other movies, but his mastery of the Don Mateo priest's prissily pressed lips of approbation (PPLOA) can only be experienced so many times before hurling). Spiral, a French language police procedural, however, follows it at seven. No prissily pressed lips within a hundred miles of Spiral. No siree. No heart of gold characters portrayed in it either, although one or two seem to be “struggling upward”.

You're drifting.

I am drifting.

A photograph forwarded by Ms. M taken from a PBS American Masters series program on David Geffen aired in December arrived this afternoon. I stumbled across the program at the time, but missed the beginning where this photograph appears. Were any of us really that young? How cool is it though to have your offices in a building owned by Hoagy Carmichael?

What's this about? You've never lived in L.A..

Ms. M reminding me of my times in San Francisco with a picture from some of her own rock and roll days.