Spain Rodriguez still had the same full mane of hair, but it was white. Papa Spain, by god, white hair, same smile. I'm going to go to the next opening of one of these shows, the comix stuff, and say hello again to Wilson at least and what might be left of the old crowd. Maybe some of them will attend an opening, say hello, have a few drinks. I miss the banter and the attitude. I wonder what they're reading these days, what music, what movies, what they've lost interest in and what they have not. I don't know if any of the others will be there, it would surprise me if they were, but I tend to slip into thinking they're still there, drinking at the same bars, fucking, talking, reading, and running around. Stupid 'ol Sole Prop. You can't relive the past except in pages like these. The past is gone.

There's some sun outside. Rained all night, of course, you could hear it two floors down in bed in the basement. Where would be a good place to shoot? With the Super Bowl, the streets should be empty. What kind of people don't watch the Super Bowl? My kind of people, maybe. I like the game, I like to watch it on television, but I like a lot of things, and, like a lot of things, I skip them often as not to do something else I like as well. We'll see, I still have the new light stands in the kitchen and I want to use them to shoot the banner photograph for this journal entry. I'm less certain I can find one anymore in the stacks of negatives (but I've covered this before).

By the way, Pamie's Super Bowl piece is a classic. If you haven't read it, maybe you'd better read it right now.