The Chronicle's front page picture today seems about right. I shot a couple of photographs of the lady preparing as the parade formed up, indulging my predilection for photographing women adjusting their makeup in a motorcycle mirror. My own photograph, would I have posted it here? Probably not. The Chronicle cover works, mine works less well. Every photograph has a certain emotional message. I think of the Dykes on Bikes as a gigantic show letting the world know they're here, they're queer, they're fucking happy about it, get your head around it. The Chronicle cover does this admirably. My photograph, well, it has a certain flat quality, eccentricity for the sake of eccentricity, not the flavor of what Dykes on Bikes is about. One works, doesn't. One of life's little lessons.

A scheduling out this morning of what I have to get done before Friday morning at 10:00 when I'm essentially out the door and on my own. Not so bad, I can get it done. It looks as if I'm home free, but again, if I'm not, I'm still home free in another few weeks if they extend me: no problem. I'm out. This day, next day, it's done. This week or next week, what's the difference?

So, having accomplished most of what I need to do today, I left an hour early and had a few glasses of wine at a decent bar in the basement of the building with MRE discussing art and life and the meaning of getting the package now and for the ages. That's the advantage of having a few glasses of wine after work: the issues of the age can be discussed with intelligence, discernment and the proper distance. You're born, you work, you die. Best to have a couple of positive chapters in between. A few glasses of wine can sometimes, in and of themselves, approach one of those magical chapters in between. Sometimes that can happen when the light is right as the day draws to an end, the attitude good, in the month of June, at job's end.