It turns out there was a bit more than a half bottle left and, once I'd gotten into it, I decided (Carnaval evidently forgotten) to finish the rest, which I did, getting to bed early. Now, there wasn't all that much sake left in that bottle and it think it would have been reasonable to assume it wouldn't have any effect, but it did. It did.

So breakfast at my usual place was a bit strained, the head anyway, thinking how I was going to feel on BART and then on the street in the Mission district in San Francisco. I wasn't berating myself, we were simply going to push through and take the pictures, I'm not complaining here, but it was interesting to see me take my eyes off the ball.

Now, what was the result? I drove from breakfast to BART, got a good parking space on 12th Street right next to Broadway, got on the first train of the day and felt just fine when I arrived at 24th Street in San Francisco. I did. No lie. So I missed the bullet, a bullet fired through sloth and fuzzy thinking on my part,, not to be done again.

Right.

So, to cut to the chase, a couple of hours humping around the two cameras on Bryant Street on either side of 24th, where the parade forms up, my usual routine, lots of other photographers present shooting pictures. The two cameras weighed a ton after a while, the right arm getting tired with the larger long lens camera strapped to the wrist, but after two hours that's what's to be expected.

A long slow walk back down 23rd Street when I was finished, shooting a picture or two of murals I passed in the alleyways that cut through the middle of the blocks (note to self, come back in an afternoon and walk these streets taking pictures of these murals, they're really nice), back then on BART, the parade passing 24th and Mission right next to the station as I was descending the stairs, home by noon. And tired. Tired, tired.

If I were to do this right, if I were to do this aging business the way it should be done, I'd join the Gold's Gym at the base of my hill and do upper body exercises. Well, you don't just do upper body exercises, there's a whole routine you go through for balance, warm ups on the treadmill and all, I did them in high school and college with my own weights, not at a club, but tried some of the clubs later in the eighties.

Will I? Boy do I hate doing exercises at a gym, even one a very short distance from my apartment. I mean it's a hundred feet from by bus stop, maybe a hundred yards from my front door. And if I did, how would next year's Carnaval go? Would I stay longer? I suspect I would, it takes about six months for the exercise I've done in my past to show, to notice you're doing physical things you'd never have been able to do before. So I'll think about it. They're advertising rates of $20 per month, the amount I've saved canning my BofA checking account. Hmm. We'll hum for a while. And maybe squeeze a rubber ball in my right fist, see if there isn't a way out of this.

Later. I walked down to my breakfast place and had a BLT on wheat and a Coke. Why, I'm not sure. I walked slowly, took my time, wondered why I hadn't taken the car, although I really fought the idea of driving as I was leaving the building at the point I had to make the choice. Back now, ready to work for the rest of the day in Photoshop. Did I get any pictures? Oh, sure. No way to know how many, but at least a page for artandlife, I have no doubt. More? Who knows. Best not to worry, just start, let the muscles in the back talk to me as I adjust this and adjust that, let the day finish more successfully than it started.