Saturday. Lights out after nine to awaken then at six-fifteen, a little later than these last number of days, but right on what I've been thinking should be the target. Up and out the door to breakfast, the sky again overcast, the eyes watering on the way arriving at five to seven, five minutes before the first worker pulled up to open the restaurant. I guess better to awaken ten or fifteen minutes later? Who knows? Certainly not I.

The chicken-apple sausage, eggs over medium, country potatoes, toast and coffee for breakfast, finishing up at about eight-forty and walking back home, taking all of three pictures, four counting the gas station photograph. They say you're crazy if you keep doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result. I don't expect a different result. Well, marginally different, so maybe marginally crazy. But just.

There's a Cinco de Mayo dance festival later this afternoon at Jack London Square. I've been saying I'll go. We'll soon know.

Later. A bus to Jack London Square to find a large crowd in front of a tent stage set up with a D. J. on the access area just beyond the entrance to the underground garage. So a walk around and about taking pictures with a side trip to the nearby Ben & Jerry's, the head unfortunately in its usual bubble, but otherwise functional. Took what photos I could find for about an hour before giving up and catching the bus home.

Not enough photographs to put together a section, knew that was the case before I left, but the head again was in its bubble putting off any thought of staying longer well out of mind. Processed what pictures there were when I got home.

Evening. Watched the first hour of The Big Sleep, the Saturday night movie on PBS. Haven't seen it in decades, Bogart and Bacall, and so decided to give it a try. Snappy patter for the time in which it was written, William Faulkner one of the three writers who wrote the screen play. An hour was enough before heading to bed, although still thinking of the now somewhat stilted dialogue, decided to read the first chapter or so of the book again, see if I reacted to Raymond Chandler's prose in the same way I reacted to the movie after all these years.