Later. It is raining, enough to make a walk more a test than a comfortable late morning amble which, I'm noticing, breaks the long settled routine around here. What to do, what to do?

Sitting here now with an old Buffalo Springfield compilation playing, something that was the norm to be doing for me in the San Francisco days in the 70's, less so every decade since. I didn't even have a television set during most of the 70's, not so much a personal, political or whatever statement as something that didn't have enough importance or appeal to be of significance. Had an FM tuner to kill for, though, and more l.p.'s than a young man of limited means would normally expect. Rather like my cameras at this later age.

All of which means?

I have no idea. I'm sitting here (again) listening to the music. I was lying in bed listening to PBS earlier, but nothing on at the moment I'm interested in and you can only lie down for so long before you want to get up (and head out the door again).

The Buffalo Springfield CD playing is one of a set of four, a compilation with many cuts I haven't heard before, different takes of the familiar songs, some takes I'm not sure were on the original albums. I picked it up some time back on a whim when offered a discount, probably on Amazon, and haven't played it all that much since. As mentioned, in the 70's, I'd have played it into the ground.

So, inside today. The bedroom? Still one or two things I could do, so let's see. Normally such thoughts would come to nothing, but it's raining today, today and tomorrow, and that may change odds normally stacked against any little rearrange the apartment conceits.

Later still. I did hang pictures in the bedroom while running the laundry, three of them, but hung the three in the most difficult and least accessible corner. I may hang another half dozen by the time the day is done. Then again.... I am surprised.

The rain has passed and the sun has been out since about one, they're saying another much larger storm is due this evening, but at least there was an opportunity to get out and walk. If the laundry weren't still in the drier, of course. A tale to tell there, as it happens, but we won't go into it.

Word arrived that Spain Rodriguez passed away this morning, a victim of prostate cancer. Sad to hear. He and I haven't been close, if only because we've lived in different parts of the Bay Area over these last forty years, but we've always been on good terms, he being one of the first underground artists I met when I arrived in San Francisco.

More importantly, he's been a good and close friend to Steve and Lorraine, going well out of his way to help them these last several years, both before and after Wilson's accident. Go in peace, Mr. R, this small part of the world certainly grieves your passing.

Evening. The Australian police procedural at six. I've seen it before but let it run anyway, basically futzing around with other things while it was playing. Too much anger and energy and difficult to decipher Australian accents, although I admit I'm getting better at it. Tiring to watch, but interesting I'd guess for being for me a bit different.

The French police procedural that followed after, though, is a different fish. Complicated, all kinds of flawed characters doing the things that make them flawed characters, all done in French (with English subtitles, much easier to follow and understand than the Australian accents).

Now, if I were a serious individual I'd compare the two, put it down on paper and determine what makes one interesting and one less so, all having to do, I suspect, with my own little foibles, emotional constructs and other stuff I don't usually want to think about. Hmm. More interesting to have had these thoughts when I was younger.

To bed early unless there's something I feel the need to see coming up later.

Like tomorrow night's Sherlock Holmes?

Oh, right. A late night, tomorrow night no doubt, best not to make make it two.