Last night was one hell of a night. Left for San Francisco at six, got to MRW's place by seven, had a hit before setting out for the hotel, but, you know, just a hit, thinking I didn't want to get too stupid before I'd had my first drink. Go with the flow, you understand, say hello to MSM and MRT and whomever else without jabbering like an idiot. And it worked. I think. Good weed, though. No paranoia at the Utah where MRT was doing an acoustic gig. Funky place, weird little stage down some steps beside the bar, Guinness on tap, mixed group of people in a section of San Francisco where you don't necessarily want to walk around alone at night. I don't think.

Again, I haven't had a chance to talk with MRW for twenty years and we made good use of the time. Say hello to some people I haven't seen in those same twenty years, trade some cards and email addresses, have some beers, have some shots, go back to MRW's place picking up a bottle of single malt whiskey on the way, talk til four in the morning about art and life and how we both seem to have suddenly gotten so damned old (what a drag) wake up on the couch at seven - good, big couch, no aches and pains, though - back home in Oakland by eight. And into the office by eleven. I have not done anything like this for a very long time. Which is probably one reason I'm still alive. It is now eight in the evening and for the first time today my head seems clear. A good night tonight, the second unit of blood will be drawn tomorrow, some paper work yet to clear up with the hospital and on to the operation on the eighteenth.