Chatgbt Suggests a Writing on My Ideal Day

Dua Lipa

Thanks to my lovely wife I have recently given in and accepted the fact that Chatgbt exists in the world and it aint going nowhere. It has already helped me formulate a lesson plan of the type my academic director prefers. It also answered a few questions for me though I find it no better than Google at finding old friends and classmates.

Like a lot of people who are in the latter half of their life I’m often reluctant to try new fangled innovations but unlike a lot of my peers I’m not a stubborn old mule about it. I’ve known people who had to be dragged kicking and screaming to use the internet in the late nineties (they were silly) and still others who tried to keep smartphones at a distance for too long. One has to accept that the times they are changin’ and the adoption of the latest technologies is not only sensible but to one’s benefit.

I’ve been resisting AI to the extent that I rarely news stories and features about it and its advantages and dangers. But it’s here so there’s no point in pretending otherwise. One of the more prominent examples of AI is the aforementioned Chatgbt. To turn one’s nose up at forever is silly. I’ve stopped being silly.

Minutes ago I finished my morning tea and determined to do my morning write though I had no particular assignment to fulfill and no topic in mind. What to do? If you’ve gotten this far you’ve probably figured out that Chatgbt figures prominently in the narrative. Yes, I used the service to ask for writing prompts for myself. It gave me several and here’s the one I liked best:

Describe your ideal day in vivid detail.

Okay, so here goes….

After my morning shower and breakfast my phone rings. It is the Pulitzer Prize committee calling to inform me that I am this year’s winner in the category of literature. Within minutes I’m bombarded by calls, texts and emails from the media. The New York Times, The Guardian, BBC, MSNBC, Reuters, Time, The Washington Post and Le Monde all ask for comments.

My responses demonstrate my great humility. In truth I’m absolutely chuffed and beam with pride.

I then receive a phone call from Dua Lipa who says she’s in Berkeley and would like me to visit her at her hotel room. My wife says that whatever I do for the rest of the day is fine with her and will not be considered to be in conflict with my wedding vows.

I therefore pay Ms. Lipa a call and spend several blissful hours with her the details of which I will withhold from the rest of the world except to stay that Ms. Lipa marvels at my performance and stamina.

Next I meet my wife for lunch at San Francisco’s finest seafood restaurant. This time the hunger I sate is not of a sexual nature.

Finally I return home to do my day’s writing. I crank out five thousand words in less than ninety minutes and it is clearly the best writing I’ve ever done.

Feeling a tad guilty for my time with Dua Lipa I entice my wife into our boudoir where I entertain much in the way I did the famed pop star.

Checking my email I discover that in recognition of my avid support for the club, Arsenal has awarded me season tickets for all home matches. Subsequently I learn that the British government has given me a flat in North London.

My entire family then gathers for dinner. I am surrounded by loved ones with whom I share stories and anecdotes and laughs.

After dinner the missus and I watch a new movie. Much to our delight it is an instant classic that we both fall in love with.

After the film I read for a couple of hours. The novel is one of my all time favorites and I develop a new appreciation for it.

I then go to bed and sleep deeply.

End of day.

I don’t know that I described an ideal day but it certainly would do.

I’d like to thank Chatgbt for the suggestion and I hope I passed the audition*

*Beatles reference

Not Much of a Reunion But I Did Buy a Book!

The National Guard camped across the street from my high school in 1969

My alma mater, Berkeley High School, had an all classes reunion on Saturday. I think it can best be summed up by the following two words: a bust. There were less than a dozen classes with booths and all of those were from 1970 though sometime in the late ‘80s, sorry/not sorry I’ve forgotten the last year. That’s scores of years that went unrepresented. Sitting at the booths were half a dozen or so people. For my class (’71) there was a photo from our men’s basketball tournament of champions victory. That was it. Other booths didn’t even have that. There was, on the other hand, plenty of food on sale, there was a lot of Berkeley High School merchandise, mostly tee shirts commemorating the day, such as it was. There were also tables such as one sees at craft fairs selling things like homemade jewelry. No, I don’t know why.

There were two huge speakers blaring music so loudly that normal conversation was nigh on impossible. I encountered one chap I new from my middle school teaching days. We’d not seen each other since a mutual friend’s memorial service thirteen years ago. We caught up on latest doings. Rather he caught me up on his latest doings. He seemed disinterested in what all I’ve been up to. People can be like that. They want to tell you everything about them but aren’t interested in anything about you. That’s odd considering they know what they’ve been doing and nothing of what you’ve been doing. Thus they learn nothing from seeing you. Invariably people who talk so much have little to say. This was the case on Saturday. 

I also saw  a former student who was passing through with small child in tow. He was too preoccupied with his young ‘un to stay and chat for more than a couple of minutes. I didn't recognize anyone else, not that I expected too.

I wandered around for a bit, dumbstruck by how lame the event was. On an unrelated note I couldn’t help but observe that over 75 per cent of the attendees were African Americans and over 90 per cent of the people sitting at the booths were Black. I believe for most of the past sixty maybe even seventy years Berkeley High has traditionally been about 30 pre cent black. It was my experience as a student that African American students were much more “into” things like spirit week, going to football games, school dances and the like. This was especially true in the late Sixties/early Seventies when many white students — such as yours truly — were participating in the protest movement and in drug experimentation. We found traditional school social events to be terribly bourgeois and beneath us truth seekers. I certainly did not have the typical high school experience especially during the protests on the Cal campus and most especially when the odious Governor Reagan  sent the national guard to our town during the People's Park demonstrations and police riots. The guard were camped across the street from the high school and stationed all about downtown which is a mere two blocks from the high school. Different times. Then again it seems like Trumpy may be trying to bring back the notion of occupied cities. 

In any event I’m glad the all classes reunion had only cost me a fifteen-minute walk from home and had taken me a hop, skip and jump from a bookstore. I eschewed hopping, skipping or jumping but made it to the store and lo and behold managed to purchase a book.

I am reminded of this quote: "Think not of the books you've bought as a 'to be read' pile. Instead, think of your bookcase as a wine cellar. You collect books to be read at the right time, the right place, and the right mood.” —  Luc van Donkersgoed.

Amen brother.

Too many is never enough.

So with a book purchased the reunion wasn’t a waste of time. Without the book…..

A Blog Post in Three Sections: Complaints, Trumpy and Music

Joan Baez supporting Dixie in song

COMPLAINTS

Nothing is “out of order” anymore. Instead a broken machine is “scheduled for service.” I see this at my gym all the time. I believe the idea is that “scheduled for service” indicates: we know there’s a problem with this stair master and we’re on it. Whereas “out of order” suggests nothing of the kind. It’s more like saying, “this is broke so don’t use it.” I have a suspicion that whoever came up with the idea of replacing “out of order” signs with those that say “scheduled for service” got paid a bundle of money. They don't deserve a dime. More euphemistic bullshit.

When I go to Hulu — a popular streaming service — after I click on my account — distinct from those of my wife and daughters — I’m told to wait a moment while they “gather what’s new.” What kind of bullshit is this? Am I really supposed to imagine that, having seen that I want to access my account, that there are now living, breathing people scrambling to “gather” all their new programming so they can present it to me once I’m logged in? Utter nonsense. Especially if I just logged on a few minutes before  but accidentally exited. Ninety-nine percent of the time I’m not interested in anything new and just want to watch the same old crap you've had on the service for months if not years. "Gathering what's new." What manner of idiot do they take us for?

Met younger daughter for lunch yesterday. The conversation and the meal were excellent. But what I didn't like was that there was no waiter or waitress. Okay so there was a person who told us there was no waiter or waitress and there was a person who brought our food and beverages but we ordered by entering a QR(?) code. What's up with that? I like a human being to come to my table who I can be friendly and polite with and tell what I'd like. I then enjoy giving a tip commensurate with their service. Is that so old fashioned? And speaking of tipping....Do we really have to tip a person when we order to go? Even for a lousy cup of coffee? I have mixed feelings about being given tip choices. Let me sort it out on my own. I'm a big boy I can figure out how much the tip should be and by the way I'm generally quite generous.

THE PREZ

I see where Trumpy is complaining that the Smithsonian focuses too much on how bad slavery was. Fair point. Why not look at the positive aspects of slavery such as…. I’ll have to get back to you on that. Here’s the full quote from the bumbling-idiot-in-chief: “The Smithsonian is OUT OF CONTROL, where everything discussed is how horrible our Country is, how bad Slavery was, and how unaccomplished the downtrodden have been — Nothing about Success, nothing about Brightness, nothing about the Future,This Country cannot be WOKE, because WOKE IS BROKE. We have the ‘HOTTEST’ Country in the World, and we want people to talk about it, including in our Museums.”

I’m curious about “how unaccomplished the downtrodden have been.” Does he want a closer look at the many achievements of downtrodden Americans? Maybe a special wing of the museum focusing on the many successes of the downtrodden. We’re all tired of hearing about how downtrodden the downtrodden are. After all, aren’t many of them uptrodden now? The U.S., he whines, is the "HOTTEST" country in the world (it's crazy the way he goes all caps sometimes with random words). Hottest in what respect? Are we trending? Is our popularity skyrocketing (quite the opposite). Maybe he's referring to global warming. Maybe's he means hot as in the way beautiful women and men are described. Maybe he doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about (never does).

MUSIC DEPARTMENT

I don’t get it. I’m talking about Joan Baez singing The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down which I’m listening to as I write these words. The song is the first person narrative of a man (Baez was a woman when she recorded the song and remains one today, far as I know). On top of that the narrator is a southerner at the end of the Civil War who, like his father “took a rebel stand.” That is to stay he supported the formation of the Confederate States of American a country that would have enshrined slavery into its constitution. The song was originally recorded by The Band but Baez made a hit of it in 1971. In doing a little research I note that there has been some criticism of the song and its tacit celebration of the Lost Cause but not until this century. Should have been a helluva lot of blowback from the get go if folks were paying attention.. 

There was a very popular song in the seventies called A Horse With No Name from a group named America. Here’s a line from the song: “There were plants and birds and rocks and things.” Things? What “things”? That’s pretty weak. Perhaps worse was this line: “The heat was hot, and the ground was dry.” So you say the heat was hot? Such poetry. Course if you’re stoned while listening to it — and evidently they were stoned while writing it — what do you care?

In a lot of songs singers demand that someone not waste their “precious time.” Bob Dylan in Don’t Think Twice it’s All Right sang this: "You could've done better but I don't mind. You just kinda wasted my precious time.” Then there was Brittney Spears in the song Wannabe: "Now don't go wasting my precious time. Get your act together we could be just fine.” Van Morrison even had a song called Precious Time that opens as follows: “Precious time is slipping away. But you're only king for a day. It doesn't matter to which God you pray. Precious time is slipping away.” Tot top it off last year there was a song called Wasting My Precious Time by someone called Cameron Reid which starts like this: “Boy you wasting my precious time. I thought I would be the one.” I suppose since our time on this planet is finite one can look at every second they live as precious. But it still seems an odd thing to say. "My time is precious." Everyone's time is precious, pal. You're no different than anyone else. Get over yourself.

Back Despite Popular Demand: Films I've Watched Lately Some of Which I Loved Greatly (this time with a TV show in the mix)

Through a Glass Darkly

Through a Glass Darkly (1961) Bergman). Another great film about a woman struggling with serious mental issues. Indeed it’s among the best of them — Sunset Blvd., A Streetcar Named Desire, A Woman Under the Influence, Requiem For a Dream, Blue Jasmine, Silver Linings Playbook — being others in this category. Harriet Anderson is the young woman who’s recently out of the nuthouse and making a game effort at a normal life at a summer island cottage with her husband, father and younger brother. She seems fine. Until she doesn’t. Her struggles are more internal and we do not have the broad performances seen in many of the other films by the likes of Gena Rowlands, Cate Blanchett, Vivian Leigh and Gloria Swanson. Yet she is no less fascinating and her story is as sad as the others. The picture has a lot else going on with it as Bergman films tend to do. The venality of the father, the son’s desire to talk to his father and the husband/doctor caught in the middle. Of the films listed above I’d only rate Sunset Blvd. higher which is saying one helluva lot. Anderson’s understated yet affecting performance is one reason why.

Moonrise Kingdom (2012) W. Anderson. A month or so ago I panned Wes Anderson’s latest film while extolling this picture as an example of what he is capable of. I loved this, my latest viewing of MK more than any of the previous ones. It’s damn brilliant. This is Anderson at his best telling a cohesive, structured story with a wide array of well-drawn and interesting characters amid brilliant set designs. It’s such a contrast to his later films which seem as much an excuse to give the rich and famous cameos as to tell a story. It’s also a straight forward story: two misfit tweens fall in love and overcome innumerable obstacles to be together. The setting, mostly in an around scout sites on a New England island, is an essential character. The pacing couldn’t be better. Everything, all the craziness, works toward the one goal of telling the story. I hope he can get back to making this kind of picture.

Kerouac’s Road: The Beat of a Nation (2025) Burnough. This documentary is, as they say, in theaters now. Here’s a question. Did you like it? Here’s my answer: Yes and no. The parts that were about the book and the author were great. The intermixed stories about three sets of Americans on the road today were fine but should have been in their own documentary. Their relationship to Kerouac and his great novel were hard to discern. More like impossible. There wasn’t even an effort to connect the two. I wanted a documentary about my favorite novel and I got half of one and half of something else. When focusing on the book and its author the film broadened my fascination with On the Road which has had such an impact on me as a writer, a thinker, a reader and as a person. By itself it's a masterpiece but I often think of it as part of a trio with Dharma Bums and Desolation Angels also books of great meaning to me. Kerouac was not only the king of the beats but he helped set the table for the cultural changes of the Sixties. The greater freedoms, the desire to express oneself and the willingness to experiment. I'd have loved to seen a movie that used its ninety minute running time just on that.

Mike Myers in So I Married....

So I Married an Axe Murderer (1993) Schalmme. What a delightful surprise. I pressed play with low expectations. It looked for all the world like a light and silly comedy. I’d seen Axe Murderer when it first came out 32 years ago but held no memories of it. That can be a good or bad sign. Turns out this comedy is right in my wheelhouse. I’ve always liked Mike Myers starting with his work on Saturday Night Live. The film is set in San Francisco, another plus. It begins showing the sign for Jack Kerouac Alley next door to City Lights Bookstore, a huge plus. Myers plays a beat poet — I’m in! Nancy Travis is his love interest, Amanda Plumber her wacky sister and there are cameos aplenty including an especially good one from the late Phil Hartman. It’s a funny movie with a silly but not ridiculous premise. Myers is no classic leading man but he pulled this one off thanks to a script that was made for him. Well done.

The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean (1972) Huston. It’s been a week and I barely remember watching it — I think that sums it up rather well. I had high hopes for the film it being from the great decade of American movies, the seventies, starring Paul Newman and directed by John Huston. But good lord what a mess. The script, such as it was, must have been written by a committee, the directing lacked cohesion as if there was no vision for the film (Huston was a big drinker so maybe....). Newman stumbled through it all as if in a hurry to get on to something else. Victoria Principal in her film debut was gorgeous which is as much as I can say on the plus column. Pity. 

Devil in the Family: The Fall of Ruby Franke (2025). Okay, okay this is not a movie but a three-part television documentary but I wanted to write about so deal it with folks (I flatter myself that there are plural readers for that matter, any at all). This is not exactly the sort of thing I generally watch. But I read something positive about it in the New York Times and thought I’d give it a whirl. Glad I did. Utterly compelling. It’s the story of a woman named Ruby Franke, a young Mormon mother of six who became the most popular family vlogger on YouTube. She had the ideal marriage and the ideal family and lived the ideal life in an ideal community in Utah. She was a handsome woman with a lovely family which reveled in one another’s company. But the dream turned into a nightmare as Ruby became obsessed with her image. She was controlling, manipulative and hell bent on perfection which to her was everything being done her way. Then she came under the spell of a woman who was essentially a cult leader. Ruby and the cult leader are now doing time (up to 30 years) in prison for child abuse. Her children, two in particular, went through hell. The filmmakers had access to all her tapes including hours and hours of outtakes. It’s all there for the world to see. A meteoric rise and a stunning fall. I couldn’t stop talking about to the missus after watching it. Incredible stuff.

The Victim

Lance Cullers was thinking about the girl who sat next to him in class today. How had he not noticed her before? She was a tall blonde with incredible legs. He’d had trouble concentrating on what the professor was saying because of those legs. The highlight of the day was when she’d smiled at Lance when he caught her eye. Was that a signal? Next week he’d definitely say something to her. Maybe think of a question to ask or a comment to make. It had been two months since Lance had broken up with Seneca. Who was he kidding, she’d dumped him. Hurt like hell at the time but he’d bounced back. He was totally ready for that chick in class, Definitely talk to her next week. Lance looked at his watch, about quarter to five. Not much to look forward to the rest of the day. Laundry, dinner, studying then to bed fairly early cause he had an early morning class. Maybe smoke a joint with Rob. Should call home and see how Mom was doing. She’d been down with the flu for a week. Lance thought back to class. He was obsessed with that chick’s legs. He imagined her naked. Oh man, he thought, to really see her naked would be incredible. But was Lance setting himself for disappoint? Girls like that usually had boyfriends. Hell she was probably living with someone. Lance thought maybe he’d be better off asking out that new girl who’d moved into his apartment complex. What was her name? Sarah? Yeah that’s it. She’s cute. Sarah is cute and the mental image of her yesterday wearing cut offs and smiling at himwas his last thought before the bullet entered the back of his skull. There was a moment, a fraction of a fraction of a second of pain then blackness. Nothing. Lance fell to the ground with a thud. Dead.

Twenty-three years old. Grew up in a comfortable suburban home with a younger brother and an older sister a dog and a cat and two wonderful parents. It had been a mostly idyllic childhood. Lots of friends, a few enemies. Some really cool teachers and some who were jerks. The broken arm when he was nine. The first joint when he was twelve. First kiss when he was thirteen. The trip to Yellowstone. The trip to New York. The trip to Disneyland. His first NFL game. Loss of virginity at sixteen. Being really good at football, making all conference but later the realization he wasn’t good enough for college ball. The girlfriends. Marci senior year. They were so close. So happy but she went back east for college. There was the incredible freedom of college. Meeting new people from all over the state and outside the state and even from outside the country. Getting drunk sometimes. Great parties. Finally getting interested in school. Settling into a history major. The first trip to Europe. Seeing London and Paris. In the MA program. The decision to  someday be a high school teacher and football coach. His brother Sean doing great getting a football scholarship to Notre Dame. Big sister Deena getting in law school. Life had had some ups and downs but Lance had mostly been happy and there was so much to look forward.

Had been. He was laying face down on the street now. No warning. Just dead in an instant. No future. No present. Just a past that would only exist in other peoples’ memories. Their versions of HIS life.

The person who’d shot Lance was on the roof of a three-story apartment building. His name was Corey and he’d actually been a Freshman English with Lance before dropping out of school. As soon as he’d shot Lance shot a girl who was walking toward Lance and had just realized that she knew Lance from a party. She was going to say hi but then saw him fall. Almost before she could react a bullet hit her in the forehead and she too was dead.

It was a busy street just off campus with lots of students leaving for their residences or coming to campus for an evening class or to study. It took a few seconds after the second victim fell before people reacted. Some screamed. Some hid behind a car or tree. Others ran. Several made 9-1-1 calls.

The first two targets were easy but now people were moving erratically or hiding. Corey started shooting wildly. Most of his shots missed but he did had four people. Two died, one instantly, one later that night. Two were injured. 

Corey scrambled down off the roof  he’d used as his sniper’s nest, using the fire escape. He’d do the rest of his damage on foot then use his pistol  to shoot himself. He ran into a store and started shooting. Two more people died and two more injured. For some reason he couldn’t make himself go beyond the first cash register. He felt it unsafe to go further into the store. Corey stepped outside and immediately started shooting into a laundromat. One person got a superficial wound. He looked up and down the street. There was nothing interesting and all the noises blended together and sounded like obnoxious white noise. Corey’s head hurt like hell. He noted some of his victims laying in the street. More than anything else it made him think of the video games he played. But he couldn’t find anyone else to shoot. He looked up at an apartment and saw faces in the window. He started shooting. He wounded two more people.

Then the cop cars came. Corey crouched into a shooting position. A police sharp shooter who Corey couldn’t see was in position. Corey took aim at a police car and fired. In the next instant the sharpshooter’s shot hit Corey in the throat. For a second, almost two, Corey felt horrible, the rush of blood, the choking in his throat the incredible pain but then he too was dead.

In the aftermath people were baffled. Sure, Corey’s father said, Corey had struggled with mental problems but nothing all that serious, some depression, social anxiety. He’d had trouble making friends and had had no luck meeting girls. But there was never the slightest indication…..

The victims were mourned. Six dead. Another paralyzed. Memorial services were held. There was a candlelight vigil. Crisis counselors were on hand. Families of the victims expressed sorrow, shock and anger. Everyone was angry. Everyone was saddened. Journalists and commentators picked over the story for a week. Politicians spoke of the tragedy of this senseless violence, they offered thoughts and prayers. One of the state’s senator’s offered a gun control bill. It died in committee.

It was as dead as Lance Cullers. 

A Trip to Ocean Beach is Here Recounted

Photo by author

Went to Ocean Beach in San Francisco. I’ve been going once or twice a year for — I don’t know, a long time. Left the house at 8:48. Walked to the BART station. Caught the end of the morning commute so was lucky to get a seat, even luckier when I transferred at MacArthur Station. Stuck my nose in Lonesome Dove which I started re-reading a couple of days ago.

After transferring had to put the headphones on. I was sitting near a sniffer. Don’t know how people can sit there and sniff repeatedly in a public place. Annoying as hell. Some people don’t seem to mind. That’s weird to me too.

Got off at first SF station and went to MUNI Metro station which is in the same place as the BART station. Not a long wait for the N Judah that goes all the way to Ocean Beach. Not too crowded. Was enjoying the music so left headphones on.

Nose buried in book all the way to end of the line. Forgot to time how long the ride is. Half an hour or so. When I looked out the window I was seeing different sites than I do in Berkeley. I was seeing San Francisco. Great city. Not like it was in my youth but then what is?

SF in my youth was Herb Caen in an  entertaining San Francisco Chronicle that featured numerous columnists a really good sports section and a good comics page. Willie Mays and Willie McCovey on the Giants playing in wind swept Candlestick Park. KSFO radio was king although for rock there was KYA and KFRC and for soul KDIA. Disc jockeys were celebrities in those days. On your favorite stations you know who was on air when. There was Don Sherwood. Emperor Gene Nelson. Russ The Moose Syracuse, Jim Lange who also hosted The Dating Game. A lot of people walked around with transistor radios. Very few games were on TV so you listened to the Giants on the radio. 

There were traditional night clubs in San Francisco like the Fairmont. Tony Bennet, Count Basie, Ella Fitzgerald and other greats would perform in the city. There were also places like the Fillmore where the great rock bands — Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, The Who — played. There were always top acts in town. Many rock stars lived in SF.

The Haight Ashbury was where it was at. The cultural revolution on full display. Hippies galore. It was a wild scene and upsetting as hell for the straights.

People — hippies aside — dressed well. Men in ties. Women with permanents. Beauty salons were big.

The 49ers played in Kezar Stadium right there in Golden Gate Park not far from the Haight. I’d go to games with my dad and his friend who was a Berkeley cop (a very straight-laced, conservative racist one). We’d walk through the Haight, stopping at a bar in a bowling alley, then be in a whole other world among football fans at the stadium. Culture shocks. Plural.

Anyway, that was San Francisco in the Sixties. The city still has its charms, is still beautiful, but….

Off boarded at the last stop. Short walk from there to the Pacific Ocean. Rarity, I could see blue sky at the ocean in San Francisco. Almost never happens. Wasn’t warm by any stretch but pleasant enough. I’d been depressed but the negative ions of the ocean took a big bite out of that. Stood at water’s edge for a good spell. Was that the skyline of Tokyo I saw in the distance? Probably not, but I could see a ways. Went for a stroll along the tip of the tide careful to stay dry.

Dogs love the beach. So much to smell. So much room to run. Digging always an option. Yeah, a lot of happy dogs and contented dog owners. Some people fishing. Seems an odd place for it what with the waves and the tides and all but they’re there often so much be catching something. It is an ocean after all.

Was confused what I was supposed to be thinking about. Anything? Nothing? Should I just be in a meditative state? Clear the mind? I did notice my depression lifted.

Took photos. It’s de rigueur on such excursions. 

Always people about at Ocean Beach. But never a lot except the one time I went there during a heat wave. That’s the one time I saw people swimming. I did a bit of wading myself that day.

Finally said adieu to the beach and made my way to a place called the Fish Hook Co. Went there last visit to the Ocean. Ordered the fish and chips, haven’t had any since UK trip in May. Also bought an NA beer I’d never tried before. Beer and meal were excellent. The only seating was outdoors and initially the sun was in my face. I’d rather not eat with the sun beating down on me but I was saved by some clouds that rolled in and provided shade.

Crossed the street where there was a combo cafe and bookstore. They were heavy on the knickknacks and light on the books. I have more at home. Browsing took up less than a couple of minutes. As in one.

Walked back to catch the J. There was a man lying face down on the sidewalk. A passed out drunk? Homeless man sleeping? Dead? Sadly we’re accustomed to seeing unconscious people laying on our streets. It’s always someone else’s department. Guilty.

Uneventful ride home which is what you want on public transportation. On a BART car a man and a boy decided to put on a concert then pass the hat. I do not like this. When I listen to music I want it to be my choice, not inflicted on me. Headphones were a savior.

Walked home satisfied that I’d had nice outing. Because I had.