Diary

I've made a museum of what I did yesterday. I wish I could show it to you but the pictures I took aren't cooperating. I'll just have to use words.

Upon half-reading the New York Times, I sat at the computer all morning, working on The Autobiography of Poetry, a romantic novel. After three hours on the rack, rose from the desk and went for a long bike ride from The Presidio to The Great Highway, through Golden Gate Park, down the Panhandle, turning left on Masonic, left onto Presidio and home. Ate some leftovers, returned emails, showered.

At approximately 2pm, drove to the deYoung Museum for the Jean Paul Gaultier exhibit, the first show I've seen in some time, at least since the Luc Tuymans extravaganza at SFMOMA (or was it Gertrude Stein at the Jewish Museum?) Had some chatty moments with Jean Paul and several of his models, but the place was packed and nothing of real note came from our pleasant exchanges. Ascended to the Tower and walked around, looking at San Francisco from a height which makes it look like a jewel. Noted the fog rolling in toward Outer Richmond, and found my home in The Presidio on the big aerial map hanging on the wall.

Headed to Clement with Lea Ann and Ann T. Eliot, our driver and museum guide, for Vietnamese sandwiches at Bunn Mi.  Ann, however, wanted the 'tea salad' at Burma Superstar, having found a parking place right in front of that well-regarded restaurant, so we ordered takeout: it was 5:30 pm, before the rush. While we waited for our food, walked up to Green Apple bookstore and bemoaned how many books I haven't read.

Ann drove us home and I ate my 'rainbow salad' in the basement, watching the Celtics/76er's playoff game. Rajon Rondo, Celtics pointguard, is the most fun player to watch in the NBA, with Tony Parker, the Frenchman who plays point for the San Antonio Spurs. Rondo is the Wilt Chamberlain of point guards.

Called my amazing 92-year old Aunt Lois in Palm Desert, checking in to see how she is handling the heat, and my old friend Chris H. Chris, scheduled to play in a golf tournament Sunday, wanted tips on how to "get out of sandtraps." "Easy," I said, "don't get in them."

At 8:30 pm, Lea Ann and I walked to the bus stop to get the 43 to Fulton. Susan and Jim Allen were hosting a pre-concert party for Sleepy Sun, a rock band in which their son Jack plays bass. The band was scheduled to go on stage at The Independent on Divisidero, a short walk from their home, at 10 pm;  Jim told the guests that it was "really 11", he'd just told us 10 "so we'd show up." The parents of the lead guitarist were among the guests, and we joked that we'd never be able to stay awake.

After some lovely eats and drinks at chez Allen, we all trooped over to The Independent. The warm-up band still had 3 songs to go. Sleepy Sun didn't come on until 11:20 pm.

The band was tight. They'd all met while going to school at UC Santa Cruz and have a handful of cd's and an American and European fan base. Lea Ann and I stayed for 4 songs, said goodbye to the party, and walked home along Divisidero. It was almost 1am when we turned off the lights and went to sleep.

I wish I could show you the pictures but I can't.