When I get sad, and/or I feel particularly lonely, like when I know that lovers are together right then, and I'm not, I'm alone, I get sad, melancholy. It's not a good feeling. In fact it's a bad one. And one that I have way too often, and have had for way too long; consistently. Not just for years, but for decades.

It's especially hard when you get hit over the head with a cancellation of a possible event. When, now, all of a sudden, it's too early to go to bed, and you couldn't sleep anyway, and it's too late to realistically go out and do anything. On these times I have to go, I have to leave my apartment. Sometimes I walk. Usually I ride my motorcycle somewhere. I used to get drunk. If it was still before 9 I'd go across the street and buy alcohol at Le Beau. If it was after 9 but before 11 I'd walk a block down to Chico's. If it was after that but before 2 I'd have to walk three+ blocks down to Cala Foods.

I have more freedom with a motorcycle than I used to with a car. Because of parking nightmares. And then my sadness would turn to anger. And I'd scream and shout obscenities in my car and hurt my throat. I'd always hurt my throat. Like when I used to get angry and hit or kick something, all I did was hurt my hand or my foot or my toe.

It was just after ten; Sunday night. Cold summer night as usual in San Francisco. Fog; a thick, wet fog, as usual in San Francisco. First I had to get gas at the station on Pine and Van Ness. I think it's a Chevron. Everything went okay with that. Then I rode up Pine St. to Masonic and then right onto Fell and then whatever that street is and then to, I think, 9th. I went to Le Video. I knew that they were open til 11. I go there a lot.

I was looking in the British section for a while and then I realized that I hate British cinema and so left. Hitchcock, Crime, Mystery, Sherlock Holmes, Noir, Woody Allen, Coppola, everything is divided into subgroups there. Nick Ray, Anthony Mann. You've never heard of them, have you? I mean really divided into subgroups.

The staff was tired and hungry to close up soon. A girl and her boyfriend came in and rented Midnight Cowboy. Or maybe it was Midnight Express. I rented Ten Little Indians (Agatha Christie section) and The Battle of the River Plate (Powell & Pressburger section).

One of my all-time favorite films is Rene Clair's 1945 version of Christie's And Then There Were None (aka Ten Little Indians). It's amazing. Very fun and playful, for a mystery where most of the cast ends up dead. And the cast is like the best collection of character actors you could ever hope to find: Sir C Aubrey Smith, Barry Fitzgerald, Walter Huston, Mischa Auer, Roland Young, Judith Anderson, etc.

I've never read the book, but I did see the 1966 film version with Shirley Eaton. It was fair. This one from 1974 isn't supposed to be very good either, but I need to see it. What will be really tough is when I rent the 1989 version with Donald Pleasance and Herbert Lom; it's supposed to be awful.

Many years ago my uncle, who considers himself very smart, clever and learned in re films, told me that And Then There Were None (1945) was a terrible movie because they changed the ending from the book. That was his reason. He also thought Rio Bravo was a bad movie because Ricky Nelson gives a weak performance. He recommends the remake El Dorado. El Dorado is good, but Rio Bravo is wonderful. But I digress.

Where was I? Oh, yes, and then I left. And here I am. It's midnight now. And there's nothing I can do about this tonight. I just have to go to bed and try to sleep and try not to think too much about this.