When the bolts attaching the gas tank to the vehicle are seized with rust, they must be removed and re-tapped. Hence the fuel pump replacement added even more money to the local economy. Eid, the shop owner, was nice enough to do the safety inspection on J’s car this afternoon, saving us loads of time.

I went swimming tonight after a hiatus that I will attribute to bad attitude more than anything else. I did go. I swam a little over a mile. I feel good emotionally. My arthritic hip is bothering me now, however. Hurts when I put weight on it.

I am watching trains, then going with either cartoons or World War Two documentaries after the Southbound Silver Meteor passes through Ashland. Cartoons, I believe, is the smart choice. Porky Pig is my choice tonight. He is so chubby, pink, and irrepressible.

J has to go to Williamsburg tomorrow to bring more sun tan lotion back.

I’m hungry. Later, folks.

We got the car to the shop. It is the fuel pump. We are replacing it while simultaneously putting $800 into the local economy.

The vehicle will be ready tomorrow. That means I’m not going anywhere tomorrow, which is a blessing, except that means I’m isolating. Not good.

J is almost over whatever ailment she had. On the other hand, I have practically no excess energy.

I feel generally discouraged. But one of my neighbours, also an AA friend, just learned she has lung cancer, which is bad news, but they may have caught it in time. She wants to reconnect in AA, after not going to meetings for a while. She has issues around relationships with people, both men and women, but not sexually related. We shall see how this works out for her.

I just keep plugging, trying to figure out how to connect with my wife, who tries to “deal” with me, responding to what I say. What I don’t tell her is that words come out of my mouth, but I am not saying anything. That all I really want is to feel her naked body next to my naked body and that this naked intimacy is the only time that matters.

We will give that a try.

Sometimes repair issues are unavoidable. I bought my Dad’s car from the estate eight years ago when he passed away at age 90. Since his family called him ‘Junior”, I would now drive Junior’s Car. Well Junior’s Car did fine, up until today when the fuel pump broke after nearly 195,000 miles. I guess it was due.

My. TIMETABLE FOR WORLD DOMINATION has been dealt a setback. I cannot mandate that the world speak only Esperanto by the year 2024, as I had originally planned. The world will have to use other currencies besides Hostess Twinkies and Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies a little bit longer, setting back my currency reform. The riders in The Tour de France will not have to put baseball cards in the spokes of their bikes so they will make a cool noise as soon as I had planned.

Did they design the 1998 Mercury Grand Marquis LS is with an easily accessible fuel pump? We will know tomoorow.

I am awake, have been since 3:30. I ate fruit, oatmeal and a snack size stick of Sargento Cheddar. I have drunk more coffee than I should have. A train is pulling into Ashland, #86 Northbound to Washington and, ultimately, New York.

The exhaustion continues. I do little to ameliorate the condition. I am going back to bed, I think. Very soon.

I need to find a counselor. Who or what kind, I don’t know. I will reach out to friends first

Sleep. Did I say I was going back to bed? Later, folks.

I want some good reason for being awake at 0240. There isn’t one. I was in the big bed, sleeping beside J, more or less. I was using a pillow for back support, since I am a side sleeper. I woke up, voided my bladder, then went to the other bed. I read some blogs, couldn’t get warm, dressed and came downstairs.

Two freight trains, moving in opposite directions just passed through Ashland. Now we are back to the nocturnal quiet. I feel sleep coming back. A yawn comes, then another. At the same time, I consider sleeping in my recliner. Night all.

This culture, not just America, but the whole global popular culture, is obsessed with sport. Soccer (football), cricket, baseball, ice hockey, American football, basketball, just to name a few. The Turks are nuts about wrestling, the Indonesians badminton, Canadians love curling. Now after spending six months following baseball, I can say enough.

I was this worked up around baseball about twenty years ago, then I settled back to a slow simmer. This summer, when I added cricket to the menu, I got all jazzed up about lots of sports again, but there is only so much any of us can take.

Exercising for fitness may take on the appearance of a game, but there are differences. I swim, love swimming, love the time alone in the water. I time myself, chart my times. If I’m competing, it is against myself, in past performances. I don’t want to compete, against any opponent.

We have, more or less, built American culture around three team sports baseball, football (American), and basketball. All the others are opening acts or sideshows. Colleges are as much about sports teams as they are about intellectual inquiry or professional education, maybe more so.

Sport is the All You Can Eat Buffet of Popular Culture. We eventually become engorged, long before we are satisfied. When I go to such a buffet, especially when I am paying, I feel like I have to get my money’s worth, whatever that is.

So it is time to unplug, dial back. I will swim more often, continue watching cricket (since I pay extra for it), but baseball, American football, basketball, and ice hockey, I’m out of the office.

It has been awhile since we have had a long soaking rain. Today we have just that. And my joints ache. I made coffee. J is at work. I am alone.

I am still processing this weekend. Maybe because I am sober and count among my mentors the illiterate poor who stay sober and live lives in the brutal shadow world of the other America, but I have no feeling for the  American collegiate subculture.

But I find little joy in pondering my alienation. Rather the falling rain shall be sufficient cause for joy today.

This trip to Williamsburg is over. We are home. The dirty clothes from the trip have been laundered. Drying is next. I am exhausted, so I will nap. J had been resting since we got back.

I wish she wasn’t so attached to Williamsburg. I knew Charlottesville was an armpit from the day I first laid eyes on it, Mr Jefferson’s architecture being the exception. I never want to see my alma mater again, ever.

But we drive around in the congested streets, clogged with the Yuppie alumni on pilgrimage, plus the Colonial Williamsburg tourists, checking things out.

I need a nap.