If Hitler were around today, he would need to have a sign language interpreter for his speeches at the massive rallies.

And the perfect addition for total relaxation at the Berghof would be a hot tub. Der Führer and Eva Braun could chill in the hot tub with Josef and Magda Goebbels

At 0330 I awoke, hoping it was later than 3:30. I went to bed at 1230 , hoping I would sleep normal hours like Mr Average American.

So I lay in my bed, the old bed I had when I was a junior in high school. It has no sheets, just a mattress pad.

I’m trying to figure out feminine beauty and sexual attraction and love. All three, in and of themselves, are major undertakings to write about.

We’ve been overwhelmed by this since David saw Bathsheba in her bath.

These musings are a product of my loneliness. My heart had been closed too long.

I don’t know how to end this. I need sleep.

Signing off

Do people still play bridge?

Are there still bridge columns in the newspapers nobody reads anymore?

I need to know.

Here I am, on the 80th D-Day anniversary, wide awake, reading, while watching YouTube. I start The Longest Day but I’ve seen it so many times (Spoiler Alert: The Allies prevail and win the war), that it doesn’t capture my attention.

I have a catalog of interests on my cerebral shuffle. I switch to a new theme, resigning myself to a sleepless night. I choose The Gay Divorcee, Fred and Ginger, and a giant helping of delight. I’ll see if I can turn my nostalgia to Hollywood, some great songs and even greater dance numbers.

There’s no reason to dwell on the Twentieth Century’s nightmare, especially when Astaire is a few clicks away.

Tonight’s takeaway: Men should wear hats again.

I’m finding lesbian romance fiction holds my attention, especially the girl meets girl and reluctantly fall in love stories.

(Back to the movie. Ginger Rogers is gorgeous, forever gorgeous).

There is another Pride flag waving in our neighbourhood . I’m not surprised, except for the surprise in not being surprised.

Now that I’m older and know more about moviemaking, I can see that Fred and Ginger really aren’t in England. Fred courting Ginger is pure magic.

Last night, I had big plans around getting up early and going to the Y and structuring my day like a proper petit bourgeoise. It didn’t work out. I suppose I should break up with my long term lover, coffee. I remember when my Grandfather Pop gave me a spoonful, with cream, at the dinner table in Highland Springs. Hooked like a blue marlin on Hemingway’s fishing rod.

Anyway I’m squeezing every milligram of magic out of the caffeine. I’m kinda sorta getting tired.

Bedtime. I retire with a new respect for the acting.skills of Edward Everett Horton