Saw this vanity plate in the car park at the shopping mall. We don’t have toys called “The Doxie” here in Virginia, but in The UK, this could mean something completely different.

Here we think dogs. There they think ….

….but you knew that already. I’m sitting in my chair looking at the debris field that trails my life. Fortunately the only broken person still alive is me.

And I can handle me. At least I give me to God.

I don’t have it in me to seduce my wife, all The Waltons and sweet iced tea. The cotton Jockey Granny panties/briefs hold no allure. I will not rape her while she sleeps.

So the conundrum percolates a little longer, like The Yellowstone super volcano.

The Awards Show of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (The Oscars) holds no appeal for me. I just don’t care.

“March Madness” the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament holds no appeal for me. I just don’t care.

I’m just sick of all the stuff relentlessly promoted. That includes Oreos and Domino’s Pizza.

There’s no hope for me. I admit it.

Yesterday I was eager to get back to the Y for more swimming, to maintain my schedule of AA meetings, and to follow my Weight Watchers points budget. 

Today… I slept. A lot! Did nothing but watch TV, eat, sleep, watch more TV, then eat some more, sleep some more.

A sentence popped into my head, while J and I were at lunch. The sentence is this, “It’s a special time on the farm when it’s time to slaughter the hogs”. I can recall a memory that my father shared about his Uncle Allen , climbing on the back of a pig to slash its throat, on a day when hogs were slaughtered.

The sentence is voiced by a Southerner. Perhaps it is disgust at my wife’s obsession with the television series The Waltons, currently broadcast on a saturation basis by Hallmark.

Now I hate the fuckin’ Waltons. The Waltons is Hollywood garbage, a vision of 80’s yuppies dropped into the Blue Ridge Mountains of depression-era Virginia. It’s disgustingly wholesome.

So this bizarre mash-up, Waltons and hog killing has been percolating in my head. It is exhausting to deal with these thoughts, further buttressed by a line of dialogue from Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch. “This is better than a hog killing!”, uttered by a man taking valuables off corpses.

It took me several hours of headaches and napping to put this all together. Tomorrow I can resume my regular schedule of obsessions, diet, exercise and unrequited Lust.

February, I started tracking my food, following the Weight Watchers guideline. Last week I started exercising, specifically power walking. It’s a simple exercise. All one has to do is lace up one’s sneakers and step out the door. Swimming is my preferred activity, but planning is required to get a time slot in the YMCA pool. I guess I use the same amount of time, more or less. I stay around the house when I walk. More social interaction comes with going swimming at the Y. I need the structure of being at certain places at certain times.

I swam 250 meters Monday. Today I swam 600 meters. I’m taking incremental increases. Tomorrow, I’m going for 900 meters.

Getting back is the best.

Writing it all down, food, exercise, sleep, blood pressure readings, etc. gets a little overwhelming after a while. I’ve been attending AA meetings. When I do show up, I realize how much I need them. I can be myself.

Last night, I went to a meeting. I then went to Food Lion, bought groceries, came home, and eventually watched The Wild Bunch on TCM.

I stayed up late. That means today has been totally screwed up. It rained a cold, annoying rain, perfect for staying home and inside.

Today merely brought home how sexually frustrated I am. J gives off a vibe that she has no sexual interest in me.

Oh well. I thought about writing more and now I realize it’s not in me. Those of you who have partners with whom you have sex frequently, never, ever take that partner for granted.

There are horrible things that go on in the world, over which I have no power or limited power. There is a war going on in Ukraine, for example.

A war in the Donbas region of eastern Ukraine, against the native ethnic Russians, has been prosecuted by the Ukrainian government, currently led by Volodimir Zelenskyy, despite a ceasefire ignored by Ukraine. These actions are what prompted the Russian intervention to protect the native Russians in Donbas.

What makes matters worse is that the United States sabotaged a negotiated settlement by Turkey, between the belligerent powers in early 2022.

The United States of America gives aid to the Ukrainian government, in prosecuting the war against the Russians. The Ukrainians have committed serious war crimes against the Russian soldiers, including the execution of prisoners of war and use of chemical weapons, dropped from drones on Russian positions. The weapon in question is hydrogen cyanide gas, the same lethal gas used by the Nazis at Auschwitz.

You won’t hear about this in the “legacy” media, the Washington Post, New York Times, CNN, MSNBC, ABC, CBS, NBC, PBS, Fox(with the exception of Tucker Carlson) You won’t hear how desperate the Ukrainian government is, the true extent of their battle casualties, or that American and NATO troops are in Ukraine as “advisors”.

News organisations like Redacted, Inc, and experts like Doug MacGregor and Scott Ritter are reporting the real situation. By ignoring the true situation, the legacy media are doing the government’s bidding, as the USA and NATO push, not simply for Russian defeat, but to overthrow President Putin.

There is strong evidence, reported by legendary investigative journalist Seymour Hirsch, who exposed the My Lai massacre in Vietnam, that the United States is responsible for destroying the Nordstream Pipelines, supplying Russian natural gas to Germany and the rest of Western Europe.

It used to be we would blame a “rogue” CIA, under Allen Dulles or Bill Casey, for conducting actions. including war, that contravened the stated policies of the elected leaders. Now the proxy wars are conducted with the knowledge and consent of the Biden Administration and the predecessor Administrations, with the possible exception of the Trump Administration.

The government, once again, is lying to the people. The government is keeping the War State going, impoverishing this nation in the process. We didn’t have one hundred billion dollars on hand to give the Ukrainians. We borrowed it.

So I’m losing sleep.

Alternative Series Finale

Things are looking bleak for the castaways. They’ve run out of food on the island. Hunger has made them desperate. And depraved!

They’re driven to the thought of cannibalism.

But whom will the majority devour? They consider amputating a leg of one unfortunate victim, but, given their emaciated conditions, one scrawny leg will barely suffice.

Finally they decide on the hapless subject who will be killed, roasted and eaten to prolong the marginal chances of survival for the others.

Just as the victim’s throat is about to be slashed….

a Coast Guard helicopter lands and rescues them.

I really don’t care about The Chinese Balloon. I guess I’m not as patriotic as I should be.

This weight loss journey has familiar stops, like the bus I rode downtown when we lived on Patterson Avenue fifty seven years ago.

I’ve lost weight before, then over the years gained it back. My first effort was in 2006, when I was 55. I simply changed what I ate, reducing the fat and the sugar. The weight dropped steadily. My goal weight was attained. I felt great. This whole process happened a second, maybe a third time.

And then… I felt empty inside. I wanted that empty feeling to leave and sugar and fat helped fill it. The same familiar stops on the same long trip.

Even though I’m 72, I want to feel sexy and loved. My body, scarred as it is, is responding to new foods, just as I learn to cook new dishes. Vegetables are now my “friends”. Their exotic names rutabaga, butternut and acorn squashes, kale, arugula, for starters, have a poetic sound.

Doing new things follow the new outlook. I’m reading again and watching new genres of film, particularly silent movies and film noir.

And I’m throwing out stuff, as if there’s a new life starting for me and I no longer need the books and the clothes that formed the old character I crafted as I rode that bus downtown.