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

Here, at the end of May, the sun has almost risen, climbed above the horizon , beginning a seasonal tease of long days, short nights, warmth creeping to heat, as we receive the gift of sweat.. People show their skin and more Tits and ass, packages. And for the truly prurient, bellies.

Bellies, the glorious testimonial to baklava and beer. Sometimes,for women, babies grow in those bellies, in útero ,to be more precise. Promises, curses, dreams.

Cycles. That is what the universe shares. Dramatically at Stonehenge or Bethlehem. Always more than a day. Offering light for concupiscence, Darkness for the same.

The really clever people have made their own suns, small enough for rockets to carry. Although useless for growing grain or trees or fruit, these microsuns receive their ill deserved attention.

We make a different sacrifice to these lesser gods, happiness,.

I can keep quiet no longer. There should federal laws against interleague play, the designated hitter and the pitch clock.

Furthermore chewing tobacco should be Mandatory.

Ok. That’s enough rant.

I’m up, watching YouTube. There’s an attractive 40ish woman, posing in a mesh bikini.

I don’t know what it’s like to lust any more, to carry a seduction through to its conclusion, to be with a woman who values my company more than watching an episode of Adam 12.

This reflection is descending into a rant about being 73 and lonely.

Did Frosty The Snowman have an Advance Directive about Melting away?

We’ve had massacres at concerts, bridge destruction, personal electronics malfunctions, births, deaths. You know. Life goes on, John Mellenkamp reminded us.

I’m watching trains. My guardian angel, Jade, told me to avoid the news for two days. That is getting easier and easier.

News, I think, is how we’re manipulated, by the people who make the bombs and pay off the politicians.

Enough of that. If you have chance to get laid, go for it! Nothing beats an orgasm.

Do the Amish masturbate?