Happy Birthday

Happy Birthday

Your friendly neighborhood high technology tycoon wants artificial intelligence to interconnect with the neural pathways of the brain. What could possibly go wrong?

I can’t sleep. I don’t know why. My head is swirling with images, Roman Polanski, Nixon, just for good measure, Clinton, Pelosi, Trump. They’re all there. It’s not whether I like or dislike any of them. I have some pain, plenty of heartbreak.

J fell off a step stool at work and hit her knee. There is no bruise, or any discoloration. It hurts, but I think she will be OK.

I put in the DVD of the series Civilisation, done by Kenneth Clark on the BBC fifty years ago. I am watching the episode on the High Gothic world, St Francis of Assisi, Dante, and Giotto figure in this episode. There is plenty of beautiful scenery of Tuscany and Umbria, of the cities of Florence, Urbino, Siena.

I don’t know. I need the beauty shown in this episode. Leave it at that.

Anybody remember what happened that day?

If you answered The Manson Family killed actress Sharon Tate and four other people, you would be correct.

Fifty years ago.

I don’t remember all the details. Chances are most people who know them would like to forget them.

And we are coming up on the fiftieth anniversary of the Apollo 11 lunar landing , Woodstock, the release of The Beatles’ Abbey Road album, all kinds of culturally important stuff.

And The Manson Family is there, in the mix.

I dunno. I guess the Epstein Case has touched a memory of another sensational and horrific story.

I’m not “dot-connecting”. At least not yet.

Roman Polanski, husband of Sharon Tate, was convicted of child rape much later after the murders. And the sexual underworld of Hollywood is about to come under much closer scrutiny.

It is going to get very ugly and scary folks.

I have to get my keester out of the leather recliner and do something. I know. I know. Dave version 68.2 is not loading properly. Could be a hardware problem. I pretty sure my Motherboard has been defective since it came from the factory.. So I have had to come up with work arounds again and again.

I believe in the therapeutic value of Popeye. The cartoons always set me straight. Just the music is delightful on its own. So Popeye, Olive Oyl, Bluto, and Wimpy are here providing intensive therapy.

On the pornography front, I watched two women, 40ish, full-figured, and naked, make love/have sex with each other on video, just 2 people connecting, beyond the mere physical sense of the word. To some people, it’s perverse and twisted, both the performance of the act and the digital recording of said act. Then again, I aspire for that sexual love with my wife. I guess you have to not give a fuck, to fuck. Ya know what I mean?

I’ve watched trains today, been to the periodontist for him to check the holes in my jaw he created, had a nap, early dinner, and a digital voyeuristic experience. My friend texted me about the crappy bus service in town. J is watching The Bachelorette. What can I say?

Now I am posting. I know all the moves in the self-help dance. And I’m a wallflower.

At 4:56 in the morning, there is a meet-up of trains.

In Ashland, with the street lights providing illumination to this frequent and mundane phenomenon.

It is doubled-tracked, of course, so the passengers headed North need not worry about the freight headed South interrupting their journey or their restless sleep in Coach.

Still the noise, the rolling rumble, unlike no other noise.

And I, the sleep-deprived voyeur, will go back to bed, and consider sleeping nude.

I overslept.

I missed both Masses

I missed New Zealand’s inning.

I watch England work through the overs, a boundary here and there, as their batsmen succumb to untimely wickets.

I am enjoying coffee.

I think a croissant would be nice.

For that I must get up.

The paper came. Nothing worth reading about.

The impotent vacuous vector for advertising circulars is this eunuch of the harem of free speech.

The good and the bad of modern time.

A wonderful time to be a petit-bourgeois

Sorry, Mr Marx. You lost.

The bed was nice, but I got out of bed and showered, shampooed my hair, shaved the parts of my face and neck where I don’t want hair.

I looked at enough video porn to know that this is not what I want to watch, soul-less cartoon copulators, who have sex devoid of any real intimacy. I’m going to say that porn is popular because it epitomizes our culture. We may love it or hate it but it is the reflection in the mirror. Those who hate porn are so hungry for the love it mocks.

Now I’m trainspotting, still in the daze I felt when I awoke. I just saw the bicycling crossdresser pedal by. Now a bunch of SUV’s all seem to be looking for parking places simultaneously.

Earlier this morning, I was watching some Russian Orthodox Liturgy, mostly a lot of singing. That’s what I want. Choirs are at the heart of Russia, as they are in Wales, and much of Africa. American choirs are hit or miss.

J is at work. And I miss her.

I’m sleepy again, but I made the bed.