I have mastered my Old Man Disguise. I just realize younger people, when they see me, probably think of me as on old man, grey hair, slight limp, hard of hearing. However, I don’t wear those Old Man “Just off the golf course” clothes. No loafers, polo shirts, khakis. No godawful sweaters that look like a pair of Argyle socks run amok.

I was eaves-dropping on a conversation between an Old Man (75+) and a somewhat younger woman (70?). It was more of a monologue on his part, (a man– o-logue?), where he talked about places he has been, like some vineyard near Solvang where his daughter was married. I heard another table conversation where the diners were talking about going to the once every ten year production of The Passion Play in Oberammergau.

I was appreciative for that moment and that I was dining alone, looking out the plate glass window of the Iron Horse Restaurant. A big freight train passed by, I looked at the graffiti on the freight cars, hauling coal. I enjoyed my salmon pattie sandwich, then my maple sundae with candied walnuts.

I walked about the Town of Ashland and saw a sign for a bed and breakfast in a walk-up over a used book shop. Highly quaint.

It was a departure from routine and most welcome. Then I went to my sponsee’s condo, bearing a 20 oz Diet Pepsi and chatted a bit.

Highlight of the day was when I found out my A1C is under control. This I learned when my doctor’s nurse called with my lab results from yesterday’s office visit.

I fixed chicken breasts in bread crumbs cooked in a 400° F oven with side dishes of Brussels sprouts and rice. J liked the meal. Tomorrow we finally go to the Edward Hopper traveling exhibition at VMFA.

I am very happy I have what I have.

I slept for a fairly long period for me, six hours. I did some trainspotting,reading, and coffee drinking. And now loneliness and isolatiom are making their presence felt. More sleep is indicated.

J has yet to text this morning, meaning no break yet.

Back to bed.

A good day, all in all. I had a doctor’s appointment that went well. Then AA. J came home. We had Dollar Tacos at Rico’s, a nice Mexican family place, where toddlers eat finger foods and drink from sippy cups, irresistible cuteness.

I came home and finished a lesbian romance novel on my Kindle©. I vicariously felt the excitement of young love and longed for that excitement.

I have another idea to communicate my love needs to J. We are going to read The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman simultaneously.. Of course she has to be awake for me to reveal this plan to her. I can do this.

And now I am tired. Her lunch for tomorrow is packed. I am going to sleep.

Night all.

I Took a nap around 5:30. Since then I have been watching shows on You Tube, mostly The Daily Woo, produced by a engaging fellow with multiple tattoos and a tongue stud who calls himself Adam The Woo. He has a feeling for the quirky and off-beat in America, a nation, at the level of the small town, that has been decimated by . Wal-Mart, Lowe’s, Home Depot, Target, the Internet and Amazon.

Tbere is error, of course, in his highly subjective perspective. But that doesn’t mean his perspective is devoid of truth. I remember, back in the Eighties, as I made business insurance sales calls in rural Virginia, that the world was changing, as it always is. Tobacco barns were in disrepair, replaced by curing sheds made of prefabricated sheet metal with propane heaters, rather than wood fires, doing the curing. One could find disused railroad beds, devoid of track and ties, a poignant lost world. Some became hiking and biking Trails.

The impermanence of the world hits me hard. It is something I should accept, but I don’t. I am as shocked today about Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz’s divorce, as I was in the Fifties. The Dodgers and Giants moving to the West Coast still shatter my sense of security. Security,for me, was a bedtime story, then being rocked and sung to sleep by my father, The Marine . I suppose because, at some level there is a little child in me who wants to feel protected; that Grandma and Mom and Dad will always be here.

But no. We are like Charles Foster Kane, of Citizen Kane, whose last word on his lips, “Rosebud” was from the world he lost.

“Remember that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return”.– From the Traditional Ash Wednesday Liturgy.

In my childhood, Washington’s Birthday was celebrated, 22 February. The advertisers loved to do ads and commercials around the “Washington cutting down the cherry tree” legend. Everybody knows by now it was a story fabricated by a clergyman, Parson Weems. He wrote a textbook and decided that Washington should be made a paradigm of virtue. Hence the story.

Lincoln’s Birthday is 12 February and Lincoln was associated with log cabins, splitting rails, and cheesy-looking fake beards. The month was a four week long marketing opportunity. Caricatures of car dealership presidents wearing colonial style wigs, with hatchets , chopping down the cherry trees of high prices, seemed to abound. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe these cartoons are just dreams of mine, false memories and embellishments on reality.

Today February is Black History Month.   That’s it. All Black All The Time. Does Black History only matter in February? You know the answer. The various History Months and Pride Months are all concessions to the pressures of the identity groups that make up the modern Democratic Party. As such, these honorary months flirt dangerously with contrivance and artificiality.

Now if one expresses scepticism as to this popular proliferation of. “______ History Month” as offering any true educational purpose, one risks ridicule or shame.

Ironically Black History Month risks morphing into the modern version of Cherry Vanilla Ice Cream, solely a public relations artifice.

But that’s our time. Public Relations and Propaganda hold forth as our dubious conduit to truth. And we don’t even know it

The old TV had been around for seven years, I guess. The power supply had an issue. I replaced that set with Monroe’s old set, the one he left us when he died in 2014.

Monroe was what Janet’s family called her Dad. He was James Monroe to distinguish him from another James in the family. Eventually, he was the last James standing so his name shifted to Jim for most people, except for the family diehards.

I had a power cord issue. The original issue power cord was nowhere to be found. I thought I found a replacement at Best Buy but it did not fit. So I scrounged one from multiple power cords we had around the house.

It is a nice HD set, a Vizio 37″ in the E Series. Hard to believe this is obsolete. It lacks Smart TV technology. That means Google and the NSA can’t spy on you as easily. Nice to know. Our country is safe.

So I’m tired. We went to the 5:00 Mass with the annoying music. I’m just glad I went.

Dinner was well received, especially the sauteed Brussels sprouts.

Night all.

It has been a very long day of not giving a fuck, of longing for J, but knowing her return will be nothing more than going upstairs to recover from working, and having a very good reason for not giving me the time of day.

I have a brisket in the slow cooker, her favorite, will sauté Brussels sprouts with carrots in olive oil and garlic, maybe a potato, but maybe not. Strawberries and whipped cream for dessert

We shall see what happens.

Here it is 8:36 AM on Sunday 16 February 2020. My nephew is 17 today, a fine young man. J is at work. I am sitting in my chair, having finished my first cup of coffee, staring at my television. I can get it to work by unplugging the power cord after I finish watching,then plugging it in when I want to resume viewing. A nuisance.

I am considering which Mass to attend today, the 1100 Mass at St Benedict, the traditional Latin Mass at 430 at St Joseph, or the “contemporary” Mass at St Bridget at 500. Right now I am sleepy and want to go back to sleep. That would eliminate the 1100 Mass. 430 Latin Mass is not J’s sort of thing. She likes when I attend with her at St Bridget. I guess St Bridget is the one.

AA talks about packing things in to the stream of life, once liberated from the tyranny of alcohol. Right now I want to pack in more sleep.

Here I am, tired, been up for a while, too long, really. I should go to bed.

The yearning I feel for the love that I don’t get sears my heart. It is like getting socks for Christmas. Just socks. Ugly White Tube Socks. Again and again. Year after year. Nice gift only if that is what I need. And I often need them, I should be grateful and yet…. the prospect of socks again is frustrating and maddening.

So I am waiting for Romance and Passion to hit me like a ton of bricks.

Emotional. That is the only kind I ride. Perhaps I need to change that.

Yesterday, my TV crapped out. There is something wrong with it. They are made so inexpensively (cheaply), that the modern television is more economically replaced than repaired. So I have to survive an indeterminate period of media deprivation; no Popeye cartoons, no English “mudlarkers”, no Ukrainians with metal detectors, no Russian “mukbangers”, and no interminable World War Two newsreels and documentaries. I will survive (cue disco music!).

The emotional roller coaster I am experiencing pertains to my upset with our local delegate to the Virginia General Assembly, who just voted to override a fundamental element of the US Constitution. What is gallimg is that he is a high school government teacher in his real job. His fix could serve to precipitate a Constitutional crisis (no matter who wins) and is of questionable legality.

So I wrote letters (emails), to him and to the school board, citing his 1) conflict of interest as an obvious political partisan and 2) his bad judgment. I suggested he resign or be terminated if all he is is a partisan tub-thumper masquerading as an objective educator. (Emotional peak). Then J and I went to dinner, where we talked, ate, and otherwise reconnected. (Emotional drop and leveling off).

I feel much better now. Remarkably, since I have no access to Popeye.

I will survive. ( 🎶So I’m saving all my lovin’…. 🎶)