I was feeling particularly crazy earlier this afternoon, as in repealing certain amendments to The Constitution that would guarantee maximum chaos that I really don’t want. I told you I was feeling crazy.

Anyway, I took a nap and feel less crazy.

YouTube is on. I’m being lazy and simply letting the Virtual Railfan LLC live cam in Ashland keep me distracted..

Previously, I watched as YouTube Channeler Martin Zero showed me around Manchester, in the UK. We have a part of Richmond, VA. called Manchester. It was a separate city until 1911 and had its own courthouse, which is still used. Philip Morris had factories there that would process leaf tobacco before making it into cigarettes. The factories eventually closed as production was consolidated into more modern facilities. It had its own main commercial street, Hull Street. There was a railroad station for the Southern Railroad, called Hull Street Station. The track roughly followed the line to Danville, mentioned in the song The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,written by Robbie Robertson. It was performed by his group The Band, later by Joan Baez. (I digress.) The station is now owned by a railway historical society. The tracks near it are now operated by Norfolk Southern. They still go to Danville, VA. (I digress, yet again).

Then again, one can’t really digress if nothing worthy of mention or of any continuity was intended to be discussed.

The freezer has been intentionally depleted as I have used up the frozen food on hand. I have a restock planned when I get my Social Security stipend deposited on Wednesday. I wonder what I will buy.

I did not swim today. Tired. I did not go to Mass, because I’m hurting from my various infirmities. We did go to lunch at the local P F Chang’s, where our server was a genuine Oriental. Racist? Not really. I’m just pointing out a fact in the chain restaurant business. The employees aren’t family members any more, because a so-called “ethnic” restaurant merely appropriates a cuisine, modifies, and then alters it to reflect popular tastes and available food items. I don’t really think farm-raised salmon was ever a staple of Tuscan cuisine, for example.

The paper had a story on people who identify as nonbinary. In The Past, before the Internet, we could count on a trend, movement, or cultural phenomenon, no longer being newsworthy if the Richmond Times-Dispatch, or its extinct sister paper The Richmond News Leader, did a story on it. We’ve grown. Richmond was, at one time, a very large insular hick town. It was actually a lot more interesting then. The fight against segregation and racism had real meaning, because there was serious segregation and racism, based on statutes in the law, not merely hurt feelings or shallow grievances. Legal giants of the Civil Right Era, Spottswood Robinson and Oliver Hill argued the cases that ended Jim Crow. They were Richmonders.

When air conditioning became commonplace, the Civil Rights Act was passed and advertising agencies relocated here, Northerners and other sophisticates moved to town, the uniqueness vanished. That, obviously, from what I’ve written, was not a totally bad thing.

So we have lots of non-chain, entrepreneurial restaurants now, our neglected neighborhoods are being rehabilitated, on the way to gentrification. The bootleggers have been replaced by the drug gangs, and murders are just barely newsworthy. The bad and the good mingle.

It wasn’t a bad day by any means. I woke up (big +), watched some cricket, but I missed David Warner’s big day for Australia. Bangladesh had a formidable target number in the run chase, and they made quite an effort to catch the Aussies, but didn’t make it.

The latest item in the sex abuse scandal, a sexual assault by Joseph Bernadin, then a priest in 1957, who raped a teenaged boy. His Bishop knew of the assault. The Bishop, John Russell, later became Bishop of The Diocese of Ruchmond, Virginia. Bernadin became Cardinal of the Archdiocese of Chicago. Sordid.

I’m back swimming after a four day break. My neck and shoulder are sore again. Heat, ice, exercise, NSAID pain relievers keep the discomfort in check.

But you know, what? I’m happy.

On my television is the Afghanistan vs. England match from Old Trafford in Manchester. It’s a limited overs (50) match and England batted first, putting up 397 runs. That’s a formidable number to overtake but the Afghans are showing great pluck and determination. They probably won’t win, but they’re making a match of it. For a country known for grim, ugly, and nearly interminable wars, this genteel pursuit belies the stereotype we have of the “typical” Afghan.

Surprises are always welcome.

I got an email from Amazon showing a lovely floral print dress with a full skirt and a boat neck. Sleeveless.

“That’s a pretty dress,” I remark.

“It is, but I never wear dresses any more and we shouldn’t spend the money on something I will never wear,” she replied

And a little of me died in that exchange. I know what she wears, every dreary cotton knit top, every pair of khakis, every pair of jeans, every pair of cotton panties, every drab white or beige sexless brassiere, purchased at BJ’s or Target or, maybe even the auto parts store, for all I know.

Somehow, crushing attraction or charm, has become her goal in life. Making herself beautiful because it would please her husband doesn’t register with her. And I have no answer.

Rant over

So I’m sitting here watching Nicola White of Tideline Art go Mudlarking in the Thames tidal flats. She enjoys rooting about in the mud and conveys that enjoyment skilfully.

C, my younger son, took me to an Indian restaurant. The curries were spicy and flavorful He ordered lamb, I ordered goat. We both preferred goat. The dessert was a mango pudding, more of a custard that was the perfect dessert. My late brother Charlie studied Indian languages, so we both fondly remembered him whilst we ate.

I spoke with R, my elder son, when we got home. He wished me Happy Father’s Day, told me he was sick, and we would get together later.

Then C and I watch the rest of the India vs Pakistan ODI, which India won.

So with Nicola showing her tidal treasures, I bid you all Adieu.