I just responded back and forth on a variety of topics around TV, the 60’s and TV commercials with a blogging friend. And my gosh,the intimacy in sharing our experiences was powerful. It was/is erotic. Sex is an extension of conversation, much of the time. Intimacy is about being heard, in my opinion.
Today was a day off for J. So she wanted to do something. First order of business though, was letting her sleep late. This usually means her not getting up at any specific time. The morning ground on. I got a text from Scott, my sponsee, who is homebound. He requested I bring him a 20oz Diet Pepsi. No problem.
Before Diet Pepsi and visit with Scott, a meal with J had to happen. When she did get up, we ended up going to P.F. Chang, kind of the fake Chinese restaurant version of Olive Garden, the fake Italian restaurant. I will say the food is prepared a bit more carefully and the decor isn’t as cheese-y as a Chinese restaurant run by Chinese. (You know the kind. Chinese family works their collective tails off at the restaurant to put all three kids through medical school). But it’s not the same, going to a McChinese place
J had some “Mongolian” beef bowl. I had a Korean inspired chicken bowl with a sunny side up egg parked between the fresh mung bean sprouts and raw vegetables, all over a bed of rice. It was tasty. Just not worth $10.95.
So after the adventure in fine dining, I took Scott his Diet Pepsi. His friend in the complex R was over there. We sat around, talking about the 2nd Amendment Rally in Richmond, a peaceful demonstration, by any standard. A nice visit.
Back home, I sat around some more, then took a nap, and resolved to go swimming tomorrow. I will have a routine re-established by Feb 14. The back slide today seemed inevitable.
If I see the word “weaponizing” in a sentence one more time I will either scream, do an eye roll while muttering “Oh my God”, or, at the most extreme, vomit.
In the world of germ warfare, one could direct the mutation of a benign bacterium into a pathogen, thus weaponizing it. OK. That I get.
Usually “weaponizing”, to the unimaginative people working in journalism and politics, means turning a neutral system or program into one such system that works against the political agenda of the complainant. This is usually the complaint of persons out of political power. They lack the ability to direct the bureaucracy, be it local, state, or federal. If they can’t direct the administrative state to suit their ends, it is being used against them. News flash!!!! This is how politics works.
Politics is a power game that we agree to play because it’s cheaper than killing people and blowing up buildings. In other words, politics is preferable to war. It is a game for the civilized or those who would like to be. Think Renaissance courts in Tuscany or Umbria.
So “weaponizing ……” is the new hot, trite phrase. When an op-ed writer uses it, it sounds less like they’re whining, but they really are doing just that. It is what my grandfather would have called “belly-acheing”.
I got to the pool. I suppose I was out of excuses. Truth was I missed swimming too much. I did 1750 meters(1+miles). I shared a lane with a nice kid, a boy of around 11, I’m guessing. Preadolescent.
When I finished, I came home and warmed some brisket, Brussels sprouts and green beans. I let J have the Brussels sprouts. I took the green beans. I will buy mores B sprouts.
I went to Mass at The Benedictine Abbey. The Diocese of Richmond is celebrating the bicentennial of its founding. I know, so what. Usually. I like Mass at The Abbey. The Uganda priest Fr. Joseph Mary is a good priest, as is Father Sunil, the Indian. The priest today was an American with a hair style reminiscent of The Everly Brothers, kind of 60’s vintage. He was OK. I don’t always go to Mass for a brilliant homily which I did not hear today. Sometimes I go just to be with The Lord, present in The Sacraments.
When I got home I took a nap. I am hoping that will hold me till I fall asleep at 10 or so.
The weather is turning cold again. The respite from Winter is nice for the electric bill. But I prefer identifiable seasons.
So the laundry needs drying. I need to fill my cup with hot coffee.
Life is good.
Here I am awake. Do the ghosts keep me sleep-deprived? Or the arthritis? Doesn’t matter really.
I tried going to sleep. Really I did. J and I set out to watch a movie together. Hitchcock. Patricia Highsmith. Robert Walker. Strangers On A Train. I should be able to stay awake. Wrong. I fell asleep. A nap is sleep’s version of a Taco Bell burrito. Like that burrito, the nap isn’t what I want, or what I need, or what will satisfy. So I missed the movie, and am faced with anxiety about tomorrow and how I shall fill my time.
So now I am a little sleepier. But I am dressed. Maybe sleeping in my clothes is the best I can do.
To The Dreamers
Lazy Saturdays are made
for opera, naps, and lowered shades.
And dreans of lovers, yet to bare
Their naked bodies to my stare.
And If my dreams be realized
When my hands part those proferred thighs
I’ll know my hidden lust did find
A kindred soul of naughty mind.
One of my AA buddies has a sobriety anniversary of 18 January. So today sticks out in my mind because I think of G*?!#*. He became an all around good guy when he got sober. A lot of us do.
I just watched two freight trains pass each other coming from opposite directions through Ashland. Both were pulling large green rectangular prismatic containers. We railfans know that the Southbound containers are filled with the household refuse (aka “trash”) of the Metro DC area. The Northbound ones are empty, headed back for more. There is a fancy mega landfill in Charles City County, between Richmond and Williamsburg.
This is what Modern Times is all about, filling the dumps. Sorry, if you think there are nobler aspirations, higher purposes, more beautiful engineering triumphs. These trash trains are the apex of consumer culture. They’re taking our lowly garbage off to a decent burial. If not decent, at least sanitary. Trash, like death, is an equalizer. As consumers, our role is to consume. Pelosi, Trump, Sanders, McConnell all did their parts to keep those big green boxes filled and rolling.
I could give a discourse on landfills. I won’t. Suffice it to say the trash trains won’t stop soon. In the Twelfth Century, peasants and nobles, monks and merchants, all converged around a common goal in the French town of Chartres. They built a magnificent cathedral, reflecting the human desire for restoration of relationship with God.
Today we all do our part to keep the green tubs filled.
The Property Brothers. Those affable Canadian twins are hired to rehab and remodel a home owned by a serial killer, think Land Order SVU, who has mummified bodies in his basement.
“I can tell you right now that those mummies are going to depress the value of this home.
I needed the new phone. What’s next, you ask?
Yes. You read it here first. Finally. I’m going to get my hearing checked. I’m apprehensive. It is an admission of my vulnerabilities, that I am an Old Man.
OK. People younger than I use hearing aids. The drama will end early. Some of you may even use them.
I can still enjoy the early morning silence.
Throwing out and tidying going well. Rather than start upstairs I worked on the kitchen. Then we got the new phone. Now I am tired and slightly odd-feeling, as if I need to sleep. I know that many people sleep and it’s a good thing. So I’m taking the kindle with the dyke porn on it and going up to rest