Sometimes repair issues are unavoidable. I bought my Dad’s car from the estate eight years ago when he passed away at age 90. Since his family called him ‘Junior”, I would now drive Junior’s Car. Well Junior’s Car did fine, up until today when the fuel pump broke after nearly 195,000 miles. I guess it was due.

My. TIMETABLE FOR WORLD DOMINATION has been dealt a setback. I cannot mandate that the world speak only Esperanto by the year 2024, as I had originally planned. The world will have to use other currencies besides Hostess Twinkies and Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies a little bit longer, setting back my currency reform. The riders in The Tour de France will not have to put baseball cards in the spokes of their bikes so they will make a cool noise as soon as I had planned.

Did they design the 1998 Mercury Grand Marquis LS is with an easily accessible fuel pump? We will know tomoorow.

I am awake, have been since 3:30. I ate fruit, oatmeal and a snack size stick of Sargento Cheddar. I have drunk more coffee than I should have. A train is pulling into Ashland, #86 Northbound to Washington and, ultimately, New York.

The exhaustion continues. I do little to ameliorate the condition. I am going back to bed, I think. Very soon.

I need to find a counselor. Who or what kind, I don’t know. I will reach out to friends first

Sleep. Did I say I was going back to bed? Later, folks.

I want some good reason for being awake at 0240. There isn’t one. I was in the big bed, sleeping beside J, more or less. I was using a pillow for back support, since I am a side sleeper. I woke up, voided my bladder, then went to the other bed. I read some blogs, couldn’t get warm, dressed and came downstairs.

Two freight trains, moving in opposite directions just passed through Ashland. Now we are back to the nocturnal quiet. I feel sleep coming back. A yawn comes, then another. At the same time, I consider sleeping in my recliner. Night all.

This culture, not just America, but the whole global popular culture, is obsessed with sport. Soccer (football), cricket, baseball, ice hockey, American football, basketball, just to name a few. The Turks are nuts about wrestling, the Indonesians badminton, Canadians love curling. Now after spending six months following baseball, I can say enough.

I was this worked up around baseball about twenty years ago, then I settled back to a slow simmer. This summer, when I added cricket to the menu, I got all jazzed up about lots of sports again, but there is only so much any of us can take.

Exercising for fitness may take on the appearance of a game, but there are differences. I swim, love swimming, love the time alone in the water. I time myself, chart my times. If I’m competing, it is against myself, in past performances. I don’t want to compete, against any opponent.

We have, more or less, built American culture around three team sports baseball, football (American), and basketball. All the others are opening acts or sideshows. Colleges are as much about sports teams as they are about intellectual inquiry or professional education, maybe more so.

Sport is the All You Can Eat Buffet of Popular Culture. We eventually become engorged, long before we are satisfied. When I go to such a buffet, especially when I am paying, I feel like I have to get my money’s worth, whatever that is.

So it is time to unplug, dial back. I will swim more often, continue watching cricket (since I pay extra for it), but baseball, American football, basketball, and ice hockey, I’m out of the office.

It has been awhile since we have had a long soaking rain. Today we have just that. And my joints ache. I made coffee. J is at work. I am alone.

I am still processing this weekend. Maybe because I am sober and count among my mentors the illiterate poor who stay sober and live lives in the brutal shadow world of the other America, but I have no feeling for the  American collegiate subculture.

But I find little joy in pondering my alienation. Rather the falling rain shall be sufficient cause for joy today.

This trip to Williamsburg is over. We are home. The dirty clothes from the trip have been laundered. Drying is next. I am exhausted, so I will nap. J had been resting since we got back.

I wish she wasn’t so attached to Williamsburg. I knew Charlottesville was an armpit from the day I first laid eyes on it, Mr Jefferson’s architecture being the exception. I never want to see my alma mater again, ever.

But we drive around in the congested streets, clogged with the Yuppie alumni on pilgrimage, plus the Colonial Williamsburg tourists, checking things out.

I need a nap.

Today at lunch when I was about to get a scene by scene summary of a particularly tragic death that was the subject of a TV show, I told J I did not want to hear about it, nor do I want to hear about any murders, adultery, infidelity, or suicides at lunch any longer.

I feel completely liberated from that junk. Never again.