Wednesday, November 15, 2017


And then the dicks showed up. That is what I got out of it. Private detective solves crime, the police come in and get the credit. The co-eds are safe. Early forties, black and white. Clipped speech, except for the lady from Texas, who was a dingbat with one of those squeaky hysteric drawls.

Creepy little children.

I would have paid better attention, and found out what was going on, but my apartment mate had chosen the film -- she uses the television much more than myself, you see -- and I was too busy abusing a piece of wood (rusticating a pipe) to really be interested.

In all honesty, I haven't really watched many movies during the past several years, a decade or more. Nor has any one else. All of the movie theatres within walking distance have closed, and judging by the changes in the neighborhood, people now go out to build muscle at gyms instead.
There are gyms all over the place now.
Sweat, baby, sweat.

Solitary recreational exercise; how peculiar.

Not that such things have to be a family adventure, but two can do that much better than one, and the showers afterward are fantastic.

The modern era may have made us peculiar; we no longer do things together, either as couples or as groups, except, perhaps, going to the lowest common denominator drinking hole for birthday celebrations.

I have seen enough of those to know it happens, but none of my friends and acquaintances has drunken birthdays, and I do not either.

My birthday was slightly over a month ago.
It was sober, and filled with duck.
And cake, and chocolate.

I really don't feel older. But I am, and the world has changed too.
Before computers and blogging, there were movies.
Things were more black and white.

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