I think I’ve over all that. Or just getting old. Whatever. This is not a day to be spoiling other people’s joy. Instead I’m going to try and cultivate some of my own. Or at any rate, at least some peace of mind.

Alas, the nice local upscale restaurant I would have treated myself to today, La Cuchara, has been closed for over a month now due to a fire in one of its kitchen vents. I’m really hoping they come back. It was expensive but worth every penny.

Probably do Wicked Sister’s. I love their crab cake dinner, and some of their house cocktails are pretty good.

A classmate shared on his Facebook page something from a fellow traveler about how just the act of leaving the comfortable United States and going somewhere else. He begins his post with…

To the People Who Have Never Left Their Zip Code:

You Need to Come to Thailand. Not for a Holiday, but for an Intervention.

I look at my friends back in the West. Their lives are perfect. They have sub-floor heating. They have lanes for everything. Their biggest stress is if the Amazon package arrives late. And they are bored out of their minds.

You need to visit Thailand at least once before you die, just to remember you are alive.

His post is about getting Out Of Your Comfort Zone from time to time, and seeing that there is a world beyond our own borders, and that world is different in many ways.

I’ve only done it once in my life, and most likely never will again. But yes, definitely yes, and my beyond the borders awakening happened in Puerto Vallarta. I offered this comment to my classmate’s post…

This is sorta-kinda like what I experienced when some people I once knew took me to Puerto Vallarta some years ago. It was the first, and so far only time I’ve been outside the country.

We stayed at a bed and breakfast in the old cobblestone part of town. It was a lovely residence that was probably once a very well to do family’s hacienda with many nice rooms and a large open courtyard with flowering plants, fountains and a swimming pool. Powerlines hung within a foot or two from the second floor balconies and the landlord told us not to reach out and touch them or we’d be going back home in a wooden box. It had its own water filtration system but we were warned to use only the bottled water for things like brushing our teeth.

Outside on one of my walks I saw men working on repairing a set of steps leading to a back door. They had taken the electric meter off the side of a building across the street, stuck two metal tangs into its base and from those ran jumper cables across the street over to a power drill’s cord that only bare wire at the end, instead of a plug. Everywhere I looked in that old part of town I saw stunningly beautiful examples of old Mexican architecture that were lovingly well maintained, alongside of places that looked a little iffy. I eventually found myself always looking around to make sure I wasn’t getting too close to any live power lines.

The landlord told us the general rule on the streets was if a pedestrian gets hit it’s their fault. It wasn’t just a matter of paying attention to the traffic signs and lights. I saw one four way intersection that only had one approach controlled by a light, the other three were place your bets and take your chances.

The people were wonderful, friendly, and appreciated tourists who made an effort to communicate in their language. Arranging purchases and asking for directions turned out to be very easy. I quickly mastered several important language items such as “Please”, “Thank you”, “Which way to the bathroom”, and “No thank you I am not interested in buying a timeshare.”

On one of my walks I noticed I was getting a blister on my right heel, and started looking around for a place to buy a bandage. I wasn’t sure what they called a drug store in Mexico but I looked around, and eventually saw a very Very small storefront tucked in between much two larger ones with the word “farmacia” on the overhead sign and thought, close enough. When I got inside it was obviously what I was looking for, and I said simply “bandage?” to the man at the front counter, hoping to be understood. He just nodded and pointed, and what needed was there. Paying for things was easy since the ATMs dispensed local currency and accepted my American Express card, and calculating dollars to pesos just then simply meant moving the decimal point one over.

I would love to go back, but I have no one to travel with alas, and getting too old for it now anyway. But I have a lot of lovely memories of that place. Wish I’d done more of it now.

Yeah. I reckon I should have done more of that before I got so old. So it goes, so it went…

From our Department Of Oversharing Yourself…

[Note…this has been edited massively since I first posted it. Maybe read it again?]

The other day I shared a post on Facebook about something that interests me very much, and touches on a muse that informs my artwork to a large degree. And it was just to share something that interests me but was also, in a way, like everything I put up there or on my blog, about me. The response was not exactly what I expected, but weirdlings like me get that periodically.

It was a post about the geology of the east coast and how it shaped the history of european migration into north America…

“So there is an invisible line that’s just going through the eastern US. You probably haven’t noticed it, but this line is important. You’ve crossed it again. You didn’t notice. You didn’t even know existed. But this line determines where the cities are when the rivers start getting all wonky. It’s called the fall line. Not because it’s where people fall, but it’s actually. Well, it’s where the rivers fall. Like, they. They stop being chill rivers, and they fall violently. So the fall line is the boundary where ancient hard bedrock meets softer coastal sediments. This means this is where rivers go from being chill and navigable. Navigable to white knuckle chaos. This all happens within a mile. And that’s because we have the Appalachian Mountains right there, and they’re pretty old. And over hundreds of millions of years, they eroded and dumped to this sediment along the coast, gradually dumping it eastward, creating this coastal plain. So now we have solid rock on one side and soft clay and sand on the other. And water hates this transition. That’s why every major East Coast city sits on this line. You know, you have Philly, you got Baltimore, you got Raleigh, you got Atlanta, Richmond, DC, Columbia, you name it. These are all the furthest points that settlers could reach inland before the water turned to waterfall chaos. So they stopped there, they said, that’s good, built cities, installed Mills, collected money, and the rest is literally history. Fall Line created a hydro power. Before electricity. It created trade routes. And this fall line is important today. You know, soil chemistry, flooding and seismic activity.”  (post by Active Earth on Facebook)

As you can see it has a bunch of awkward language in it that I just glossed over for the fresh take on the information in it. I’ve seen badly constructed sentences like that before and it’s not always an AI artifact. People will often fiddle finger a keyboard and/or express themselves awkwardly. I can relate, I have thoroughly mucked up language in my own text from impatient editing and re-editing and then posting it somewhere I can’t fix what I later realized I mucked up. Now I try to let the words simmer a while before clicking on PUBLISH. But I understood the facts presented to be correct so I shared it. Because the artifacts geologic time and human history leave behind have fascinated and enchanted me ever since I was a small boy wandering around on foot. I just assumed everyone else I know on Facebook would be enchanted too. I make that mistake lots.

Here’s the image of the invisible line that accompanied the post…

It’s not exactly invisible, in fact it’s pretty obvious once you know it’s there, but you have to have driven up and down the east coast to figure that out. I’ve been pondering it for a long time. Ever since I got my first driver’s license actually. The thing is, you don’t have to drive the roads of North America very much to appreciate how its geology has shaped human migrations and history. What gets surprising as you learn more about it is how deep into the details of our history that goes. 

Well before I was old enough to really grasp what it was I was seeing in things like a meandering creek beds, highways, or rows of storefronts, I was thinking to myself, why is it like that? The different scales of time, human versus geological, and then to the astronomical, was a source of deeply felt awe even at that age. Mom eventually gave me a Little Golden Book Of The Stars And Planets that I still have, because she kept seeing me looking up at the night sky in wonderment.

Now I take long road trips. I remember one moment I was driving through a little town called Mexican Hat in Utah and saw layers of rock in cliffsides not far from the road, bent like liquid waves in an ocean.

It was amazing. I had to pull off the road and get my camera out, and I just stood there for I don’t know how long drinking it all in. I tried to get a sense of how long it must have taken to bend that rock above the town into those shapes. I later learned that the rock was uplifted and tilted on its side, and then it eroded into those shapes, something like what happened in Arches National Park. I was staring at evidence of time on a scale I knew I could not grasp and it was thrilling. And then I remembered that was sedimentary rock. How long did that take to form? Right…this was all an inland sea at one time wasn’t it? And now it’s how far above sea level?

Every time I take the drive to Florida and Disney World I think about how I-95, at least from the part of it I know well from Pennsylvania to Georgia, practically defines the line between the piedmont and the coastal plains. The first major north south highway wasn’t Route 1, it was the Atlantic Highway, which brought people and settlements that they kept building because that’s what humans do. To expand, add new pavement and towns, they had to do that west of where they built that first auto trail because to the east was the sea. So that’s where I-95 eventually ended up, right along the boundary line between the old mountains and the coastal plains the erosion of those mountains helped to form, because building it there was cheaper and by then there were already local roads, like route 301 (which I still want to drive one day).

I have walked and driven it lots, that sudden transition from piedmont to coastal plains. Those shots of Great Falls in that article…

…I’ve stood there, hiked Billy Goat trail. The Potomac River is still cutting its way down to the coastal plains as you watch. Back in the day it made the river unnavigable, so they built a canal with locks on the Maryland side. An attempt to build one on the Virginia side was made and then abandoned. Then the first steam powered railroads became a thing and a railroad was built along the river that killed off the canal, which is now a park and tourist attraction. I used to hike the towpath lots.

Every time I swing around the Baltimore beltway from US 40 down to I-95 I get to see a lovely view looking down from where the Maryland piedmont drops onto the coastal plains. Early on the B&O Railroad put a tunnel under Baltimore because they figured it would be cheaper than trying to do it over the Maryland piedmont or crossing the Patapsco and it nearly bankrupted them. Baltimore straddles that divide. I live in the piedmont part of the city and can walk and few blocks and look down on the coastal plains part. I’ve seen the drop even more spectacularly whenever I went south after a visit with mom in Hillsville, down I-77, but even much more so on route 52 next to it, in the place they call Fancy Gap.

That natural barrier, one of many across North America, changed the way people migrated and you can still see it in the maps of highways, railroad and cities and towns. And here’s the thing: he past isn’t really past. It’s still there in the old main streets. In the earth beneath our feet. In the atoms and stars.

You can visualize towns forming like crystal growth around a sweet spot in the earth. Then as time goes on there is evolution. Old buildings retrofitted and made new again and again, and if you look closely you can figure out what they started out as. There’s a pest control company in a building not far from my house that was obviously once a trolly car barn. But that would have been before Hampden was part of Baltimore city and The Avenue was third avenue, not 36th street.

The story of humanity is laid out in front of you as you walk or drive, or just look at the map. It is also the story of the Earth. Which is also the story of the universe.

But this muse is something, I reckon, that sets me apart. Even among the freaks and geeks.

I get a paper cut and pause while dripping some antiseptic on it to consider how it’s red because of blood cells that hold the shards of an ancient sun. Some decades ago in a science magazine I saw a schematic of the atomic structure of a hemoglobin molecule and it indicated four iron atoms. Those iron atoms are what make it work to transport oxygen throughout the body. My weirdness tells me that, in a sense, we still burn from the heat of that ancient star. Okay, its ash. But still…

I know where you can look up and if the sky is dark enough see a fuzzy blotch of light that took two and a half million years to reach your eyes, which themselves evolved from the first mammalian eyes two-hundred million years ago, made of stardust that’s billions of years old.

That sense of the scale of time informs my art…weirdly.  Where you really see it is in my pure art photography galleries. But I can see the weirdness of me in all of it, even in the photojournalism galleries. For a while I was doing oil paintings that were weird imaginary landscapes that were my musings about the infinite disregard of space and time.

I have a friend who gives me the same lecture practically every time we’re together, about how it’s okay to be crazy as long as you don’t let Them know it because you might lose your freedom. I’m not sure exactly what he’s trying to tell me but in these Donald Trump days I feel like I’m not crazy I’m just ahead of the curve (that was a Heath Ledger Joker reference). But I’m fine with me. It took me decades and finally reaching my 70s, but I’m fine with me. Mostly. I’m not hurting anyone by being me. I do my work, I pay my bills, I keep my promises and the trust of others. I look out for my neighbors. Yes I’m stubborn, I have a temper, I get impatient over trivial things. I take things to heart that maybe I shouldn’t while other things I maybe should pay attention to go right over my head. I hate being talked over, and I don’t socialize very well with more than a few people I know at a single time. Sometimes what comes out of my mouth is the tail end of a train of thought no one else in the room was privy to. Which is probably why I get Those Puzzled Looks from time to time. I make strange art.

And sometimes I toss things out there on Facebook because something about it completely enchanted me. Like that video of the blue grey gnatcatcher, or the one of that alligator attacking a painting of a deer, or the musician playing Vince Guaraldi on his electric keyboard accompanied by the clothes dryer. Cool stuff. I’d share them here but embedding videos in your blog has become a lot more problematic now that they’re business assets.

And that post about the line between the piedmont and the coastal plains.

If you don’t get what I’m sharing or why, just keep scrolling…swipe left…whatever…

[Edited Massively… Apologies if you read the previous version I put up here while I was still feeling stung over the comments I got on Facebook. I’m still feeling stung, but I think I’ve handled it better now]

Way too cute for my own good college age guy behind the counter at the camera store in San Luis Obispo when I went there looking for red filters for my Canon F1n and Miranda Sensorex. Even worse, he knew everything about my F1s and really liked that I had that Sensorex and we talked film photography all the while he was digging up filters. Or trying to.

Searching for parts for film cameras these days is a lot like browsing flea market tables. You find a camera store that stocks used equipment and asking about things like filters and lens caps quickly turns into a deep search through boxes and trays. But that’s how it is. I feel lucky there’s even a decent camera store nearby.

They didn’t have any to fit the 28mm lenses I had on those cameras, but instead of just throwing up his hands and telling me he couldn’t help me, this kid digs up a 62mm red filter and proposed finding me some step up rings for both lenses for that filter.

I liked the idea because I didn’t want to have to go online for the filters I wanted. You find any camera stores now that have stuff for film cameras and you want to support them so they stay in business. And this kid’s creative solution to the problem was appealing. I could tell he wasn’t just trying to sell me something, he was trying hard to help a fellow photographer. I mean…he just took one look at my cameras and we instantly clicked. So to speak.

Eventually the counter top between us filled up with step up/step down rings and he kept trying this and that combination until he found ones that worked for both cameras. All the while we kept talking photography and film cameras. While checking my F1n to make sure the step up rings weren’t causing any vignetting with the 28mm lens he looked confused momentarily, then we both realized I had installed a diopter on the viewfinder and his eyes, being still 20/20, couldn’t quite focus with that in place. He was super impressed that I’d managed to find a genuine Canon diopter. I told him I’d got that camera body long enough ago that parts for it weren’t so hard to find, but I still had to look hard for diopters.

Then he realized the Canon F1 I had with me was an F1n…the slight improvement over the original F1, which he had one of and loved. I think my heart skipped a beat right just then. I remarked about how one tiny but very nice improvement over the original was the battery check button position was spring loaded so you couldn’t accidentally leave the battery check on and drain the battery. He emphatically agreed and wondered why they’d not done that on the first generation F1s.

I showed him some of my shots of Monument Valley as a way of explaining why I like to work in black and white with a red filter. He loved them, told me what he liked most about them, and about the film he likes to use that gets him similar results. And it really cheered me up to see how another generation of film photographers was coming into their own.

I think a good rule of thumb now for film photographers is if you need supplies go find a college town nearby if possible. The kids there are into it. I often see Hopkins students at the camera store near where I live in Baltimore.

So many times I run into other middle age and older photographers and we start talking and it turns into a subtextual duel to see who the alpha photographer is (that happens with software developers too). This kid (yes I got his name but I won’t repeat it here) and I just started talking like a couple fellow countrymen. We had a perfect affinity, at least regarding our mutual love of photography. Made me feel very good.

And wishing I was 40 years younger so I could ask for his phone number, and could he take me someplace he knows where there are good photos to be had, and I’d bring my camera. And some film. And that red filter he just sold me.

This XKCD cartoon has been in my thoughts recently…

The other day I discovered to my displeasure that an old friend acquaintance has belly flopped into the anti vax sewer. So just replace the 9/11 conspiracy theories in that cartoon with COVID vaccine conspiracy theories and you have what I had to listen to the other day.

And yeah it breaks my heart because he’s smarter than that. But there’s that right wing talk radio streak in him. I suppose lots of us have people like that in our past. I hadn’t spoken to him at all since the last election because I knew where those conversations would end up going and I’d get angry again and hang up on him again and I just didn’t want to deal with him after that election day.

He’s actually probably not a Trumper, but he is a gun enthusiast to a degree I am simply not and it’s his one and only political issue when it comes to election day. He has the usual other talk radio issues, yes, but that one second amendment issue is the only thing he thinks about on election day and I am not that. I am all for background checks and keeping a tight control over who can and who cannot carry a gun in public. I’m not so much about “assault weapons” which I think is a meaningless term, but I absolutely think high capacity magazines should be reserved only for military and police use. I think our second amendment does give the people the right to own their own firearms and I think it makes complete sense in the context of democracy. But I also think the second amendment gives congress the right to regulate firearms too.

We regulate by law all sorts of potentially dangerous things people otherwise have the right to possess and use. Automobiles for instance. Firecrackers. Poisons. To be an electrician you need a license. To fly an airplane. Building homes requires permits and inspections. Guns are different only in that being dangerous is their purpose. They’re weapons, that’s what they have to be, that’s what they are intended to be, unlike a table saw which by law nowadays needs certain safety features in order to be legally sold. But the principle is the same. Some people should just not be allowed near those things. It’s not difficult to figure out who.

And when they tell you we need our guns to protect us from our own government, the answer is No, the ballot box is how we protect ourselves in a democracy. The first thing is you protect access to the ballot box. We lose that and it won’t matter how many guns you have.

And it’s not our second amendment superfans who generally want to insure that every adult American citizen has access to the ballot box these days is it, and that everyone’s vote counts the same as everyone else’s. 

So…anyway…I had a reason to chat with him by telephone the other day because I have a revolver I think he might like to have and which I don’t really want anymore. I am its legal owner. We can both go through our background checks unscathed, and in fact I recently got my Maryland license to purchase (not carry) a handgun. My police record is cleaner than your kitchen floor so that sort of thing is no problem for me. I was able some years ago to pass a background check to get clearance to do work in the James Webb Space Telescope Mission Control Room. If my old friend acquaintance and I do a deal on that revolver we’ll follow the law here in Maryland. We’ll agree on a price and then do the paperwork and make the transaction through a licensed FFL dealer. Our police records will be checked and then we’ll get a go-ahead to do the transaction. This is Maryland not Texas. SOP.

I wanted to give him the right of first refusal before I put the revolver up for sale somewhere else because we have a shared history in the shooting sports. So after nearly a year of not speaking to him I texted him and asked if I could call. He said I could and we chatted for nearly an hour. First it was about the revolver I want to sell, then it was almost like old times talking with him about this and that, and I was thoroughly enjoying our conversation. But it couldn’t last.

I brought up a particular .45 automatic that he owned and let me shoot every now and then. An all stainless steel AMT Hardballer I liked the look of, and how good the adjustable sights on it were. But it kept chucking its spent brass right in my face. Once one of those spent cases hit my forehead and wedged between my safety glasses and my cheek and it was Hot. I didn’t want anything to do with that gun after that and I said it was a shame because otherwise it was a very nice gun. My old friend acquaintance promptly told me the brass getting chucked in my face was a user problem not a gun problem. He said it was my limp wrist.

It was probably a momentary knee jerk reflex he just couldn’t stifle, and just never mind that I’ve shot other .45s with no trouble ever. But that is such a hoary old stereotype…

Mad Magazine, July 1978 by Jack Davis

I wrote a blog post about that side of him back in July last year, Here. He’s the guy who unfriended me on Facebook because he didn’t want to see “that gay stuff” in his feed.

Truman Capote once said A faggot is the homosexual gentleman who just left the room. This is something that we of the homosexual persuasion all know to one degree or another. As you grow older you come to expect it in certain situations. It never loses its sting, but you find yourself putting up with it, at least in my generation, unless it is so in your face that you have to cause a scene as a matter of keeping your self respect. But where it really hurts is when you suddenly get it coming from someone you considered a friend for so very long, only to discover it wasn’t real after all.

I’ve been mostly low key about my sexual orientation over the years, largely because I’ve never had a boyfriend to be proud of, just a lot of near misses and one guy who told me we were just friends with benefits. Otherwise I’d have been pretty loud about it. And all that time among my straight friends, I figured I was giving them a living example of how all the myths and stereotypes of homosexuals they were taught were wrong, and all that time they, some of them anyway, probably figured I was a discrete homosexual and therefor a good homosexual. A bigot’s mind, said Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., is like an eye…the more light you shine on it the tighter it closes.

Once upon a time, back in 1971, I fell in love and it was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me. It really was like one of those romance movies. The sky was a bit more blue, the birds sang a bit more sweetly, and the stars were brighter than ever. I was twitterpated. Just being alive was a better thing than I had ever known. I knew how it was with me then, and I have never felt ashamed since. There was nothing to be ashamed of.

I think at age 72 I’m old enough now to stop caring what anyone thinks or assumes because I am this or that. I own guns, I like to shoot them. I am homosexual, I like a certain type of guy and although at age 72 the possibility of a romantic sex life is in my rearview mirror I still like to gawk at beautiful men. Also, I get my vaccines whenever its time. And I am a liberal democrat. And a man of science. A photographer. A cartoonist. An artist. I paint, I draw, I write stories. I write computer programs, run Windows, MacOS and Linux computers on a common network here at home. I’ve done work for the Hubble Space Telescope and James Webb. I am an atheist, but I grew up in a yankee baptist household and I have a bunch of that still inside me. I love the open road. I am a Disneyphile. And easily manipulated by cats. And what you think about any specific one of these things means as to the sort of person I am is probably wrong if that one thing is all you can see. And I have no fucks to give anymore. Especially after the last election.

Anyway… I’d like to file a bug report…

And I need to schedule this year’s flu vaccination. And the new COVID-19 booster…

One semi pleasant side effect of the No Alcohol restriction I’ve been on since before the surgery (I should write some posts about the surgery I reckon) is I don’t go out to eat at my favorite places very much because they are where I do most of my drinking (margaritas usually). So this is saving me money by mostly eating from my own kitchen. Plus I have a fully stocked bar downstairs I can visit when the restriction is lifted. Restaurant and bar drinks are hella expensive.

I dine out half for food better than I can make myself, and half for company, which is why I always sit at the bar. I can chat with people at the bar. Table for one just reminds me how single I am. I won’t do table for one anymore. Staying home all the time reminds me of it too, but at least I have part-time work for now.

This is something else I like about train travel. I get to chat with my fellow passengers in the dining car and the lounge car. A certain someone once told me how good I was at getting a standoffish table talking to each other, but that’s because some situations have their own built-in ice breakers. Hi! Where y’all from? Where you headed? This your first train ride? I’ve had some amazing conversations on the train.

Falls Road and Roland Avenue are closed off today from Northern Parkway to Howard Street for the 2025 Maryland Cycling Classic. Looks like The Avenue is caught between them so only foot traffic is getting in this afternoon. Supposedly the roads open back up after 6PM today. Papi’s announced they were closing shop today but I see that post has been taken down so maybe there was just some confusion as to the timing. I can see where a lot of restaurants would be royally PO’d if they couldn’t open on an end of summer Saturday evening.

I’m fine here in Medfield. Although it’s looking like a disgustingly humid day, the more I have to zig-zag around the obstacles on my morning walk the more exercise I get.

I tested negative for COVID-19 a few days ago and my vitals all look good, so I reckon I’m done with it and my upcoming ablation procedure is going to happen on schedule. It’s just amazing, really. Only a few years ago this thing was killing people by the tens of thousands, and now two vaccines and four booster shots later and what I got was less painful than your usual case of the flu. I had a fever for just one day, and my blood oxygen level never went below 95. 

Don’t ever get me started on Mr. Wormbrain Secretary of Health and Human Services and his insane ideas about vaccines. And especially childhood vaccines. In 1961 I and a bunch of my elementary school classmates got the first Sabin polio vaccines delivered via a sugar cube. The Salk vaccine had been approved for use in 1955. Those vaccines were considered miracles. Here’s why…

Look at it. This is where you are going when you throw science out the window. Without science all we have are myths, lies, and superstition. And…Darwin, eventually. That prize DeSantis lunatic Florida Surgeon General Joseph Ladapo who got up in front of reporters the other day to announce that making childhood vaccines mandatory for school attendance was like slavery…I got your slavery right there you drooling moron. 

The sad truth is most of those lovely solar outdoor garden ornaments aren’t actually made for the outdoors…

I just brought in one of these from the front yard to figure out why it wasn’t lighting up anymore, as it was getting plenty of sunlight where it was. Turned out half of it was full of rain water, and the wires inside connecting all the little LEDs corroded and broke. 

I can try fixing it but why bother, it’s obviously not meant to be kept outside anywhere it rains. It seals pretty tightly but notice how the top where the solar panel is sits just slightly in from the rim of the glass bottom. Water is always going to seep slowly into that glass unless you seal it so tightly you can’t get it off to take out the battery…something I do to all my garden lights at the end of every season, and replace it with a new one at the beginning of the next.

This is just one small detour in a tale I’ll probably go into later, about how this year’s flower and garden lights display went badly wrong. A combination of the high heat, my return to work subtracting time from housework, and my aging body not having the energy needed to do everything I wanted to do this year.

Last Monday night in bed I felt a sore throat coming on. With me that’s usually the first sign I’m about to get a flu. The next day I was supposed to have a meeting with some of my co-workers but luckily I scheduled it as a web conference so I didn’t have to be in the office. Two-thirds of the way into it I had to bail out due to a rising fever.

I figured it was a flu all right. But it felt a bit odd for a flu. So just in case I used the second and last of a two pack COVID-19 home test kit I had to make sure it wasn’t You Know What after all. I’d used the first one in that box some months ago after going down to Disney World to make sure I was safe to go back to work. You can be infected and infectious for days, some say over a week, before your own symptoms show. That test came back negative.

This one…

I wasn’t terribly worried, as I’ve had a total of six vaccinations against it, starting with the two part Pfizer vaccine and four boosters spread out over the years. What bothers me mostly about this is I am a heart patient now, and I have an ablation procedure scheduled for just after my birthday. I’ve put a message up on the hospital patient portal to the surgeon asking if he would want to postpone it now and reschedule.

I was weak as a kitten, and running a fever, so I didn’t dare go outside, but I needed groceries. This brought me to use DoorDash for the first time. It’s a shopper/delivery service that will go to your local grocery store and buy things for you from a list you provide, and bring them to your door. Those of you reading this who are not single have no idea how massively this helps those of us with no close by family or significant other to bring food to us when we’re too sick to go get it ourselves. Running out of stuff in the fridge especially, since all that is perishable and you can’t keep a large supply of it on hand (I have a chest freezer for things that can withstand freezing), and also suddenly discovering that my flu meds are all out of date and now I’m too sick to go get more, was one of my big problems with getting sick and I’m all by myself. Now I don’t have to worry about that.

I keep telling myself I need to schedule a bi-yearly reminder to check all the expiration dates in my medicine cabinet and first aid kits.

Also…yes, I know…Amazon. I needed a new mouth thermometer because the one I had failed to restart when I put a new battery into it and I procrastinated about getting a new one. Things you don’t think about until you’re sick. Amazon got me a good one the same day and it was very helpful.

How bad was it/is it now? I did a little searching and found this list of common COVID-19 symptoms…per Google AI…

Fever or chills: Check. But as of my writing this it’s gone. Body temp is 98.6 on the nose.
Cough: Check. Not a very bad one though and it is going away.
Shortness of breath or difficulty breathing: No
Sore throat: Yes, but only Tuesday
Congestion or runny nose: Yes
New loss of taste or smell: Oh Definitely Yes! Wednesday-Thursday it was all mucked up. Better now
Fatigue: Also definitely yes, but also getting better.
Muscle or body aches: Sort-of, but not very.
Headache: No.
Nausea or vomiting: No.
Diarrhea: This would be oversharing.

So all in all I think I’m okay. Had this happened before the vaccines I’d probably be dead by now. But I’ll need to wear a mask any time I want to go outside until I know I’m clean. I’ve ordered some more COVID-19 test kits and KN95 masks.  I’ll use one test kit every week until it comes back negative. Then I can dispense with the masks.

I did an overnight stay in Rockville, to go see my classmate Bill Wirths do his Reverend Billy Wirtz act at Hank Dietle’s on the Pike. He does an amazing Blues/Boogie-woogie piano act with the history of Blues and his own story in it mixed in. I don’t know which is more fun…his music or his stories. 

His act is a lot of fun and he travels around the country so if he’s in your neighborhood you should catch it.

So I went down to Rockville, and since I figured I’d be sticking around for a while to explore my old neighborhood, I rented a room at a hotel next to the Twinbrook Metro station. I’ll go into my explorations in another post…things have changed So much that what little hasn’t changed just makes your heart ache. Or mine anyway. But I just want to note one Very happy change I saw next to the hotel.

You may recall this post from June 2021, where I shared the news that a certain despicable cool young people only nightspot was going under the wrecking ball. Some weeks later I ventured down to hopefully watch and get some shots of the pile of rubble it had become, only to see that it looked like it would be spared after all. The entire rest of the site had been leveled, but not that one building. I was unhappy about that, but so it goes.

So the morning after the Reverend’s performance I woke up early and decided to wander around. First thing I did was walk over to the site of what was once upon a time Fritzbee’s (later Fuddruckers) and see if the building still stood.

The massive new project they planned for the site turns out to be a art-deco-ish high rise apartment building with shopping and a Wegman’s at street level…

That’s almost all of the land that was once occupied by the old Radio Shack, some strip shopping (I used to get my art supplies at the Visual Systems store there) and a big parking lot. Some years ago they blocked off Fishers Lane where it connected to the Pike and made it all one big block. This new apartment building is sitting right over where Fisher’s lane used to be. Before I went to bed at the hotel next to it, I grabbed some night snacks at the Wegman’s and thought how nice it would be to live in a beautiful art deco apartment where I had a Wegman’s I could just take the elevator to, The Matchbox bar and grill right across the street, and an easy walk to the Metro and from there to the DC Gayborhood. But I am not going back to renting if I can help it.

And rent for a basic apartment in it is several times the mortgage on my Baltimore rowhouse, which is in a neighborhood where I can walk to everything I might need. I count my blessings.

So I took a wander to explore my old neighborhood, but first see what had happened to Fritzbee’s. It was all the way in the back of that block, almost to the train tracks. Last time I saw the old building it was close by to the new Metro parking garage and fenced off for construction.

It was Gone!

Even better…the site was now a dog park!

I had wanted the site to be sewn with salt. But covered in dog piss and shit is even better! Or to give my post from 2021 a slight rewrite…

Turn the uncool away as a matter of policy, to cultivate the shallow beautiful people, and eventually they’ll flit away to the Next Big Thing and what’s left are all the customers you might have had if you hadn’t pissed them off. And now it’ll be pissed and shit on until Rockville decides to put something else there.

I had an odd vivid dream this morning about being in photographer mode for a while. It was odd in some of its detail, which is not unusual for a dream. It was encouraging because I’ve been wanting to see that part of me awaken since the beginning of the year and so far it won’t.

That part of me feels exhausted. Like I’ve said everything I wanted to say with a camera and now I have nothing more left to say. It’s all Been There, Done That. Since the start of the year I’ve taken multiple trips with one or more of my cameras to go find things to explore and, then come back home without so much as touching them. Now they just sit unused. I’ve thought about selling some of them, but I’ve a collection of good ones now and it’s almost for that reason alone I won’t. Instead of looking at my cameras as a photographer, I’m seeing them now as a collector. I feel like something inside of me is just draining away.

So the dream last night was welcome in a way. Oddly, in the dream I am a younger guy, but I was also aware that I’m working part time now, not fully retired anymore like I was. So I couldn’t just flit away and go looking for things to explore with my cameras. I’m driving the little green Prism., not the Mercedes. And I’m living in the apartment with mom, but it’s located in some new neighborhood I don’t recognise, but with easy access to the interstate. And my bitter abusive maternal grandmother is still living in the apartment with me and mom, and one reason I’m out and about is I’m getting away from her.

I really wish she would stop appearing in my dreams. But I suppose it’s she did a lot of damage and even at age 71 I’m still trying to recover from it.

It seems like it’s not quite the end of winter, but warm enough for shirtsleeves instead of a coat outside. I’m trying to think of where I can go when I only have a few days off. In this dream I consider driving to New Orleans, but it’s too far and I’ve done a lot of the points down south. I think I should go north, but there is still snow cover up north. I have an urge to just throw it all off and drive all the way to California. But no…I have to be back at work after just a few days.

So I go north, into Pennsylvania, and at a highway food stop I suddenly see something I want to get with my camera. What I have with me just then is the black Nikon F with the photomic FTn light meter head. It’s a really good shot. This highway food joint has as its trademark a pair of cowboy boots, and this particular one has a large fiberglass pair of them on a pole high up above the roof, sorta like how McDonald’s has their golden arches, and Bob’s Big Boy has that kid in checkered overalls. It’s the incongruity of that huge pair of cowboy boots on the pole standing watch up against the sky with the sunlight hitting them just so and the clouds in the background that are just right that attracts my attention. As I said, a vivid dream.

I raise my camera to my eye, turning on the light meter and taking off the lens cap as I do, only to discover I don’t have the right lens on it for this shot. It’s the 50mm and I almost always shoot with a 24. In my haste to get out of the apartment I only took that one camera and the lens that was on it.

So I attempt to back away to compose the shot I want of the thing I am seeing, and there is outside seating at this place so I have to navigate around the tables and other people eating there. And a young woman asks me about my camera and we get into a conversation about cameras because she has one too but it’s a different make and she wants to know more about the Nikon.

And I go into my speal about how I’m not really a Nikon person but a Canon person but sometimes I like taking the Nikons out because they have a different mechanical feel…and I wake up.

What was so encouraging about this dream was my photographer’s eye opened up for a while in it and I saw something I just had to get a shot of. That hasn’t happened in almost a year. But I don’t know if I can make it happen again in real life. As I write this I’m afraid that if I go somewhere with my cameras again the same thing will happen and I’ll come back empty handed because I can’t feel that part of me inside.

I’ve been thinking lately of putting up a new photo gallery on the website, a Best Of gallery where I put what I think is are the very best images I’ve managed to make over the years, the stuff I’m super proud of. Maybe working on something like that will reawaken that part of me inside. Or at least give it a good send off.

I learned several smallish lessons yesterday while trying to go out and do some photography, and maybe get my mind in some semblance of balance. I’ve been a bundle of stress ever since last November. For some reason. What I learned yesterday was, Firstly, I have to drive much further out to stand any chance of getting my art photography eye opened. The local territory is just too familiar now. Going forward, camera trips will need to be further away and most likely overnights. But Secondly, and more burdensome, it’s too damn hot to be wandering around anywhere with my camera now. So most outdoor activity, let alone camera trips, are postponed until further notice.

Sigh. This isn’t good for my mental health but I’ll try my best to cope with it because I’ve not the kind of money it takes to maintain both summer and winter residences, or that little house in Oceano I once dreamed of retiring to. People may not notice anything amis with me in person, but I am a bundle of stress all the friggin time now, and a good part of that is artist’s block, which when you (over) think about it is a kind of feedback loop that just keeps getting worse if you don’t make an effort to break free of it. Also the news from Washington. For some people stress makes them cranky and irritable, and I get like that too, but mostly it just takes the energy out of me and I just want to lay in bed and cocoon. Then I don’t get anything accomplished, especially not in the art room, and I feel guilty and that stresses me out more.

So yesterday I determined to break out of it and go find someplace to explore with my cameras. But that is not so easy.

I’ve pretty much done all my nearby muses to death. The new rowhouses down the street from me. The old mill structures around Woodberry light rail.  Falls Road. Hampden. The part of the city core I feel comfortable walking around with expensive camera equipment hanging off me. York Pennsylvania. Rockville. The DC Gayborhood. I’ve so thoroughly explored, with 35mm and medium format cameras, and different films plus digital, anything interesting within walking distance or an afternoon drive from the house, that I’ve nothing left to say about any of it now. Places that are less than a day’s drive away feel the same. Been there…done that. It’s making me feel suffocated inside.

So I figured I’d do a quick little overnight trek, and yesterday I packed my small Briggs & Riley suitcase with just enough for an overnight stay somewhere, plus the Leica M3 and the Canon F1N, and set out to find someplace to explore. I had no specific destination in mind, I just wanted to travel and explore, and get back my interest in making art, which has been suffering lots lately. Ever since last election day as a matter of fact. But also, age, heart trouble, and singletude.

I got almost to Sunbury PA, and gave my friend Peterson Toscano a call but he didn’t answer, and I don’t like popping up at anyone unexpectedly. I figured if he wasn’t home or interested in a visit I could just wander around Sunbury, because it’s one of those places that always gives my cameras something to love, and it’s far enough away that I haven’t done it to death already. If you look for hotels in Sunbury you don’t see any, but across the river there are several good ones and a Texas Roadhouse. I figured I’d stay overnight at the Holiday Inn Express, which is one of my go to places to stay while on the road.

So as I said, I got almost to Sunbury. I parked at a Sheetz to get some road snacks and got out of the car. My nice, climate controlled, decadently comfortable Mercedes ‘E’ class diesel sedan. And it was 100 degrees. I didn’t even have to get out of the car. The moment I opened the driver’s side door it hit me like an oven. And I knew in the instant that heat touched my skin I was not going to be wandering around Anywhere with my cameras that day.

So I pointed the car back towards home. And then I realized what it meant. Not that day, or any day it is that hot. Which it is now. Lots. Let’s hear it for climate deniers!

I am giving up fighting this heat to be outdoors. It’s too damn hot! No camera strolls. No putting on my hiking boots and hitting the trails. No just wandering around on foot with my camera, or just my two eyes taking it all in. Not while there are these these heat domes sitting on my little patch of Planet Earth. There are periods of time in the early morning and after sunset I can get in my walks and maybe hit one of the good eateries nearby. But this heat is killer and I don’t think that’s just my age talking. I do not remember it being like this when I was a young boy, let alone a teenager in the 1960s/70s, and the first apartments I remember mom and I living in had no AC. Yeah it got hot, I remember getting heat rash, but not hot like this and not so persistently. So I am staying inside during the day until things get a tad cooler.

Well at least now I know that some people get it.

In my current issue of The New Yorker, Paul Bloom, Critic At Large, writes about how A.I. Is About to Solve Loneliness and That’s A Problem. How, you ask, could that possibly a problem given the hellish internal prison chronic loneliness is, let alone all the medical and health consequences associated with it. Well even before I cracked open the article, I had a few hunches, but I wanted to see what the Manhattan cultural gatekeepers thought the problem was too.

He gets it. At least, to a degree…

Loneliness, everyone agrees, is unpleasant—a little like a toothache of the soul. But in large doses it can be genuinely ruinous. A 2023 report issued by Vivek Murthy, then the U.S. Surgeon General, presented evidence that loneliness increases your risk for cardiovascular disease, dementia, stroke, and premature death. Persistent loneliness is worse for your health than being sedentary or obese; it’s like smoking more than half a pack of cigarettes a day.

Even the psychological pain can be hard to fathom, especially for those who have never truly been lonely. [emphasis mine] In Zoë Heller’s novel “Notes on a Scandal,” the narrator – Barbara Covett, a connoisseur of the condition – distinguishes between passing loneliness and something deeper. Most people, she observes, think back to a bad breakup and imagine that they understand what it means to be alone. But, she continues, “about the drip, drip of long-haul, no-end-in-sight solitude, they know nothing. They don’t know what it is to construct an entire weekend around a visit to the launderette. Or to sit in a darkened flat on Halloween night, because you can’t bear to expose your bleak evening to a crowd of jeering trick-or-treaters. . . . I have sat on park benches and trains and schoolroom chairs, feeling the great store of unused, objectless love sitting in my belly like a stone until I was sure I would cry out and fall, flailing to the ground.”

If that kind of loneliness feels foreign to you, you’re lucky—and probably below a certain age.

And probably heterosexual. Or at least somewhere close to a Kinsey zero. Probably. I began feeling it when I was a young adult, some years after my first high school crush vanished from sight, and my second disastrous crush on a straight close friend blew up in my face, and I began to perceive that eternal long dark night of the soul that was ahead of me. I read a story back in the day about a gay man who turned 30 and still never had a boyfriend, and I swore I would never let that happen to me. I’m 71 now and I have still never had a boyfriend.

A bunch of near misses, sure. That’s probably a common story among gay guys of my barely post Stonewall generation. You start getting close to someone and next thing you know the righteous step in to break it up, because they need the broken pieces of our hearts to make their stepping stones to heaven out of. Or if not the righteous, then the contemptuous.

If that kind of loneliness feels foreign to you, you’re lucky…and probably below a certain age. And probably heterosexual. And probably not the sort of person who can be easily satisfied with a series of sexual one night stands. For these there were always the hookup spots, and more recently hookup apps like Grindr. Finding that heart and soul other is difficult under the best of conditions, and gay males do not enjoy the best of conditions, much improved though they are now. But there are those of us who just seemed to be condemned to the darkness right from the beginning.

You began to sense it every time you were last to be picked for a team game, or never invited to sit with the others at lunch. And like the kid born into poverty, you never really noticed how different your social life was from the others, because it was always thus. Normal was not getting invites. Normal was you had to ask if a someone wanted to go to the park with you, or a movie, or just hang out, not being asked. You weren’t a creep to everyone, you were that polite and friendly if scrawny kid with the puppy dog enthusiasm, a homely face, unkempt hair and clothes that were clean if not well fitting and fashionable, and you lived on the other side of the railroad tracks with your divorced mother, and you just assumed that everyone has to work at being included. But no…not everyone.

Then you reach a certain age and a need for something more than a friend to pal around with awakens within. But you’re need is different from the others around you. Different in a way that sets you apart not just from them, but it seems from the entire world around you.

From A Coming Out Story – What I Learned About Homosexuality. . . And Myself (Part 2)

And now, on top of being the kid who gets chosen last, now you’re afraid. But you’re as human as all the other kids, different only in the detail, and you’ve come of age and have to try. But you have to roll models to show you the way, only every dirty joke you’ve ever heard about homosexuals. And the thing is the objects of your affection are just as afraid as you are.

My first crush and I recognized something in each other. But it was 1971/72. 

A Coming Out Story – What I Learned About Homosexuality – Part Three – Aftermath

Mad Magazine, #145, Sept 1971, from “Greeting Cards For The
Sexual Revolution” – “To A Gay Liberationist”

I’m pretty sure it was after we made plans to go to Great Falls and stroll the towpath with our cameras, and I called to say I was coming over and one of his older brothers intercepted the phone call, that he got told to stay away from me. And being the obedient son, he put a distance between us, and that summer the family moved away, and I didn’t know until I saw the for sale sign on their empty house. 

Here’s something I found online. Whoever wrote this, gets it.

A psychotherapist specializing in military rehabilitation once stated in a lecture that the deepest truma isn’t loss.

Loss is a fact, Someone left, died, or vanished. There’s pain, but there’s also a definitive end point. When you’re not chosen, however, an unending void remains. It’s the crushing feeling that you were there, you tried, you invested, but ultimately you were deemed superfluous. Not the worse, just “not the one.”

This experience pulls more powerfully than betrayal, because there’s no explanation in being rejected. The other person simply decided they didn’t need you. Not because you did something wrong, but because you didn’t captivated them, inspire them, or align with them. And your mind begins to frantically search: Where was the mistake? Where was the moment you could have pleased them more, loved quieter, walked more patiently?

This is where the insidious feeling takes root: that something is wrong with you. Not the situation, not with the other person, but with you. You are insufficient.

This is the trauma of unchosenness. Not because love wasn’t present, but because the choice wasn’t about you. And in that place where you weren’t chosen, you begin to doubt your right to exist.

My situation is different, but only slightly. There was the added pressure of homophobia making it difficult to nearly impossible for gay guys of my generation to make a romantic connection. But I know other gay guys of my generation who were successful, who did find their other half and made a life together, despite the hostility of the world around them. So it wasn’t just homophobia that kept me from finding my other half. And so I find myself in this exact situation anyway. Where was the mistake? Where was the moment I could have made a difference, and had a different outcome? Could I have been more patient? Or more forward, less afraid? Every time I tried, I failed. What is wrong with me?

There is not a night I don’t go to bed thinking about it, and then imagining alternate universes where gay kids could find love, and I was one of them. But only in my dreams.

Why am I never the chosen one? Well…except for big guys who think I have a cute butt and just want to fuck me. I used to get “Nice ass” lots from them. And also the occasional heterosexual woman. I got a butt squeeze in Kayenta from (I assumed) a young Navajo woman who walked up behind me and then quickly walked away. I took it as a complement, probably because there was no sexual baggage in it for me, but from other guys it just feels off putting at best, probably because there is.

I’m what the kids these days call a demisexual. 

DEMISEXUAL demi·?sex·?u·?al
feeling sexual attraction towards another person only after establishing an emotional bond with that person.

Now, that’s not quite it with me. My low energy libito can readily feel sexually attracted to the right guy on sight. But to actually go through with it I need that emotional bond too or nothing is going to happen. Sex without any sort of love feels a little more than vaguely disgusting at best. There has to be romance. There has to be love.

Which is why despite chronic loneliness I’ve never availed myself of a sex worker, and I’m pretty sure an A.I. boyfriend won’t do it for me either.

Five years ago, the idea that a machine could be anyone’s confidant would have sounded outlandish, a science-fiction premise. These days, it’s a research topic.

You know what I wish were research topics? Homophobia. Or at any rate, how to get them to leave the rest of us alone. Maybe in a better world we teach gay kids the emotional and intellectual tools to stand up to bigots and see themselves as the perfect and whole human beings that they are. And…coupling. I have tried multiple gay dating services and I have to conclude they are mostly scams that prey on lonely people. There needs to be some science here. In the better world of my imagination, there would be not just sex-ed classes, but courses in flirting, dating, non-judgmental understanding of your own romantic and emotional needs, the better to know what sort of person is likely to match up with you. And how to let someone down graciously. That was a Big roadblock to getting myself in situations where I can meet random guys who might be compatible. Because I know how picky my libido is, and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings because I know how it feels to be rejected. I know how it feels to be told, by other gay guys no less, that people who look like that want people who look like that.

A.I. companionship might be okay for some, but not for the likes of me. I have already walked through an adult life alone, in the most intimate sense. And despite what others have told me, I tried, I really tried. And those helpful others were really just telling me to go get laid and then I’ll feel better. But no. I was the unchosen one. Always.

I’m not anxious to leave this life just yet. But I won’t be entirely unhappy when death taps me on the shoulder either. I think my last thoughts might be something like Thank goodness I won’t be lonely anymore…

And no more trying to explain the trauma of how it is to live an entire adult life with that constant drip, drip, drip of heart loneliness, to people who think they understand, because maybe they were lonely and heart broken for a little while themselves, but really are light years away from getting it because they have never experienced that empty void of chronic loneliness for themselves.

Some may say it was my awful diet that caused the heart attack. I was actually being careful before then to keep my weight down because I liked how I looked. Some may say it was the dozen or so cigars I chain smoked right after I realized he’d retired and what it meant. But those were just symptoms.

I’ve heard so many stories, particularly among the gay folk I have hung out with, of devoted deeply in love couples who died close to each other. One goes and not long after that the other. But nobody wants to hear the stories of the single and lonely. We decay slowly, out of sight, out of mind. 

I’m pretty sure these days that my heart (the actual one, not the philosophical one) would not be in the state it’s in now had I lived in a better world and found my other half. But that was not to be. The stress of being a gay kid in a world that threw hate at you from every direction, plus singleness on top of that, did it’s work. A few weeks ago I had an overnight hospital stay because my heart was dancing wildly in my chest. Atrial Fibrillation they call it.

Atrial fibrillation (AFib) is an irregular and often rapid heartbeat that occurs when the heart’s upper chambers (atria) beat out of sync with the lower chambers (ventricles). This can reduce the heart’s ability to pump blood effectively and increase the risk of blood clots, stroke, heart failure, and other complications.

They were going to give me a procedure to shock the upper chambers into sync with the lower ones, which they assured me would be painful. But thankfully overnight my heart went back into normal, what they call sinus rhythm, and so they called it off and sent me back home with a new pill to take that supposedly would keep the afib in check. It did not.

For four days after my hospital stay the afib was gone and I thought the new pill was working. They’d told me it only worked in 75 percent of patients, and sure enough it eventually came back. But I wondered what was going on in those four days that it Was working. Well, that was after my hospital stay where I’d had no coffee.

So I went cold turkey on coffee and the afib went away. Next I tried some decaf. I’d been resisting decaf coffee ever since I noticed that drinking it in the afternoon made my insomnia worse. But I could not see the point in decaf so I just stopped drinking it in the afternoon. Now it seemed plain to me that caffeine was aggravating my afib so I had to give it up and that pushed me into trying decaf. And being the geek I am I had to research how they took the caffeine out of coffee. Turns out there are two processes, one that uses solvents and the other just water. In fact the water process was the first to make decaffeinated coffee beans, and it was discovered accidentally when a shipment of coffee beans got waterlogged on the trip to the buyer.

I gave Peet’s water process decaf a try and found it tasted no different from regular…just you’re not getting the caffeine hit now. This was something I was going to have to adjust to. But at least decaf was enjoyable.

That mostly fixed the afib but it didn’t go away completely and I wondered if there wasn’t something else in my diet contributing to it. The only thing that stood out for me was the artificial sweetener I started using after I reconnected with my high school crush and decided I needed to lose weight. Prior to then I was mostly getting a sugar jolt in the afternoon snarfing down candy bars, and it was when I stopped doing that I switched to getting my wake up your tired self from coffee. But I was using Splenda in my coffee so it wasn’t costing my waistline anything.

I did some more digging discovered that afib was a possible side effect of constantly consuming sucralose, which is the ingredient in Splenda.

“…studies from the American Heart Association journals, have found that people who regularly consume artificially sweetened drinks may have a higher risk of atrial fibrillation (an irregular heartbeat) compared to those who consume fewer such beverages.”

According to what I read those studies are not definitive, but suggestive. My own experience recently is, yeah it does.

I drink constantly, all day long and somewhat through the night. I have a glass or a mug of something next to me all the time, at work and at home. If my co-workers ever saw me in a meeting without my coffee or ice tea mug next to me they might ask if anything is wrong. And ever since 2006 all those drinks have had sucralose in them instead of sugar because I wanted to keep my weight down, and I liked the way having a narrow waistline made me look.

I stopped caring about that March 6, 2016. And yeah…it shows now. But I have no reason to care anymore. So I gave up on Splenda and started sweetening my coffee and ice tea with sugar. The afib went away. Or at least it declined to the point I couldn’t feel it happening anymore.

Yesterday I went back down to DC to hang out with a friend who lives there and to hit Alero for some of their good mexican food and a Godfather margarita. That was also a test to see if I could have a drink every now and then without waking up the afib. That morning I tried sweetening my decaf with Splenda, also as a test. I was hoping maybe I can just go with decaf forever and still use the Splenda that I still have a lot of in stock. The afib came back almost right away and I had to lay down for a bit. By the afternoon I felt good enough to take the Metro into DC and try a margarita. I had just one and it was no trouble. Back home I stuck to my sugar sweetened decaf ice tea and had no trouble with afib all night long.

So I think the Splenda is out now too. Alas I have a lot of it to give away. Also a bunch of K-Cups with Kirkland Medium Roast coffee in them, and all the bags of coffee beans I got at Baltimore Coffee and Tea. Things like Splenda and K-Cups I tend to buy in bulk at Costco because it’s cheaper in the long run. So it goes. The sugar I still have lots of is still good because that stuff does not go bad if you store it carefully. I kept that around for guests that didn’t want Splenda.

There’s a “Buy Nothing Hampden” Facebook group I can put the unopened splenda and coffee on (I have some downsizing I need to do this year so I’ll probably be hitting that page lots anyway). I think I can still keep my weight down if I just don’t snarf down a lot of candy like I was before 2006. If I can manage the afib with just some diet and lifestyle changes I’d rather do that then go for the ablation and possibly a pacemaker too, both of which won’t necessarily fix the problem anyway so I’ve been told by folks that have had that done.

The gay, single, and old life in the American healthcare system. Broken Heart Syndrome? 71 isn’t that old these days. I wonder lots lately if any of this would be happening to me now and not maybe in my 80s or 90s had I lived in a better world.