Given the life I have (been forced to) led(/lead), I am . . . dumfounded, that I made 45.  So, I have resolved, to treat every year after, like the gift it IS. . . .


      I traveled to Moma (Yes, Manhattan! "Many a Mecha has gone to the end of the world... never to come back. That is why they call the end of the world 'Man-hattan.") to see, in person, Van Gogh's "Starry Night" (and a surprise "Christina's World" (on the way to the loo)).

      Now, both myself–and other people I have known–have been absolutely OBSESSED—with Van Gogh's "Starry Night."  And there I was—in the same museum, on the same floor, closer, closer. . . .  I felt the most delicious, wonderful, not-fully-believing tension.  And then, suddenly–(somehow) unexpectedly–I turned a corner, and, bam . . . there it was—like 35 feet away.  My eyes were drawn to it instantly.

It was, a moment. . . .

      And one that I will NEVER, forget.

      Oh yeah—we went to Moma, to see the exhibits—and we ended up seeing this "exhibition."   :) ;) There was this chick, in a SEE-THROUGH skirt—one could clearly see her underpants.  (!!)

      Like I said—we went to see the exhibit(s), and ended up, with an exhibition.   :) :) ;) ;) (Don't worry, lads. I have at least, one good picture of it.   :) ;) )

      I am now 52—and I still haven't completed "the page. . . ."


      This was the only one—that was (totally) unplanned: Someone came in, and gave me a picture of RoSie.

      (Please not that this picture was taken after the fire—and has thus some some of her glory.)


      I got a copy of "Future Noir, The Making of Blade Runner" (Of note, I am now 52—and have yet to finish it (This is at least partially due, to treating it with such reverence).  I made a BIG push, to get it done, before "Blade Runner 2049" (and nearly did so), but. . . .)


      We watched "Wrist Cutters: A Love Story"—a film I had been meaning to see, for a LONNG time.  (. . .)


      I wasn't sure what to do.  I thought and thought. . . .  And then I realized it was right in front of me all along—and got on the bus and went to the "Cheers Bar."  "Some times you wanna' go. . . ." (!!)



      I visited the "Cheers bar," built by the original set designer.  It had props, from the show.  I got to see Sam Malone's jacket, and the "eco suit." Oh. And I had forgotten this: I told the woman behind the bar, it was my birthday—and she gave me some free cake.

       :) :) :) :)

      I have this . . . incredibly vivid, memory of buying cotton balls, on the walk back to the bus station.  I then drove out, to Upstate New York.  I got to see Mr. B.  Mr Bubbles Is Glad to See His Daddy!.  I have to admit, seeing Mr. B, was the best part of it all. . . .

       :) :) :) :)

(51)                                                  I've Been to Hell; I Call It Centre Pizza.

      There is this place, in Chelmsford Centre—that, as near as I can tell, is the most dreadful place, on Earth.  It is almost impossible to find (This is not hyperbole—I have a sort of a natural, uncanny sense of direction (I can drive across the continent, without using a single map.), and yet, I have been so lost, trying to get the the place, I have been in danger of running out of gas—twice.); it is located in this "quaint, psychotic New Englandy traffic pattern"—and is thus, surrealistically difficult to navigate into; has grossly insufficient parking—one either needs to display surrealistic patience, or park illegally (Note that does not seem to deter the regulars, in the slightest.); neither the food, nor the beer, is all that great; it is so LOUD, one can barely hear oneself think; and–all for good measure–periodically some of the clientele get drunk, nasty, and threaten violence.  (This is not hyperbole, either; I remember Mark, making it a point of talking down, this guy, ranting about injustices in Vietnam, threatening to get the gun he "always keeps in his glove box"—which he threatened to shoot me with, for hiking up my sweatpants.)


      So, I tell Mark, that I have a special day—and just what it is, is a surprise.  So he, tells me to meet him, after work, at . . . You guessed it!! . . . Centre Pizza.  Somewhat miraculously, I get there, and get parked.  He informs me (via phone—I called him), that he is going to be something like, an hour later—and couldn't I just " . . . drive around there, for an hour or so, before coming back."  So—let me get this STRAIGHT: I'm supposed, to VOLUNTARILY drive, in the most psychotic ****ED UP place, perhaps in the history of automobiledom—and then come back, and park again . . . at Centre Pizza.

      So. I went to his house, called him again—and just told him to meet me there.  (And then HE can drive US to . . . Centre Pizza.)  He seemed VERY perturbed at this: that he hadn't told Susan [his Wife] that I would be there—and told me to DRIVE back, to . . . Centre Pizza.

      I think you see—what's coming next.  I got HOPELESSLY lost, in the "wilds of New England suburbia"—and on the order of hours.  So, I called back in . . . to Centre Pizza.  Mark asks me, to describe where I am.  I tell him, I am on Depot Road.  Of course, he can't HEAR me—did I mention, one can't hear oneself think, in Centre Pizza?  So I am SCREAMING, at the very top of my lungs (Seriously. I have never made so much noise, with my voice—before or since.) "D AS IN DINOSAUR, E AS IN ELEPHANT, P AS IN . . ." I don't even remember (maybe pterodactyl (?)).  And of course, he can't hear me—it's . . . Centre Pizza.  "Now don't get mad, now."  And for some unfathomable reason, he can't leave the place long enough, to communicate with me.  Next, he is talking with a delivery man—who has worked the area, for something like 14 years.  He has never even HEARD, of "Depot Road."  (Perhaps Centre Pizza causes brain damage.  No, I mean, seriously: perhaps Centre Pizza causes brain damage, along with some sort of . . . "amnesia"—that causes its patrons, to not remember, how thoroughly DREADFUL, it is. . . .)

      So, I ended up wandering the wilds of Massivetwo****s.  After some time (indeed), I got onto a secondary road, and just pointed the bow east.  Eventually, I drove RIGHT PAST (You guessed it!) Centre Pizza.  Shortly after this, I called Mark—and told him, that (after ending up all the way in Groton, I believe), I drove past . . . Centre Pizza.  "Oh, why didn't you go back?!  I could've met you there!!"

      At this point, I told him the surprise—that this was, my birthday.

      He felt bad—not nearly bad enough.



      I got a nice massage, from an absolutely beautiful Québécois woman, and saw "Avengers: Endgame"—perhaps the most epic movie, EVER.

      (Of note, around this time, I predicted that Endgame might well become the highest grossing film of all time—and and so it did.

       :) :)


      I posted this link.

      How meta, is that?!

      ( :) ;) )


      I passed two "emotional kidney stones"—and that's all I'm going to say about that.

      Like many of these (The trip to Man-hattan, didn't really happen on my b-day—just near [to it].)—the "celebration," for lack of a better thing to call it ( :p :P ), was actually spread out, over a couple of days.

      On my b-day, Schmidtt's called—and said they had a "new" gas tank, for Herr Cougar.

      The following day, was when I actually had it installed.  I also got to see "Godzilla vs. Kong"—at that theatre, in Rochester, I had been wanting to go to.  (. . .)