Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Wholeheartedly agree with this one.
Dripping with sweat,
he wonders,
where’s he’s going,
where he’s been,
and where he’s at.
Life is but a roller coaster, you know? One hour you’re up, the next hour finds you on the ground. We flutter from ecstasy to frustration, coping with drugs, alcohol and other escapes.
Love, wow, love can be the wildest roller coaster. The Ohio Players covered it in song, “Love Rollercoaster,” in nineteen seventy-five. I enjoyed the song when it came out, along with a few other million people. It became one of those ubiquitous songs, played in clubs and on the radio twenty-four/seven.
Besides being one of the anthems of nineteen seventies America, “Love Rollercoaster” is burdened with an urban myth. Not too long into the song is a scream. I never thought much about the scream, considering it part of their presentation, but others assigned serious reasons behind the scream, like people or animals being killed or injured. After explaining what caused the scream (one of the singers – surprise!), the Ohio Players embraced a vow of silence about the song, refusing to talk about the scream.
The Red Hot Chili Peppers later covered it. I enjoy their version, but, being a traditionalist, I stayed with the Ohio Players.
After long speculation about what President Trump would do to advance his stalled agenda to Make America Great Again, President Trump signed an executive order announcing a new national dress code.
“Look,” he said at the signing statement this morning, “This isn’t about politics. I don’t want to talk about politics. That’s not what the National Dress Code is about. But have you seen the way people are dressing, especially the Liberals? I mean, have you been to a Walmart? Makes you gag, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it make you want to gag? Sure, it does. Those people don’t dress with any pride. They’re wearing clothes made in China, Indonesia, Malaysia, and the Philippines. I have nothing against those nations, but they don’t make great clothes. They’re great nations, not as great as America, no, that’s not what I’m saying, especially China, China isn’t nearly as great as America, and part of that is their cheap clothing. We need to wear neater, higher quality clothes. We need to wear clothes made in America.
“That’s why I’m instituting this dress code, and I’m targeting specific states that really flaunt the way they dress. Those states include California, New York, Oregon, and Chicago. Have you seen the way they dress in these places? All the guys in shorts, and all the women showing all their skin, and they’re not good-looking women, either. It’d be different if they were beautiful women, but they’re not beautiful. These women are showing what’s called their muffin tops. You know what a muffin top is? It’s a roll of fat hanging over their clothes. It’s gross. It’s disgusting. Disgusting. It’s not wonder America is losing its position as number one in the world, no wonder. People used to all used to want to come here to America, but they don’t want to any more. You know why? It’s because of the way Americans dress.”
President Trump went on to say that a dress code was perfectly legal because they impose them in schools and businesses, and the courts wouldn’t have allowed dress codes to stand if they were illegal.
In nineteen seventy-seven, I was a long, long way from home. It feels like I’ve been a long way from home every since. It’s funny how often we refer to the place where our parents live, or where we were raised, as “home.”
As an aside, my wife and I were talking about a friend’s plans. She was flying to SoCal for her elementary school reunion. This astonished us. My wife was certain that if she went to a elementary school reunion, she wouldn’t recognize anyone except family. I agreed, I wouldn’t, either. My other problem was that I attended several elementary schools, because my family moved around America. Mom finally settled in Pittsburgh, and now calls that home. I lived there for about a while in my youth, so I call it home.
Anyway, this Foreigner song came out in nineteen seventy-seven. Twenty-one years old, I was in the Philippines, ending a military assignment, and heading for Texas, for my next assignment. I was going by way of Pennsylvania and West Virginia to pick up my wife. The song, “A Long, Long Way from Home,” starts out with its second line, “I left a small town for the apple in decay,” a reference to moving to New York. The song is subsequently about feeling lonely and being far from home. And although it was my choice, I often felt the same as I traveled the world, even while enjoying myself and seeing historic sights.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eedm15ZEaEg
I’ve had my Magic Beer Bottle for ten days. It’s a harmless novelty, like Mattel’s famous Magic Eight Ball. You ask the Magic Beer Bottle a question and give it a shake. Then you turn it over, so the bottom is up, and the answer floats up to the bottom of the bottle.
Made by Magic Hops, there are caveats to using the Magic Beer Bottle. One, all your questions are supposed to be about drinking beer. That’s it, actually, except using the Magic Beer Bottle can affect your counting ability.
I find it an excellent aid for when I’m torn about having a beer. “Magic Beer Bottle,” I say, shaking it, “Should I have a beer now?”
Peering at the answer, I learn, “All indicators point to yes.”
That frees me from feeling guilty. After all, it’s fated for me to have a beer. Although your questions must all be about having a beer, the Magic Beer Bottle provides interesting answers. “Go with wine, this time,” it once told me. “Yes, drink an IPA,” it answered another time, while it suggested, “Yes, enjoy a lager,” at another questioning.
It has also told me, “No, you’ve had enough,” and, “Go pee first,” so it’s not all about encouraging me to drink. What really interests me about the Magic Beer Bottle are three things: one, the brown bottle is empty. There’s nothing in it. It doesn’t have a cap, so you can blow into the bottle.
I’ll get back to you on the second thing, as it escapes me now. Time to consult the old Magic Beer Bottle.
Veercat (not to be confused with meercat) (Catfinition): Many confuse veercat with the mythological werecat. They are not the same.
A veercat is a feline that follows a serpentine course before sprinting to greet you; a werecat is a feline therianthropic creature (h/t to wikipedia.org).
In Use: “True to his veercat nature, Papi juked left when he pranced into the house, swept his slender orange body against a table leg, and wove right to bunt against a chair before executing a one hundred thirty degree turn to entwine himself around my legs.”
Now what was that about? If you have imagination and are familiar with the tune, envision Carly Simon singing, “You’re so vain.” But instead of the words, “I had a dream there were clouds in my coffee,” sing, “I had a dream there was mustard on the floor, mustard on the floor.”
Unfortunately, I put the mustard there, which mortified me.
It wasn’t deliberate. It seemed odd to me there was mustard present. The gathering, at an opulent palace, was for the elite and powerful. We were being recognized and honored, but were also there to learn more. I was flattered and humbled to be invited. Milling about beforehand, a large spread of food and wine was set up. Part of it was – *ahem* – a sandwich buffet. Yes, the elite and powerful are fond of sandwiches, I suppose.
I made myself a sandwich. As I did, a dropped a dollop of yellow mustard on the polished, marble floor. I was searching for something to clean the spill when we were directed to take our seats. I did so with the other hundreds of guests. From where I sat, I could see my spill, which sickened me. The spill seemed larger than I thought. Fortunately, no one else knew about it; that did nothing to assuage my guilt and secret embarrassment.
Then, though, the host staff were going to entertain us with a song and dance number. The staff were politicians, professors and teachers, scientists, artists, and celebrities. All were dressed in formal business attire. Everyone eagerly awaited this entertainment. When the performers lined up, I saw they were going to be on my mustard spill. Horrified, I realized, several mustard spills were there. I couldn’t be responsible for all of them, I was sure. I counted four large mustard spills on the glistening marble floor.
Private humiliation growing, I watched the dance number begin. The dancers were slipping on the mustard. Worse, it was frothing up, becoming an overwhelming mustard meringue. The dance number had to be stopped. I was shocked, yet, I knew I had a small part of the responsibility. Other forces were at work.
With the song and dance over, I was free to wander. I did, taking in the spacious grounds. Many rooms opened onto cool, shaded fountain gardens. I spoke to a few people, pleasantries, really, but wandered on my own, unfettered and free.
As dreams go, it was peculiar. Overall, I’d rate the mustard dream just a little higher on the dream scale over the previous night’s dream peeing dream.
But that’s another dream to tell.
Union Square was black with new snow, heralding a dismayingly cold summer. Raccoons, rats, dogs, and a cougar had set off the alarms during the night. I checked when each went off, not anxious, worried, or nervous, but wary, and I think, intelligent and proactive. The systems all worked; none of those creatures approached my vehicle. Except for those breaks, I slept soundly, accumulating five hours and forty-six minutes of rest. It would be enough. I’d nap once I returned to my place.
Coffee always helps, so I was gulping down fresh unadulterated French Roast. “Good coffee,” I said, nodding.
I’d already been out for four days, and was ready to return to my place. This was just a ‘let’s-see’ jaunt. My day was planned with broad strokes of where I’d go first, and then, et cetera, but looking at the windows and monitors in the cab preparatory to scavenging, I saw movement.
“What’s that?” I asked. “Could be a human,” I answered. “Could be,” I agreed.
Walking the path of questions and accumulating details, I targeted the motion and zoomed in, confirming, it was a man. Four hundred yards away, he was beyond my perimeter alarms, so nothing had been set off. Snow didn’t cover him, and his path through the black sheet was clear. No animals had approached him, either. He was lucky.
“How lucky?” I asked, checking the temperature. Thirty-two, with the sun out. Systems noted that the overnight low had been thirty. “Pretty lucky.”
“Pretty lucky that I saw him,” I agreed.
Wasn’t he?
Michael Seidel, writer 