Here, here.
Edward Said
Here, here.
Inflooftable
Inflooftable (catfinition) – a cat who cannot be avoided.
In use: “A big, strong short hair tabby, he was inflooftable as the official house greeter, and it was best to accept his inspection and get it done.”
Saturday’s Theme Music
Soft rock isn’t my bag. I always enjoy that expression, ‘my bag’. When I was a child and heard it, I asked, “What’s that mean?” When adults explained it, I asked, “But why a bag?” Because we carry baggage, they explained. Took me a while to understand until a sixth grade English teacher clarified the whole metaphor.
Today’s soft rock is by Orleans. “Dance with Me” features a melodica solo. When I first heard the song, I thought, “Is that Stevie Wonder?” It’s one of those riddles that stayed with me through the years until I finally hunted down an answer. No, it’s not Stevie Wonder, it’s Larry Hoppen, Orleans’ lead vocalist, who committed suicide half a decade ago. He was sixty-one. I don’t know why he committed suicide. It seemed to be depression.
Of other Orleans’ hits, I much prefer “Still the One” (which Larry also sang) but this is the song that was streaming through me. Sometimes, I just take what I’m given.
Weird Tales
Into our lives come weird tales. Everyone has them. They don’t happen often for me, and I’m happy about that, and they’re not very weird. One happened last night.
I feel asleep reading and watching television in the snug. In the recliner, I was streaming “Case Histories” on Amazon Prime with the sound turned low. I’d seen it before, so I was also reading “The Lies of Locke Lamore”. We had a high-wind advisory in effect. I wasn’t worried. Two cats were weighing me down against getting blown away.
At two A.M., I awoke. The first thing I realized was that the cats had abandoned me. Second, I saw that the Roku had reset and was going through its update music. Interesting. Next, I saw with a glance at the modem that the network had reset. Well, I thought, the wind storm had probably caused some ISP issues.
Seeing the time, I decided to go to bed. Turning everything off, I left the snug, and then paused. The interior door to the garage was on my left. Not ajar, but not pulled tight, I could see that a light was on in the garage.
My wife or I must have left it on after going in there on an errand, I speculating, opening the door. But when I opened it, it wasn’t the garage interior lights that were on, but the garage door light. You know how that works? We have a garage door opener. When you press the button, a signal is sent. Receiving it, the garage door opener turns on a light and raises or lowers the door. That’s the light that was on.
That light wasn’t on before.
Being a cautious and paranoid person, I backed away from the door while keeping my eyes on it. Opening the coat closet, I took out the heavy metal flashlight we hang in there for emergencies. Not only does it provide a strong beam, but it has a solid heft to it, and can be useful as a weapon. See where my thoughts go?
Flashlight on, I first flashed it around the house, and then turned on the main hall light, and checked the front door. Locked. Okay. Going into the garage, I checked the side door. Finding it locked, I went around the garage to confirm nothing was out of place or missing, and everything was in order. Everything was as it should be. My mind dislikes vacuums, so I guessed, there must have been a power failure. I checked the clocks on the kitchen appliances. They were correct. Nothing anywhere indicated a power failure, except, perhaps the network and Roku. Going around the house, I repeated the process of checking doors and windows to ensure everything was closed and nothing was missing. Everything was as it should be.
The garage door opener light is on a timer. It now went off.
I couldn’t recall the garage door light going on after power was restored before. Maybe I had a faulty memory. Sleep and I had parted company at this point. I returned to the snug and read until I fell asleep. Then, awakening at three, I went to bed.
The garage door light entered my dreams. I was investigating it and testing different theories of how the garage opener light went on in my dreams. Jamie Dimon, CEO of JPMorganChase, showed up to help, but he was useless. In some weirder parts of my dream, the garage door mystery was discussed on MTV and everyone started eating jelly beans.
As an aside to the jelly bean part, we put up an Easter tree using pussy willows. They were placed in a glass vase filled with jelly beans to hold up the pussy willows. Now that Easter was over, I was allowed to eat the jelly beans.
The jelly beans, made by Brach’s, were pastel colors, and pretty. Their smell was reminiscent of sugar and marshmallows, drawing Easter basket memories up out of my youth. I tasted some jelly beans.
OMG, they were terrible. They tasted like sugar with a small effort to have a flavor like blueberry or cherry. I tasted different colors to see if I liked any. They didn’t have any black ones, which are my favorites. Of the colors presented, the orange ones had the strongest orange flavor, actually managing to overcome that sense I was only eating sugar.
Anyway, that’s my tale of the weird. It’ll probably be a few years before there’s another one. At least, that’s my hope.
Writing Like Crazy #96
Don’t you love it when you stop writing for the day, and then go off and read a book or take a walk (or *shudder* clean the house and do chores), and you keep writing in your head, and it’s like, “Oh! Oh! Here’s another idea. Here’s another thing to do with that chapter! Oh! Oh! And this is what happens next!”
Yeah, baby. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
And Another Thing
Someone asked me if I could tell them where there’s an “ATM machine” nearby.
WTF? Really? What do you think that M in ATM stands for? Money?
That kicked in a memory stream. I remember when ATMs first came out.
Yes, I am that old, children.
(I also remember when cable sprawl began, and when we started having color televisions, microwaves, and all the kinds of satellite things we now have. Get over it.)
We thought ATMs were great. Before them, you had to park, go inside, get in line, and take care of business, or drive into a line, if there were drive-through tellers, wait, and take care of business. Whichever option you chose, waiting was involved.
There was a forty dollar limit on what we could withdraw from ATMs back then. Forty dollars was a lot more money in that era. A tank of gas cost me less than ten, or maybe just over ten, dollars. Coffee – hello? – was a dollar a cup. Believe it, children.
Banks touted ATMs as a wonderful invention. It would save them so much money, and they would pass all those savings on to you through increased interest rates on your accounts and certificates of deposit. You could get your money from any ATM. Isn’t that great? Yes, it was wonderful!
Then, the banks and credit unions started complaining about the unanticipated costs. There were lines at the ATMs because there were longer lines in the bank, because they’d cut back on tellers to reduce overhead. The number of ATM transactions started to be capped. Going over that number meant you’d be penalized.
Then came the networks. Networks were formed to share the costs and reduce the burdens – for the financial institutions. What it meant for you was that if an ATM wasn’t in your network, you’d be charged for the luxury of using that machine to access your money. Piss me off?
You betcha. We were always wandering around towns, looking for ATMs and asking, “Is that one in our network?” Everyone had their eyes peeled for ATMs, crying out, “There’s one!” Then we’d aim the car that way. Yes, children, this was before ATMs came to be in other businesses, or stores. This was also before debit cards.
The ATMs typically had a list of networks that the institution belonged to. You’d need to figure out if one of those networks included your institution. If you couldn’t find one, you could be charged, with good ol’ Bank of America (who else, right?) leading the way in outrageous fees. Eventually, the banks and credit unions were forced to warn you if you were going to be charged, and accept that fee before going on.
Of course, the reverse of this was not having ATMs, but depending on your bank and credit union by writing checks, or going in, standing in the lobby for a while, and withdrawing some funds. That wasn’t fun, either.
So, even with my complaints (I am Michael, hear me complain), the ATMs are a lot better than the way it was. Just remember to heed the unspoken warning, “User beware.”
Inundations
Don’t you hate it when you decide to sign up for a newsletter or magazine delivered by email, or sign a petition, or join a group, and they just inundate you with emails? One a day isn’t enough – they have to send you three a day. Doesn’t that suck? It’s like they all believe that the more emails that they send to you, the more you’ll remember and support them.
Yeah, I remember them, all right, but for the wrong reasons. I come to remember and resent them for all the emails they send me, and for making it difficult for me to unsubscribe or “manage” my subscriptions with them.
Politicians and political causes seem like the worst. I’ve reduced my donation levels because I don’t want them to have my name any longer. I’m tired of hearing from them. So often, they send things with weaponized headlines to grab your attention. “YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT’S HAPPENING.” “WE NEED YOUR NAME TO STOP THIS! WON’T YOU STAND WITH US?”
That’s why I attempt to cap my posts to five a day. I know, they’re innocuous, with little thought behind them (yes, it shows, right?), and it’s mostly about me and my endless string of complaints, but they’re part of that greater burden of emails roaring into your inbox, demanding your attention.
Feel free to unsubscribe from me to reduce your load, because I feel your pain, brothers and sisters.
The Reality
The sister got down on the floor on her back. She’d come down to help her younger sister with their mother’s care.
“I’m almost eighty years old,” she said. “I’m tired.”
It was expected. Her mother lived with her younger sister, who was seventy-two. One hundred one years old, Mom suffered from dementia and Alzheimer’s disease. Other than that, and some minor injuries from falls, she was in great health, better health than her daughters.
It was a frustrating experience. The sisters loved their mother, and liked having her alive, but Mom often no longer remembered them. Mom would stand up and pee on the floor, and then cry over what she’d done. It wearied the sisters. After a lifetime of raising children (and now helping with grandchildren), divorces, bankruptcies, and health issues, they were ready to rest.
But rest wasn’t available, and that was the reality.
Friday’s Theme Music
Care for a little Smashing Pumpkins music today? “Despite all my rage, I am still a rat in a cage.” Here’s “Bullet with Butterfly Wings,” a song fit for the times because of its reek of cynical rage.
Michael Seidel, writer 