Hibble (floofinition) – term housepets use for the foods that people eat.

In use: “Hearing the plastic bag rustle in the other room, the cat and dog recognized that she was getting one of her favorite hibbles, corn chips, out, and prepared themselves to beg for a few themselves, as the salty snack was one of their favorite hibbles, too.”

A Dad Dream

I dreamed my Dad and I were in a store, but a few caveats are needed to qualify this. Much younger, I was taller than I’ve ever been. Dad wasn’t my true father but a colonel I’d worked for in the Air Force. This colonel and I didn’t get along well. Fortunately, he wasn’t in my chain of command. He was the Deputy Base Commander, though, so I had encounters with him almost every day. Another colonel that I was buddies with told me that the other colonel had changed through the years. He said, “He used to seem so happy and had so much fun. Now he barely wants to smile.”

That was my Dad in this dream, not at all like my real Dad. Dream Dad was retired, and I was still active, and outranked him. Neither of us were in uniforms, though. These were matters that I knew.

We were at a Home Depot shopping for plants. Dad wanted to plant flowers at his house. I was there, assisting, following him around. Dad had become forgetful and clutzy. He kept knocking things over. I was concerned, amused, and exasperated as I followed him around and watched the Home Depot personnel cleaning up after his messes.

Dad and I were chatting through all of this, mostly about what he was doing, from what I remember. I began suggesting that we leave but Dad wasn’t ready. It went like this, me following him around as he carried a basket, looking for plants and knocking things over, until I quit following him and drifted away. After I did that, I heard a loud crash. Knowing that he was behind it, I trotted into another area.

A clerk stopped me. “Some hazardous stuff has been spilled,” he said. “We need to clean it up before anyone can go in.”

I looked into the room and saw my dream father standing to one side not far away. Clerks and customers were standing around the perimeter, arms folded, leaning against shelves, as two others cleaned up a mess in the middle.

“Just tell me this,” I said to the clerk. I pointed at Dad. “Did he cause this?” As the clerk nodded, I smiled and said, “That’s what I thought.”

The dream ended.

Profits and Losses

They count the money and measure the angles,

lamenting what must be done.

The cost is high, to keep people alive,

and keep profits a tidy sum.

“What can we do, it’s the America way,

“that made us what we are today.

“Blame the old and dying, the sick, injured and ill,

“for not making enough money

“to pay their bill.”



Floofonics (floofinition) – the study of housepet language and syntax.

In use: “His cats started talking to him more as they lived with him, and he developed floofonics, a science of listening to the nuances of their meows. It especially satisfied him to hear the cats talking to him about being fed. They began with sharp, loud meows that continued until he started to deliver their bowls to them. Their voices changed then, the volume dropping as the strident meows changed to mewmuring.”


Mewmuring (catfinition) – a soft, satisfied meow t often incorporates a trill or a purr, generally associated with a happy, contented cat and frequently heard just before a cat begins eating.

In use: “Sweet mewmuring replaced the kittens’ strident meowing demands, and then the sounds of eating wet food replaced the mewmuring.”

Sunday’s Theme Music

I’m once again streaming 1974, another year in which things happened, other things changed, and everything kept going almost as though nothing had happened. For me, I graduated high school, turned eighteen, joined the military and left home, in that order.

Today’s theme music, “Only Solitaire”, arrives via a miasma polluting the thinking stream. Jethro Tull’s Warchild album was being streamed, but thinking about a particular individual, the stream’s thread narrowed to “Only Solitaire”. It’s a short and simple song.

Brain-storming habit-forming battle-warning weary
winsome actor spewing spineless chilling lines —
the critics falling over to tell themselves he’s boring
and really not an awful lot of fun.
Well who the hell can he be when he’s never had V.D.,
and he doesn’t even sit on toilet seats?
Court-jesting, never-resting
he must be very cunning
to assume an air of dignity
and bless us all with his oratory prowess,
his lame-brained antics and his jumping in the air.
And every night his act’s the same
and so it must be all a game of chess he’s playing
“But you’re wrong, Steve: you see, it’s only solitaire.”

h/t to Collecting-tull.com

It’s a short song, a few ticks more than a minute and a half.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: