Floofpedition

Floofpedition (floofinition) – An animal’s journey or excursion undertaken for a specific purpose.

In use: “Each night when his cat left the house, he acted like he was undertaking a floofpedition. To satisfy his curiosity, Michael ended up buying a tracking collar with a small camera mounted to it, along with a set of outside cameras to help him follow his floof around.”

C&C Music Floof

C&C Music Floof (floofinition) – Floofmerican dance music floouo formed in 1987. They floofuo released nine singles between 1990 and 1996, with seven of them reaching number one on the dance charts.

In use: “C&C Music Floof’s first hit single, “Gonna Make You Floof (Everybody Scratch Now)”, came out in 1990, and remains the act’s best-known song.”

Raisins & Mushrooms

  1. One of today’s questions: does peanut butter come in a jar or a can? My wife and I are certain that it comes in a jar.
  2. The can/jar question rose because it’s time for the bi-monthly food donation to our town’s food pantry. Bi-monthly is one of those ambiguous expressions that often causes more conversation than it saves. “Do you mean twice a month or every other month?” Raised eyebrows often accompany the question, along with a still expectation as everyone waits to hear, which is it?
  3. COVID-19 has caused our food bank to decree “cans only”. Why not jars? I don’t know. They quarantine the cans; couldn’t they quarantine the jars? I haven’t researched the issue. Did I miss a Fauci about cans and jars? “By the way, jars are not safe. Cans are.”
  4. The food bank puts out a list of needs. On that list is peanut butter. That’s why we’re perplexed. PB comes in jars. Of course you’re going to need peanut butter if you’re only accepting cans. What’s wrong with you?
  5. Anecdotally, I’ve never heard or read someone say, “Go get me the can of peanut butter,” so I think we’re right on this. I wonder if they’re changing the way that we think of cans and jars, like they changed the way that we think of literally by changing the meaning because misusing the word became so commonplace that everyone agrees, easier to change the definition at this point.
  6. Guilt has set in. Others are raving and recommending television shows. I’ve tried them. I don’t like them. I want to like them, for their sakes, for the world’s sake. I feel like I’m undermining the social order by saying that, “No, I don’t watch that show. I don’t like it.” “The Tudors” was one of those shows. Friends raved about it. I turned it off.
  7. Among shows that underwhelm me are all reality shows. Never got into any “Survivor”. Yes, I do like the “Great British Bake-off”, or whatever its name is. I wore down my molars, gritting my teeth as we streamed two seasons of “The Masked Singer”. My wife wanted to see them all unmasked, even as she shook her head at the show and snapped, “If I hear them say that one more time…” She never specified the threat. She didn’t like hearing the hosts bubbling again and again and again, “That was wonderful. You’re amazing. Who are you?”
  8. My wife wants to make mushroom stroganoff. See, she likes mushrooms and she’s a vegetarian. I do not like mushrooms. They’re an abomination. I can accept them steeped in cheese and buried with real food on pizza. When I encounter them elsewhere, they remind me of slimy fungus. I do like mushrooms grilled on meat, or grilled with other mushrooms.
  9. The question is, will I eat the mushroom stroganoff? Sure, make it; I’ll try. If I don’t like it, I’ll eat something else. She’s bought the ingredients. She understand my mushroom dislike; she feels the same about raisins. Mushrooms are my raisins, if you follow.
  10. Food. We all need it, we all want it, we all might not like it.

Sunday’s Theme Music

Sunrise/sunset: 7:25 AM/5:24 PM. So close to ten hours of daylight! We almost made it. Oh, well, tomorrow is a new month.

It’s a sleepy Sunday, this last day of January, 2021. Rainy but 44 degrees F here, with sun breaks, a good day for reading a book and napping. The cats are for it.

Homemade minestrone soup is simmering in the slow cooker and filling the air with spices and veggies. Such a lazy-feeling day needs a lazy day song, say, “The Lazy Song” by Bruno Mars (2011). It’s a silly song but silly songs can be good.

Stay positive, etc. Too lazy to put in more, you know? Maybe I’ll get some coffee, maybe I’ll write. We’ll see.

Existflooftialism

Existflooftialism (floofinition) – A form of philosophical inquiry that explores the problem of animal existence, centering on how animals think, feel, and act, and how human activities might affect animals.

In use: “For many, existflooftialism need not mean less for humans, but rather examines whether life can be good for animals and humans?” 

Saturday’s Theme Music

An old song is stuck in my head this Saturday morning, the last Saturday in January, 2021. In other news, the sun rose at 7:26 AM and will set at 5:23 PM here in Ashland. All those things happen every day, but at different times.

They call songs stuck in your head ear worms. I call them a diversion. I typically get trapped in one specific section. I call it a groove loop, a reference back to the time when we listened to records on vinyl, which had grooves.

The stuck song is “Spanish Harlem”. The stuck version is by Aretha Franklin and came out in 1971. I was about fifteen. The eternal question of why this song is stuck in my head can’t be answered today. It arrived as I decided to eat a banana as my breakfast’s second course. First course was oatmeal with cranberries and peanut butter, sprinkled with gluten-free maple granola.

The COVID-19 situation continues to alarm many, including me. We experienced a solid week of double-digit new cases, and the rolling three day average was dropping. Across the country, cases were dropping. Only two states were reporting increases on Thursday. Yet, dire warnings about the variations were increasing. Recommendations to wear two masks, or wear only N95 masks were issued. Then, last night, boom, our county reported triple digits again. It’s wave after wave. Like the ocean, some waves are larger than others, and you need to be mindful of sneaker waves.

Time for coffee. Stay positive, test negative, WAM (wear a mask), and get vaccinated, when it comes your way. Here’s the music.

Saturday’s Theme Music

An old song is stuck in my head this Saturday morning, the last Saturday in January, 2021. In other news, the sun rose at 7:26 AM and will set at 5:23 PM here in Ashland. All those things happen every day, but at different times.

They call songs stuck in your head ear worms. I call them a diversion. I typically get trapped in one specific section. I call it a groove loop, a reference back to the time when we listened to records on vinyl, which had grooves.

The stuck song is “Spanish Harlem”. The stuck version is by Aretha Franklin and came out in 1971. I was about fifteen. The eternal question of why this song is stuck in my head can’t be answered today. It arrived as I decided to eat a banana as my breakfast’s second course. First course was oatmeal with cranberries and peanut butter, sprinkled with gluten-free maple granola.

The COVID-19 situation continues to alarm many, including me. We experienced a solid week of double-digit new cases, and the rolling three day average was dropping. Across the country, cases were dropping. Only two states were reporting increases on Thursday. Yet, dire warnings about the variations were increasing. Recommendations to wear two masks, or wear only N95 masks were issued. Then, last night, boom, our county reported triple digits again. It’s wave after wave. Like the ocean, some waves are larger than others, and you need to be mindful of sneaker waves.

Time for coffee. Stay positive, test negative, WAM (wear a mask), and get vaccinated, when it comes your way. Here’s the music.

Trains & Cars – A Dream

I was a young middle-aged man, about thirty yeas old, I’d say. Outside was a place where organizers had built a huge platform for HO-scale cars and trains. These are the moderately small things but not the really small or tiny ones. The layout was huge. Workers were in a center pit. From there, they could go anywhere to reach the cars, trains, and track.

I ended up as one of the people allowed to play there. I first built cars. You These models were replicas of famous sports racing cars through the decades. My main car in the dream was a white Chaparral 2E.

Young people were there to help. A group of teenage girls controlled the parts stock. I’d go to them to request parts and supplies. Young boys were always willing to paint things for you for a small fee.

After perfecting my Chaparral’s looks and performance, I began practicing on the long track. The racing car controller was a pistol type, with a light trigger. That made it harder to modulate the speed through corners. I had all but section of track mastered within a short time. The one part was right by the end. I knew it was a curve but it wasn’t visible to me.

After wrecking out on that one place multiple times, I went up to take a closer look at that particular corner and discovered that it was like a parking garage corkscrew. It reminded me of Laguna Seca’s famous corkscrew, which had a blind approach before diving into curves and descending eleven hundred feet at speed. I told everyone there that’s what it reminded me of, then set it aside to deal with later.

For now, I’d play with my trains. A young boy had been painting them for me to forge detailed realism. It was with great pride that I set them on the track and started running it. This train wasn’t short, but was one hundred and two cars long. All went well for a bit, and then my train derailed.

A pit person went to retrieve my train and set it up again. The derailment had taken place at an area accessible to me, so I went there, too. As the pit man set it up, he gave one car to me, saying it was damaged. As I took it, another person came up. I recognized Jeff, a person I haven’t seen in thirty-five years. The man gave Jeff an identical car to my car. I believed it was my car, that I’d had two, but the pit person didn’t understand what I was trying to say. That’s where it all ended.

It was an interesting and vivid dream. My other sharply recalled dream was about a job I had counting prostitutes, but it’s really too weird to go into. For one thing, some of the girls would disappear into smoke when I would try to count them. For another, I didn’t know why I was counting, a question that I kept pursuing, without ever finding an answer.

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