Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Floofstar (floofinition) – An animal who serves as a model, guide, or inspiration; an animal who gains great popularity.
In use: “Grumpy cat, real name Tardar Sauce (April 4, 2012 – May 14, 2019), became an internet floofstar and marketing presence, repping everything from calendars, stickers, and bricks to shoes and clothing.”
It was a weird shopping dream. A bunch of other things had happened where I was going around shopping but then I came to this point. I was helping people shop. Roped into it because I was there and knew what was going on, I was friendly and upbeat about helping others, eager to do it because they were grateful for the assistance. But then I encountered a trio. It seemed like a husband, wife, and older child from what I saw, but that’s a guess. White, all were overweight. I was helping them get three ounces of the product that they wanted. Measuring it out, I handed the white bag to them. “What’s this?” the man asked. “We wanted three ounces,” the woman said while the child hovered sullenly behind them.
I was confused because this was three ounces. I showed them the scale and measurement with the stuff on it. “That’s three ounces. That’s what you asked for.”
The woman smirked. “We want three ounces.”
Her smirk irritated me. “This is three ounces. Look.” I pointed at the scale. The line for help was piling up. “That says three ounces.”
The man and woman peered at it. “Where?” he asked.
I pointed again, moving my finger to emphasize where it said three ounces. “There. That says three ounces. You said you wanted three ounces. This is three ounces.”
The woman smirked. “We. Want. THREE. Ounces.”
WTF? Seriously. Looking back on the dream, it went on with more of the same. My frustration kept rising. With crowd noise growing from impatient people waiting behhind them, I was finally rid of the people only for them to return a few minutes later. Flummoxing me more, they insisted they hadn’t been there yet. “We want three ounces,” the man said. The short woman was holding the white bag I’d given them before. Their listless boy hovered beside her.
I asked, “Do you want three more ounces?” They gazed at me like stupefied cows, so I said, “Because I already gave you three ounces.” I pointed at the white bag in the woman’s hand. She looked at it like she’d never seen it before. “Isn’t that what’s in that bag?”
She said, “We want three ounces.”
I gave up. Just walked away. People called after me but I kept going with the thought, there’s somewhere else that I need to be.
Flooftégé (floofinition) – Animal who is guided, trained, or protected by another animal, or whose life is furthered by an animal of influence, position, or experience.
In use: “Orphaned kittens and puppies typically do better as a flooftégé guided by an older paw who shows them how to socialize, clean themselves, eat, and interact with humans.”
Good morning. Welcome to the February 16, 2021 edition of southern Oregon Tuesday. Sunrise and sunset are 7:06 AM and 5:45 PM respectively. Look how quickly we’re moving to eleven hours of daylight. How the heart sings with expectation.
The high and low temperatures today are 45 degrees F, and 32. Sunshine is busting through all over right now. Rain is expected but it’s 40 and pleasant out there right now.
Meanwhile, stormy weather dominates this US news cycle. Snow and ice grips most of the nation’s contiguous states. It’s freezing and snowing in places that rarely feel it. Power demands are forcing rotating black-outs. Millions are without power. They’re running out of fire wood. Lines for propane refills are almost as bad as lines for food last summer in Texas. The upper part of Oregon, where Portland rests, is suffering from collapsed car ports and snow-burdened roads, Trees, branches, and power lines going down under the heavy snow and ice. It’s ugly.
Stormy weather kicked the Wayback Machine into gear. “Stormy”, a 1968 hit by The Classics IV, settled into the mental music stream. Hope you’re familiar with this one. Haven’t heard it outside of my head in yonks.
Stay positive and test negative. Wear a mask and get vaccinated. Enjoy the music and think good thoughts. Cheers
Floofhouse (floofinition) – Floofnadian flock (floof rock) band formed in 1968. Their sound reflects a blend of jazz, flock, classical, and swing music. They remained active intermittently with shifting line-ups through the present year.
In use: “One of Floofhouse’s 1971 releases was “Floof It Slow (Out in the Country)”, which performed well on charts in Floofnada and was certified gold.”
Lugfloofrious (floofinition) – Looking or sounding like a very sad or dismal animal.
In use: “The elderly cat looked at her and released a lugfloofrious noise that changed her plans for the day and resulted in sharing her life with one of the sweetest creatures she’d ever known, Miss Gunnila Shugafly.”
Are you familiar with the Gorilla Glue Girl’s hair-mix-up fiasco? Out of a needed product, she made a decision that didn’t work as planned. The mistake earned her time as the web’s focus. Her fortunes spilled over into an SNL skit last Saturday.
I feel for her. Making bad decisions and mistakes is a human trait. The worst I’ve usually done is grabbed the wrong keys or the wrong sunglasses. Although there was one time when I was carrying one thing for the refrigerator and another for the trash and was about to put the one in the other but then caught myself.
I’ve had moments of panic when I thought I did the wrong thing. Once, when I was sixteen, I boarded a Greyhound bus to head south. I’d been up visiting Mom in Pittsburgh, PA. Now I was traveling south to southern West Virginia, where I lived with Dad. I don’t know what the deal is. It was late, like after ten PM. I may have fallen asleep. Next thing that I know, the bus was moving and the driver was talking about stops in Florida.
Florida! Man, I didn’t want to go to Florida. I was going home. But a little later, he announced, like an afterthought, “We’ll be in Charleston, West Virginia, in about three hours.”
Some time was required before my breathing returned to normal and the sweat dried on my body. I did not go to sleep again; I stayed awake, fearful of ending up far away from where I wanted to be.
No, wait; the worst was when I was checking out of an Atlanta hotel. I’d been there for a week on business. Now it was time to roll for the airport. Part of my travel routine is to slip my retired military ID into my shirt pocket for easy access when I’m going through security. I also think it saves time identifying me should the plane ever crash. My photo ID would be right there in my shirt. It’ll work if I still have my shirt on after the accident, if the ID isn’t thrown from the pocket, and if my face isn’t mangled or burned past the point that a photo ID would help.
Anyway, on this day as I headed out of the hotel, I dropped my plastic hotel key card into the box for that purpose and headed for the airport. Then I arrived there and found, oh, shit, you guessed it: I’d dropped off my military ID instead of my card key.
Well, I immediately called the hotel, explained it all, and asked them to overnight it via FedEx on my company’s account, so problem solved.
What about you? Do you have a story to share that shows how you commiserate with G3’s predicament that you’re willing to share?
Back into cars for last night’s dream. This car didn’t belong to me, but to a late uncle. He never owned a car like this, to my knowledge.
The car was a silver 1967 Jaguar E-type roadster. Calling it silver, I want to stipulate that it was so bright and polished, it seemed almost chromium. Absolutely stunning.
I was agog over it in the dream, where I was a young man in my late teens. He’d given me the honor of cleaning it and I did a damn thorough job. Afterwards, I proudly showed him what I’d done, opening the doors, bonnet, and trunk to display my results. He was duly impressed. After I returned his keys to him, he returned them to me. Turning away, he tossed a walk off: “Why don’t you take it for a drive.” Delighted and incredulous, I replied, “Are you serious?”
“Sure,” he answered. “You earned it.”
(I couldn’t find a photo of a silver Jag roadster, and none could be as silver as the one in my dream. Sorry, but this will need to suffice to show what kind of car it was.)
Michael Seidel, writer 