Infloofcapitate(floofinition) – To be disabled by an animal. Origins: 1660s, Old French and Middle English, first noted widespread use in Britain.
In use: “Many people with pets often find themselves infloofcapitated when they sit down at a computer as a household pet horns in to either be part of whatever’s happening, or trying to stop activities that takes attention away from themselves.”
In use: “When she went down for her nap on the sofa, the household managerie joined her, infloofcapitating her and extending what was to be a twenty minute respite into almost two hours.”
Recent use: “During COVID era Zoom meetings with people working from home, the Internet was enriched with tales of pets showing up. floofrupting meetings and infloofcapitating people.”
It’s Saturday again in Ashlandia, where time just goes round and round, it seems, November 4, 2023, by date. 60 F outside after a rainy night, a hefty wind moves colorful leaves as clouds regroup on the horizons, leaving sunny blue sky overhead. Our high today will be 69 F.
Reading the news, reflecting upon how often history does repeat itself, pondering what is and what will never be, The Neurons permit Willie Nelson into the morning mental music stream (Trademark fading). In 1961, Willie wrote a song called “Funny How Time Slips Away”. I became familiar with it sometime during my childhood. Many performers and groups have sung this song since Willie first put the words down. This version by him singing on a stage, surrounded by others, broadcast in 1997, is one of my favorite renditions. Willie always sings from the heart with a thoughtful air.
Stay positive, be strong, and lean forward, no matter how that wind blows. Coffee is being served up, per standard household practice. I hope you enjoy the video and song as much as I do. Cheers
It seems like the United States’ GOP is working hard to divide the nation. Through actions like dictating what pronouns and genders must be used, and what can be read and taught in schools, they’re narrowing the boundaries of freedom and undermining intellectual thought and creativity.
Once the Republicans were happy to merely oppose the Democrats. Now they oppose personal freedom and choice, forging deeper and sharper divides based on the formulation of ‘us’ and ‘them’, far from the Founders’ vision of ‘we, the People’. Congress under the GOP, and as en extension, the Federal government, is obstructed from governing as Republicans do all they can to stop anything and everything the Democrats attempt to do, treating everyone outside of the GOP’s narrowing scope as enemies. They demand compromise while offering none. Even Republicans who do not heel hard to the line, “Our way or no way,” are ostracized as enemies.
It is one thing to disagree and debate, and another to throw tantrums and hold parts of the government hostage. Holding the government hostage is the modern Republican way, whether it’s:
the US military (Senator Tuberville’s ongoing blocking of senior officer promotions until they make changes Tuberville wants);
the Federal budget (the GOP Freedom Caucus threatening to shut down the government again and again, as the GOP has done before);
reading and education (the GOP embraced ‘Moms of Liberty’ and their advocacy against school curricula that mention LGBTQIA+ rights, race and ethnicity, and ‘critical race theory’, as well as Governors Abbott (Texas) and DeSantis (Florida) and their bids to ban books and forbid teaching certain aspects of history);
or the ability for the Federal government to execute and enforce laws (Speaker Johnson’s moves to cut funding for IRS agents and their investigations of tax fraud).
In the GOP’s latest vision of the United States, the vision of who the people are and who may vote, and what rights ‘they may have’ is diminishing in front of the GOP’s idea of God, their idea of religion, their idea of science, and their idea of culture and history.
In so doing, they drive the United States further and more deeply away from being a welcoming melting pot of freedom, independence, and equality for all. Their tools to accomplish their vision are fear, intimidation, discrimation, and bigotry, fortified and encouraged by lies and hypocrisy, often done under cover of ‘religious freedom’, citing the Bible as the source for things it never mentions, in a nation where separation of church and state are supposed to be a foundation of our nation’s existence.
Ironically, the GOP marches down a path that is directly against the words of their party’s founder. President Lincoln declared in his House Divided speech (June 15, 1858), “A house divided against itself, cannot stand.”
It’s an insight which the GOP in its right-wing, short-sighted zeal, has chosen to ignore.
To set the dream scene, I was different in some ways to my real life self. Still white, I was tall and skinny with short black hair, and wearing a holey white tee shirt dingy gray with age. About nineteen years old, I was clean-shaven and despite my dirty clothes, I was clean. I knew I was poor but I was a happy and hopeful individual.
Walking among some dark industrial ruins, I came across a table. On it were about a dozen tarts. Six inches in diameter, they were custard, with cinnamon sprinkled across the top, and stacked about ten tall. Beside the tarts were a dozen empty tart pans in a stack.
Finding the tarts pleased me. I’d been walking for days, hadn’t eaten and was hungry, but more importantly to me, I’d been travelling alone and had not seen anybody the entire time. Finding the tarts, if they were fresh, was a sign that others still existed and could be close by.
I didn’t eat them, though, though I grinned widely as I looked at them. I didn’t know who owned them and refused to take them, thinking that would be stealing. Then, walking around, I found a cardboard sign with handwritten letters in red marker, “Free”.
I still didn’t take any. At that point, other people emerged from the shadows. Seeing them, I knew they were as hungry as me, so I called to them and started passing out the tarts. As I did, I found that there were more tarts than I thought. While I was surprised, I was also pleased because that meant that everyone could eat more.
Then, a voice told me that they’d been watching. They were going to provide me tarts, and I could sell them. That confused and surprised me. I queried them about why they’d want to do that. They answered that they thought I’d be good at selling them.
I shrugged. If they wanted to do that, it was okay, I guess, I said, but I’d rather just give them away because so many people didn’t have money or food. The voice replied, you can do what you want, they’re your tarts.
Sunny blue skies greeted me in my home in Ashlandia, where orange barrels block streets as paving, repairs, and improvements continue and the roads are above average.
Already November 3, 2023, some folks are marking their calendars for next year’s elections. It’s also Friday, end of the work week for some and beginning of the weekend fun for others. Those of us in a quasi-, semi-, or permanent retirement state mostly look at the door with an eye toward social engagements. ‘Work’ except as volunteers, has mostly been dismissed.
As I prepared the floof royalty’s meals this morning, a glance out the window found gray smudges defacing the blue-sky fall scene. At least, I hope it’s fog, I thought with a chortle, and then imagined other possibilities, entertaining myself as I went about my business. Another glance out, and I perceived a wall of fall stealing in from the northwest quadrant. Six minutes later, the fog presented a solid front and the sky was gray. An hour after that, the fog is gone.
While it’s 48 now, we’re expecting our high to be in the upper sixties, ingredients for a enjoyable autumn day.
Moving on toward the theme song, a friend queried a group of us by email, do you remember this song? Who sang it? He was just playing around, of course:
He wears tan shoes with pink shoelaces A polka dot vest and man, oh, man He wears tan shoes with pink shoelaces And a big Panama with a purple hat band
It’s Dodie Stevens with “Pink Shoe Laces” from 1961, of course. That started a firestorm of memories for the group and their wives. One spouse was really excited because it was her and her sister’s favorite song. They played it all the time while dancing around the house. Remember this, she began singing it and dancing around the house, and then called her sister, and they had Siri playing the song on the phone while they danced and laughed.
That opened the door on a vault in my head, where certain songs I know but am not crazy about resides. Reaching in, The Neurons pulled out a 1958 novelty song, “Beep Beep” by the Playmates and have it on loop in my morning mental music stream (Trademark dashing).
Behind the song is a car, a Rambler, product in my lifetime of a now defunct US car company, the American Motors Corporation. I had a friend with a Rambler. Although old, we used it to sneak people into the drive-in theater in the little car’s spacious trunk in the early 1970s. It was just like the one in the photo.
Also featured in the song was a Cadillac, a car much more expensive than the Rambler. More expensive, the Cadillac had a larger engine and was more powerful, capable of greater acceleration and top speed than the Rambler. That forms the song’s gist as the Rambler tails the Cadillac and the Cadillac keeps speeding up to get away, but can’t, astonishing and amazing to the Caddy driver. As this unfolds during the song, the song’s tempo keeps increasing until the punchline when the Rambler driver pulls alongside and asks, “Hey buddy, how do I get this car out of second gear?”
While riding in my Cadillac, what, to my surprise, A little Nash Rambler was following me, about one-third my size. The guy must have wanted it to pass me up As he kept on tooting his horn. Beep! Beep! I’ll show him that a Cadillac is not a car to scorn.
I pushed my foot down to the floor to give the guy the shake, But the little Nash Rambler stayed right behind; he still had on his brake. He must have thought his car had more guts As he kept on tooting his horn. Beep! Beep! I’ll show him that a Cadillac is not a car to scorn.
My car went into passing gear and we took off with dust. And soon we were doin’ ninety, must have left him in the dust. When I peeked in the mirror of my car, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The little Nash Rambler was right behind, you’d think that guy could fly.
Now we’re doing a hundred and ten, it certainly was a race. For a Rambler to pass a Caddy would be a big disgrace. For the guy who wanted to pass me, He kept on tooting his horn. Beep! Beep! I’ll show him that a Cadillac is not a car to scorn.
Now we’re doing a hundred and twenty, as fast as I could go. The Rambler pulled alongside of me as if I were going slow. The fellow rolled down his window and yelled for me to hear, Hey, buddy, how can I get this car out of second gear?
It’s just one of those days, unpredictable to me, when the writing effort gains sharper clarity and focus. I think the bottom line is that after weeks of thinking and writing and editing and revising, my understanding of the story as originally written crystallized and is now much higher. This feeds to greater focus and concentration, because I’m more certain about where I’m going. Which then generates greater writing energy and enthusiasm, pressing me to keep writing and editing, keep going, keep going.
But, writer’s butt is setting in. The cheeks are compaining about the chair’s hard surface. And though I’d go on, my stomach is querying, “Hey, are we going to eat anytime soon? Very hungry here. Hello? Anyone feel me?”
And my brain is harping, “You need to run errands. Go shopping and get needed supplies for yourself, the house, the wife, and the cats, and add gas to the car because it’s almost on empty.”
Moments like this are always bittersweet. So much was accomplished, leaving me feeling joyous over my progress. But I must stop. There will be other days. Some will be like a slog through knee deep mud, but there will be others like this, when I feel like I’m soaring.
Fog toys with vision, blurring boundaries, imposing a chilly sense on Ashlandia, where the autumn foliage is above average. Rain dashes down off and on, on and off, against a totally pale overhead that lacks sunshine and blue sky. Temperature of 55 F caps the moment. Will go up into the upper fifties, but that’s little inducement for many, so traffic is light, especially the foot traffic. The wet sidewalks are empty.
Coffee shop has light traffic, too. Me, and two college students across the room, are the only customers at the tables. I’m assuming they’re college students, based on looks of age, style, the paperwork spead on the table between them, and the earnestness with which they engage the paperwork and one another while scribbling. They could be activists, entrepreneurs, partners planning a party or going over the household budget. Maybe they’re inventors pursuing some world shaking new device. Perhaps I’m being too blase about who those two are and their potential.
For the record, today is Thursday, November 2, 2023. Many coffee shop employees are wearing holiday-themed clothing, and it’s not turkey and Pilgrims.
Another local business has shut down this week. Happens several times a year but it still causes some pensiveness. This business has been functioning for a few years, a restaurant which I never tried because their menu didn’t appeal to me. Several business locations have been empty for years, and now we wonder, what use to be there? I know that some were built after I moved here in 2005 and have never been occupied. Success and failure has a thin edge in a small town, and we, at about 20K, are a small town.
Wind, leaves, and rain are a perfect storm for my thoughts. Feeling it, The Neurons dump “My Hometown” by Bruce Springsteen into the morning mental music stream (Trademark in limbo). It’s from his Born in the USA album, circa 1984. “My Hometown” isn’t a happy song, but reflective and introspective about a particular era of existence which we’re still experiencing in many places.
In ’65 tension was running high At my high school There was a lot of fights Between the black and white There was nothing you could do Two cars at a light on a Saturday night In the back seat there was a gun Words were passed in a shotgun blast Troubled times had come To my hometown To my hometown To my hometown To my hometown
Now Main Street’s whitewashed windows And vacant stores Seems like there ain’t nobody Wants to come down here no more They’re closing down the textile mill Across the railroad tracks Foreman says, “These jobs are going, boys And they ain’t coming back To your hometown To your hometown To your hometown To your hometown”
In those verses, we’re hearing about at the struggles and coping of racism and integration during the 1960s, and the shifting economy that began as regional factories shut down, with corporations growing by buying smaller businesses. Consolidation took place and those small companies and stores which wouldn’t or didn’t sell out, were often crushed by the mega corporations like Target, Walmart, Home Depot, and Starbucks moving in, praised now for bringing employment opportunites into areas. Meanwhile, manufacturing shifted to overseas locations in quests to lower costs and improve profits.
I was part of some of that movement at IBM, a tiny player as we shifted activites out of the US. Lower costs might mean greater sales and higher profits, which might trickle down to better wages and bonuses for us in the gooey working middle. We employees were caught in the equation, trying to improve our own lives and help our friends, families, and communities while despising what was being done. Sickening. I was so happy when I finally reached a point where I could leave that existence.
Yet, paradoxically, I miss some co-workers and the chats we had. I also miss the challenges presented by the shifts and finding solutions. Though morally apalling in many ways, it was mentally and intellectually challenging, and so satisfying when resolutions were found and projects were completed.
But in my view of my hometown, it was just a neighbood in Pittsburgh’s suburbs. This was where I grew up. Wilkingsbugh, East Hills, Plum, Penn Hills, Monroeville. Many small cities downtown were already dark and deserted, buildings stumbling into naked supports, and piles of thick glass and red brick. I was part of a generation taking our business to shopping centers and malls. Now many of those malls and shopping centers are also shutting down, dark, or gone, as our business turns to the net.
Sometimes in the past, across all that was happening, slivers of hope that something better would emerge would rise and encourage me and those like me that someday all of this could change. Rights were spreading, along with ideas about buying locally and sustainability. Now the MAGA cancer spreads across the states, and is gaining strength around the world. These are not the type of people or governments which will result in Star Trek and exploring strange new worlds. They seem likely to build and use Death Stars.
You know, the irony of this, I suppose, is that someday those other two customers might come by and remember, that’s where that coffee shop. Remember it, and that rainy day that we sat in there, brainstorming and working together? Then they’ll go on from the spot where the coffee shop used to stand, where I type now, remembering the past. So it is and will be, changing to the regret of some, the delight of others, and the indifference of more.
Here’s the video. Stay positive — hah, like I am, right? — be strong, and keep leaning forward. Change will come; we just don’t know what it’ll look like. Despite my pessimism now, we have made many advances, and probably will again.
Michael Seidel, writer 