There’s a gruff guy whose house I regularly pass. About my age, he sometimes nods but never speaks as he works on his yard, house, or car. If he was a novel stereotype, he’d be a bitter former Marine who saw combat and carries wounds. Just from the way he eyed me as I passed by on my walks, I guessed he was a Trump supporter or leaned that way.
I always remind myself that I can’t judge people by how they look. Appearances deceive. Someone glancing at me, with my American flag pin on my ever-present hat, might think of me as a Trump supporter. Sad that in our polarized age, waving the flag has become associated with our political system’s right wing.
Yesterday, a Harris-Walz sign appeared in his yard. He was doing something over by his outdoor spigot and glanced up. Walking by, I nodded hello, and then added, “I like your sign. I hope Harris wins.”
He replied, “So do I. I’ve donated money to her, and I’ll keep donating to keep that orange asshole out of the White House.”
We rocked and rolled into another autumn day. Blue skies, no clouds, lots of vapor trails.
Another Tuesday. Another October — my 69th October. I’m 68 but we don’t start counting until we’ve been alive for one year and I was born in July. And ‘nother 15, as this is 10/15/2024.
As the new weather norm goes, it was chilly, in the low fifties at night. Sunshine thrust in past trees and over mountains as the Earth rotated. The thermometer began clawing its progress up the scale. Now at 62 F degrees, 72 F might be here at 4 PM. Rain is anticipated at 5 PM, and that’ll change everything.
The wind is still and the air is clear.
This is floof weather. The boys — Papi and Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah) — settled into favorite sunshine-favored spots in the backyard grass. Napping followed grooming, with interruptions to head lift for disruptive noises. But all is well for them.
They — the cats — inspired The Neurons’ music choice today. I checked on them after dressing. Seeing them in their sunshine spots, The Neurons jerry-rigged a Rihanna song with new lyrics: “We found sunshine in the backyard, we found sunshine in the ba-ackyard.” This was a butchering of “We Found Love” from 2011. Calvin Harris wrote it and Rihanna had a hit with it. After using it for their purposes, The Neurons introduced the proper tune to my morning mental music stream (Trademark hopeless) for the full experience. It’s a technotune with a driving beat that soon had The Neurons jumping and bouncing, a bit disconcerting as my body’s other cells were clamoring, “Where’s the coffee, huh? Give me coffee.”
Stay positive, be strong, and vote blue. Don’t know what history will say after this election but I’d like to give our nation a longer tenure as a democratic republic. Electing Harris will bend us toward that course. Selecting Trump will divert us further off course, as we saw from his first term and his behavior since.
The body finally had its coffee prayers answered. Here’s the music. Cheers
“Donald Trump made the unusual decision to hold a campaign event in Coachella, California on Saturday — a state that he’s undoubtedly set to lose in this year’s election — and bussed supporters 5 miles into the venue to do so. Unfortunately for thousands of those who showed up, the buses seemingly didn’t return to the venue late into the night, leaving many attendees stranded.”
I added the emphasis. This story ends up symbolic of Trump and his chase to be POTUS.
First, ol’ Don Old’s campaign made a promise. Come to my rally. Park at a designated place. We’ll bus you to the remote ranch and then back to where your car is parked.
This turned out to be as much of a concept of a plan as his healthcare offering, first mentioned over eight years ago. People were left stranded long after the rally’s end as the promised Trump buses did not show.
But then, as the situation went to Trump shit normal, meaning the rally attendees were forgotten and left to fend for themselves, they naturally want to pretend that it’s not Trump’s fault. Instead, they call for an investigation.
But I give Trump supporters this: it is criminal how they keep trusting him to do as he says, and not screw them over as he so often as done. Hell, he can’t even plan a rally and they think he’s capable of running a nation?
It’s a wonderful fall day, aka autumn, in Ashlandia this Monday morning. 14th of October, 2024. We’re approaching the month’s midpoint, don’tcha know. Skies as blue as Paul Newman’s eyes. Unabated sunshine splash off autumn’s colors. 71 degrees F outside now, with a few more degrees yet to be gained today before the sundown show begins.
I was out last night — early Monday morning, actually, but you know how our language is when you’re addressing a time that’s a half past midnight; it’s night but it’s morning — checking the sky for northern lights, asteroids, and meteors. Saw none of that. Was accosted by a spaceship. I believe they were aliens but could’ve been Trump supporters, as they were very weird. Anyway, the waxing moon was well short of full but the light it dished out into the night was impressive on its own. Lovely cool air felt me up and a serene silence serenaded me. Love nights like that. They lend a sense of calm optimism to me. With that moon, I could’ve called this Moonday.
Looks like the MAGA belligerence and lies toward FEMA in Hurricane Helene’s aftermess came home to roost. Funny, how when someone took a shot at Trump in PA, the GOP was all about softening the tone. Yet, now that a man was arrested for threatening FEMA in North Carolina amid stories that armed militia are threatening FEMA, the folks that were shushing the Democrats for their attitude and verbiage are letting the crickets sing in the silence. It is notable that many GOP leaders on the ground in North Carolina are pointing out that Trump is lying when he says that FEMA isn’t there helping. Sadly, mainstream media covers that news, and Trump’s MAGAts treat such media as fake news.
Got a ditty about “Jack & Diane” from 1982 in the morning mental music stream (Trademark flooding). Heard the John Mellencamp song on the radio as I aided my wife in her Food & Friends deliveries. This is our county’s version of Meals on Wheels. When I heard J&D, sitting in the car as my wife headed off to door knock, shout out “Food and friends,” and wait for the door to be answered so she could hand over the food items, I started listening to all the instruments employed. The song features an unusual, fragmented musical structure. Different instruments are employed to suggest moods in a way not usually employed in rock music. I think I even heard a recorder or a flute toward the song’s end among the pianos, guitars, drums, and clapping.
It also stayed in my head because I modified the words after I returned home and sang, “Little ditty about Tucker and Papi, two house floofs doing best they can.” BTW, that’s Tucker, pronounced Tuck-ah. The song actually lends itself well to singing about the cats. Example: “Papi sits back, scratches his neck for the moment, washes his paw, and does his best lion king.”
Last note, I want to reiterate that Donald J. Trump is unworthy of holding office. Latest reason for me to make this declaration is his falsehoods, which are known as lies in many places, about Kamala Harris and her cognitive abilities. He likes reflecting back. Whenever he shows signs of something, he immediately uses that issue as a cudgel to bludgeon voters into confusion. Clearly, when listening to Trump and Vice President Harris, it is Trump and his windy, meandering, fraying, old ‘weave’ — and I’m not referencing that abomination on his head — is the cognitively impaired individual seeking our nation’s highest office.
Stay positive, be strong, and vote blue in 2024. We will need all of these things if we’re going to subdue the Orange Menace and his anti-Democracy hordes.
Coffee and I have furthered our fling.
Here’s the music. See if you hear that woodwind somewhere around the 3:17 mark. Cheers
I realized that I never issued a DIY update on my HVAC.
Background, the AC had ceased. I checked the usual issues and found nada. The A/C capacitator worked. 240 was reaching the unit. Nothing was coming from the thermostat.
After replacing the furnace’s stepdown transformer for the furnace and the furnace control panel and seeing no success, I tested the furnace cover’s safety switch. No power there. I tested the power into the junction box. No power.
The switch for the furnace is mounted on the wall not far from the furnace, right above the entrance into the space as you climb up the ladder from the garage. Not an easy access space. To check that box, I’d need to throw the circuit breaker for the furnace. That would kill any useful light in the attic space.
I mounted my trouble light up there on a rafter. Connecting it with an extension cord, I plugged it into a garage wall socket below. Light was restored. My largest concern was that my right ankle would roll on me while I was standing on the ladder. Although I wore a brace on it, it weighed on my mind. I imagined it rolling and toppling off the ladder. Such an imagination. I should write fiction.
Pulling the cover off the switch, I discovered the quick connects in it fried. Replacing the unit was short work after purchasing a new one.
Job done. Just in time for cold nights and morning. Really satisfying to hear that furnace start and run.
Floof Generis (floofinition) – One of a kind sort of animal, which can be decided by personality, appearance, or actions. Origin: early 1900s, middle Floofinus influences.
In Use: “Camilla was a floof generis, understanding her human’s needs before a word was said, silently rushing off to bring Colleen her cell phone before it rang, opening the refrigerator to bring back a beer, fetching newspapers and books, and of course, slippers and blankets.”
In Use: “The relationship between the child, crow, cat, and dog was so floof generis that videos of it stormed through social media.”
I was walking down street when a silver Hyundai Santa Fe pulled out of their drive and turned my way. As they came on, I realized that a can was resting on top of the car on the passenger side.
“Hey,” I called. Gesturing, I tried playing charades with the driver: something. Car. Roof. Meanwhile, I hollered at him, “There’s a can on your car’s roof.”
Beaming, he gave me a big, friendly wave.
“No, no,” I cried out. “There’s something on your car’s roof.”
Michael Seidel, writer 