Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Sunshine hangs long and hot. The temperature rests at 95 F. The sky darkens, heralding a fleet of clouds. The fleet burgeons as more clouds drift over to see what happens. Darkening and darkening under added layers of clouds, the sunshine skips out on the rest of the day. So dark at 4 PM, we’re forced into turning on houselights. Thunder cruises through with long throat clearing. We look out, talking out our thoughts, “Looks lik it’s going to rain.” “It’s going to storm.”
Wind dashes around and through the trees. Then it sinks.
The day grows still and dark. Feeling bored, the thunder slinks off. The darkness stays, the clouds remain, and the temperature puts it hat on 87 F, and stays there. Tension builds as we wait and look, asking each other, looking outside for clues, surfing the net for information. Friends share on the net, “weird weather.” No one knows nothin’; we wait.
It’s weather’s move.
The coffee shop had net problems today. Shrugging that away, I told myself, “Just write and check the net later.” Two and a half hours later, I’d finished 2300 words and the story had progressed as if I had some notion of what the hell was going on.
The Hunger Band was on my stomach’s center stage by then, their first notes careening through the rest of my bod. Coffee shop net still down, I listened to the Hunger Band’s sorrowful lyrics about dying of starvation and decided, “Yes, I’ve written enough. Time to go home and eat.”
Now to explore the kitchen to see what the Hunger Band will find acceptable. Salad? Maybe. Burrito?
Hmmm.
Boom, and it’s June’s last day n 2025. Boom, it’s another Munda.
Today is Munda, June 29, 2025. Boom, it’s gonna get hot again in Ashlandia. 99 F. 73 F at the mo. My friend in Melbourne, Australia is miserable with cold, wet rain. I feel for him. The weather rarely satisfies us for many consecutive moments, especially if you’re a prince like me, cognizant of every ripple casting anything less than perfection.
Despite a heavy load of dreams, today’s music comes from PINO Trump’s “One Beautiful Big Bill”. News outlets are generally roiling with disgust about the bill. It’s a grab bag for the rich and strips away help for the poor and sick, and shreds protections for our land, water, and air. The bill removes gun controls and taxes so it’ll be easier and cheaper for people to pay guns. This, in a nation already slathered with gun violence. Just this weekend, two fire fighters were shot and killed and others were wounded in an ambush in Idaho. People polled are heavily against the One Big Beautiful Bowel Movement, for just reasons.
Yet, this bill is the perfect bill for this nation at this point. Filled with what the fuck provisions, sponsored and pushed by a liar and a cheat (yes, that’s Trump), it’s a bill by a billionaire for a billionaire. One that encourages and rewards greed, violence, and selfishness. Perfect for the ‘Christian Nation’ visualized in Project 2025. I have always considered Trump a con man; now his con has come to full light, and his supporters are the main marks.
BTW, read Mock Paper Scissors small’s bite on the bill: Playing Clue: GOP, In Congress, With Paperwork. If that doesn’t cause your GRRRR Meter to max out, nothing will.
Today’s song, then, is “Nasty” by Janet Jackson. The Neurons popped the song into my morning mental music stream after I read about the bill and the GOP capitulation and hissed, “Nasty.” That was all it took, and I was hearing, “Nasty. Oh, you nasty boys.”
Just read that Trump is to visit America’s newest Florida funpark, Alligator Alcatraz. Maybe a gator will get ‘im. It’s good to have dreams.
Hope your weather fits your needs and your day works out beautifully. I’ll do my best. Give me a cuppa. Here we go. Cheers
This is from the ‘maybe-it’s-just-me’ book of thoughts.
When I read about the growing Wolf Fire in southern California, I immediately thought that PINO Trump’s response will be: “Let them burn.”
Which I think is totally wrong and an abhorrent way for the President of the United States to think. But it’s completely in line with the policies and behavior of the TACO Regime of the Disunited States of Chaos.
Trump’s golf club is Nero’s fiddle.
Michael Seidel, writer 