Author: Michael Seidel

Science fiction, fantasy, and mystery writer. Singer (sorry, no shows) & nudist (in my home). Beer, cat, cheese, coffee, pie and wine friend. Left IBM and Silicon Valley for the southern Oregon life but I miss the ocean. We're too far inland. Gotta move.

Sunday’s Theme Music

“This Diamond Ring” (cover by Gary Lewis and the Playboys, 1965) began playing in my head as I reconstructed and evaluated my dream, which was about theater, wine, food, and clothes. Why that song, I wondered, going over the lyrics. It’s all about broken promises and lost dreams, and gathered, that must be what the dreams were about, a depressing thought at its face.

Anyway, now the song is lodged in the stream. Sharing it will release it, so here you are. Watch the video, as their performance is interesting. (So is the setting.) (Such a simpler time.) Several of those musicians look like, “Where am I, where am I,” is caught in their thinking streams.

Cheers

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Blue Jeans

Wrangler, Lee,

Lucky Brands,

and more than I can say

they’ve wrestled with my waist,

swathing my legs in new

blue-denim

ways.

Bell-bottomed, flared legged,

low-riders, relaxed fit.

Button up, zip down,

stone-washed,

acid-dipped.

Straight legs and boot cut,

now they try to move me new ways

with stretchable materials

and flattering stays.

What would I be without my jeans

defining my blue ass

and stretching tight

at the seams?

 

 

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Wanted

I used to be such —

Ah, ‘used to be’. Famous words that begin many tales.

I used to be a model. I used to be a salesman. I used to be very flexible. I used to drink more coffee, stay up late and party, and go to work early.

Words of memory, ‘used to be’ invokes a sense of gentle passing on what was, a point to pivot onto the current moment. In my case…

I used to be such a desirable customer. Oh, the offers that came in the mail. First were the weekly avalanches of credit card and banking offers, magazines, and book and music clubs. They all wanted me. Every day, I considered and rejected suitors. No, you’re not for me, American Express. No thank you, Delta. I’ll pass today, Discover. Come back another day, Book of the Month.

Ed McMahon and American Family Publishing dropped in sometimes, delighting me with the news that I MAY HAVE ALREADY WON. I didn’t win, but I appreciated their optimism. Sometimes, Publishing Clearing House also came by to tell me that I’m a potential winner. Both wanted me to buy magazines. I did, once, because I was a newly appointed young adult, with an income, and I liked car magazines. They billed me later.

Dating services targeted me for a while. I guess they thought I was lonely. Then came ways to save via coupons on buying new checks, eating out at restaurants, getting my car repaired or painted, my carpet cleaned, and my windows washed.

As we passed into the last half of the past decade, suitors come less frequently. Maybe they were giving up. Their pitches changed. Cruise lines and vacation resorts showered me with beautiful people having wonderful times in beautiful, exotic locations. Politicians solicited my support and donations. I started hearing from hearing-aid companies for a while. A few companies wondered if I had enough health and life insurance. Others wanted me to plan for how my loved ones and I were going to be buried. Concerned investing firms approached, offering to buy me a meal while worrying whether I had enough money saved for retirement. I appreciated their efforts, but gently tore their offers in half and deposited them in the recycle bin.

A few realtors approached, asking if I wanted to sell my house, telling me that I could really make some money because they already had buyers lined up. The Great Cable Wars brought more offers for a few years in my late fifties as satellite dish companies sprang forward, trying to gain market share. Sometimes I received three offers in one day from them, three, I tell you, in one day. Yep, I was a wanted man.

Alas, I’m no longer a young adult. The mail suitors have disappeared. Oh, some have changed with the times and approach me via email, notably AARP and Viagra, competing against Bernie Sanders, Elizabeth Warren, the DNC, all who beseech me daily to give, give, give, along with urgent requests to sign petitions. Then,of course, they’ve called, too, but with caller ID, they soon learned that I don’t answer the phone.

Now, they’ve all stopped trying, it seems. All that remains is Spectrum. Having taken over Charter, they’re trying hard to win me. They’re doing it the old fashioned way, too, first with people coming door to door (charming young men) asking me how much I pay for my phone service and what Internet service provider I use, assuring me that I’ll do much better with them.

Then came the mail pieces, one every day, (except Monday, a holiday), but a piece came Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Tears of memory sprang to my eyes as I realized, Spectrum wants me. It’d been so long. I almost hated tearing up their offers, and held off for a few minutes, thinking about their kindness, reaching out to me for my money, just like the old days.

“Thank you, Spectrum,” I whispered, and then tossed the offers away.

It feels good to be wanted.

6

Floofble

Floofble (floofinition) – 1. A bauble that animals use as a toy.

In use: “Although he had tennis balls, and pull ropes, the big dog’s favorite flooble remained a small stuffed dog he’d acquired as a puppy. Old and worn, it’d gone through several emergency surgeries, but he remained devoted to carry it around with him, setting it down by his food bowl when he ate.

2. A gathering of animals who appear to be in discussion.

In use: “Three dogs and four cats sat in a loose circle in the back yard, a floofble that appeared in telefloofic communications.”

3. A mistake made by an animal.

In use: “The cat missed the jump, a floofble she covered by sitting down and vigorously washing her butt, as though it was responsible.”

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Saturday’s Theme Music

Today’s music came into the stream via word association.

I was looking for my ‘other’ blue jeans. (Like any good American male, I own several pairs of blue jeans, but have favorites.) (Because I like their fit, see?) From that, the stream picked up Neil Diamond’s “Forever In Blue Jeans” (which seemed appropriate, as I seemed forever in blue jeans) (at least until the weather warms and I become forever in shorts). That stopped after a few seconds as “Blue Jeans Blues” (ZZ Top) supplanted it.

As I chuckled over those songs, “Tangled Up In Blue” (Bob Dylan) popped in. But, as I found the jeans (in the closet, on a hanger, where they’re supposed to be) (how’d I miss them the first time?) (do you hang your jeans or fold them and store them in a drawer?), David Bowie’s light song, “Blue Jean” (1984), about a woman named Blue Jean, swarmed the stream.

So, there we have it, the genesis of today’s choice, “Blue Jean” by the late D.B.

 

6

“The Pointfloof Sisters”

“The Pointfloof Sisters” (floofinition) – American floof and blues quartet formed in Floofland in the early nineteen seventies.

In use: “Although The Pointfloof Sisters never had a number one hit on the Floofboard Hot 100, a number of their songs were very popular, such as “Flooftron Dance”, “He’s So Floof”, and “Slow Floof”.”

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Floofning

Floofning (floofinition) – 1. An electric spark emanating from or going to an animal when they’re being petted.

In use: “The dry heat created a static charge, setting cracking floofning when she petted her cat. Feeling it, he jerked up, asking with wide eyes, what are you doing to me?”

2. The immediate bonding or sense of attraction between a human and an animal, or between two animals.

In use: “Walking along the hall, line with dogs barking in cages, she saw one lab regarding her with sad eyes and felt instant floofning. Named Sunny B, she would be the dog she would adopt and take home.”

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Another Lightning Dream

Dreamed I was standing out somewhere void of particulars. I saw myself out there, alone, in clear daylight. Not details about myself emerge so far as age, but it was me. I was watching from a long way off.

Lightning struck me. I lit up as a ball of white light. Then I raised my hands and moved the light aside. When I did, I was standing in a huge desert of sand. Sequence ended.

Except watching me said, “What just happened? Was that sand?”

So the sequence was repeated, exactly the same.

Watching me said, “That is sand. It’s like a desert.”

Which it was, just like the Sahara out of the movie by that name, all dunes of wind-blown sand.

The sequence repeated, only this time, when I moved the light away, I revealed an ocean.

Watching me said, “How am I standing on an ocean?”

That’s when the dream ended.

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