Moanday’s Theme Music
6:37 Papi Standard Time. 22 degrees F. “Let me out,” the ginger floof bellows while prancing around on his tippy toes, tail up.
I walk along, explaining to the walls that it’s 22 degrees outside, too cold for Papi to go outside, but I open the door for him. Papi steps up, looks out, takes a breath, steps back. “Let’s try the front door,” Papi suggests. We do, just to satisfy him. Open-step up-breath-back in. “That’s not what I want,” Papi says. “Feed me.”
I feed him, along with Tucker, who is a savvy fellow and saw where this was going. Then I’m back to bed. See, I went through this once four hours earlier with Papi. Except he went out that time. Stayed out for almost twenty minutes before hammering the door for re-entry. He blasted through the house when I opened the door, living up to his nom de floof, Thunderpaws.
I, of course, went to the bathroom. My bladder said, since you’re up. Sure. Somewhere in there, The Neurons began singing “Lucretia MacEvil”.
Hello, Monday.
It’s January 30, 2023. 9 AM now, the temperatures has climbed the heights to 27 F. Other than the cold, it’s a fine sunny day, complete with blue sky, and frost free, too. Sunrise came at 7:26 AM and the turning away will remove sunshine from our visible range at 5:23 PM.
“Lucretia MacEvil” is a funky, brass dominated song by Blood, Sweat, and Tears, released in 1970. I have no idea why it’s circulating the morning mental music stream. I’d dreamed, yes. Women were featured, yes. But the dreams and women were all pleasant. Who knows the ways of The Neurons? Not I.
The ‘MacEvil’ part of the song’s title always puts me in mind of McDonald’s, right? I say ‘MacEvil’ and I have that little Micky D theme song follow it. I figure it must be some kind of adult meal. It’s not on the menu and you must know the code word to order it. It’s only sold to adults, and you must provide ID. Totally worth it, though, I imagine.
I have my coffee. Countdown has commenced. We’ll soon have liftoff. Stay positive. Happy Moanday. Here’s the mood music. Cheers
Floof Over Matter
Floof Over Matter (Often abbreviated as FOM or F.O.M.) (floofinition) 1. Ad hoc policy that a household or organization’s care of animals is paramount.
In use: “He planned to make some changes in the house, but they were immediately terminated because of F.O.M., as his wife said, ‘You can’t do that. It’ll upset the cats and dogs.’ He could have argued that, but they’d been married over a quarter of a century. He understood floof over matter. It was only the floofs and their health and happiness who mattered most.”
2. Magic talents used by animals to make the impossible appear to happen.
In use: “She never understood how her cat got into the places which seemed impossible. Then she read a blog post about F.O.M. — Floof Over Matter — and began to understand that animals had powers which were beyond human comprehension.”
Sunday’s Wandering Thought
My cat, Tucker, has developed a method of meowing without opening his mouth. Lately, the sound coming out sometimes sounds like he’s saying my name, “Michael. Michael.” Today, after I put food into his bowl, it sounded like he said, “Thank you.”
I’m awaiting further developments.
Shineday’s Theme Music
It’s a shiny new cold day in the thumb of Ashland, Oregon, where my house sits. 29 F with a high of 39 F projected. Sunshine slithered over the mountains and through the branches at 7:30-ish this morning, but its rays didn’t strike any of our windowpanes until over an hour later. That’s the nature of the angles and impediments to the sunshine at this period of year.
Today is Sunday, January 29, 2023. Just two shopping days left until February pounces on us. They told us we’d have rain yesterday; never saw or heard any. Then they mentioned snow. Should start at 10 PM. No, make that after midnight, Sunday morning, really. Saw none of that the few times I glanced out the window. I thought, maybe they got their Sundays confused. Easy to do almost any time of year, but especially winter, when little is growing. The days appear the same because markings aren’t there to mark any changes. We just keep warm and wait for the shift to begin at our house.
Reading books and news and pondering generalities, The Neurons decided to entertain me with “Lunatic Fringe” by Red Rider from 1981. It’s circulating around the morning mental music stream, bobbing in and out of conscious thought. The song is about the rise of antisemitism which the songwriter, Tom Cochrane, noticed in the late 1970s. Here we are, almost fifty years later, and we were are again, dealing with antisemitism on the rise. It’s a defiant song.
Lunatic fringe In the twilight's last gleaming But this is open season But you won't get too far 'Cause you've got to blame someone For your own confusion We're on guard this time (on guard this time) Against your final solution
h/t to Lyrics.com
The blessed smell entertaining my nose tells me my coffee is brewed. So off I go. Stay positive, as best as you can. We know it’s a sliding scale, spectrum of relativity. Here is the song. Enjoy.
Cheers
Sat’day’s Theme Music
Read enough news this morning to irritate me for a month of Saturdays. Do videos help? Sure, the truth emerges. Man, though, the truth gets ugly. Of course, some dismiss the videos and dismiss the truth and the ugliness. Turn away, pretend it’s not there or didn’t happen, or rationalize why it happened. I’m sure you know the score.
We’re on the cusp of a new month of the new year. How long can we call 2023 ‘the new year’. At what point does it just become the year?
So far, there hasn’t been much change in 2023 over what was happening in 2022. Is the U.S., is the world, heading in the right direction? It reminds me that calendar notations like years and months are convenient for record keeping. The periods of changes and shifts, rise and fall, define themselves. We just use the calendar to remind ourselves what happened when. Think about if we lacked calendars and what it would be like to refer to the past without one.
Anyway, it is Saturday, January 28, 2023. Heard a little girl call it Sat’day in a store yesterday. Dad corrected her, “Sat-ur-day.” She seemed about five years old. She and her father were chatting and shopping. I assume it was her father. She called him daddy. “Daddy, can we get some fish? I think I would love some fish.” I was looking for miso paste. Never did find any.
Sunrise today came in at 7:30ish. Cloudy conditions marred the viewing. Some blue is squatting to the northwest but we’ve been warned, gonna rain at 4 PM and then snow at 8 PM. Not much of either on this day. It’s trending toward being a cold day, especially with the sun’s mitigating effects being squashed. It’s 38 degrees F at my house, reaching for a high of 40.
The big chill is on its way, arriving a few days earlier than they originally thought. But it’s not as bad as initially forecast, with lows dropping to 23 tonight.
I have Devo with their 1980 new wave song, “Whip It”, in the morning mental stream. It’s all about, “Crack that whip.” “Move ahead. It’s not too late. To whip it. Whip it good.” Those might not be the lyrics but it is how I remember them. All about working harder, but in a satirical manner. I’m trying to whip my novel into shape. I cracked the whip but the pages didn’t change at all. The computer was pretty pissed about being whipped, urging me, “For cryin’ out loud, print it out and whip it.” Which made sense.
That expression, “For cryin’ out loud”, is one that Mom often used while growing up. I asked her, what does that mean? She responded, “It just means I’m exasperated.” But why? Why those words? Along with, “Oh, for goodness’s sake.”
Alright, got coffee. Got to power up and get a move on. Those expressions, I understand. Stay positive. Hope you understand. To a happy Saturday and some kinda change. Here’s the tune. Cheers
The Running Dream
A young man once again in my dream, thirty-something, I was staying at a sprawling hotel, enjoying a reunion with friends. Suite doors were open, and we were freely intermingling, chatting, drinking, eating, whatever moved you at the moment. Coming into one unit, four RL friends, military officers not seen in over thirty years, told me they were going for a run and asked me to come along.
Well, I protested, I’m not in running gear and I have nothing suitable to wear. Another old friend came up with something, though, so I agreed to go running. The newcomer was going to, so he waited for me to change. The others, meanwhile, jogged away. As I continued changing, the other guy announced he was going to start running now, too, because he didn’t want to fall too far behind. “Go on,” I answered. “I’ll catch up.”
I was almost done changing by then, and I started jogging a just a few seconds after he began. I caught him quickly.
We were running outside but on the cement balcony that connected our rooms, which were located on the inside of a courtyard. As we ran, we frequently had to dodge non-runners, people go in and out of rooms or standing and chatting or eating. I saw many friends among them.
We were catching the others, but I was impatient with the slow pace. When the opportunity came, I surged forward. Catching the first four easily, I went around them and set out at a faster speed. They laughed, shouting that I was a showoff and predicting that I’d soon tired out. But I found the running invigorating. As I rounded a corner and turned right, I saw a long, straight stretch empty of people, and pressed myself into a higher gear. I was almost flat our sprinting. People were talking about this and watching.
Sweat plastered my hair down and slathered my face. My breathing was hard. The running felt good, so I decided to run as fast and hard and long as I could. Entering into an all-out sprint with others cheering for me, I finished a lap and caught the first running group and passed them. I felt that I couldn’t go much longer and slowed, but then told himself, no, you’re not done, you have more, and forced myself into a max sprint again. I managed to complete another lap as the others stopped and returned to the room where we started. As I finished a third lap, drenched in sweat and cheered on by almost everyone, my original four friends shouted, “Stop running, you show off. It’s time to eat.”
I ran into the room and stopped. Talking about how much I was sweating, they were laughing. Others came in and urged me, take a shower, but someone pressed a plate of food on me, saying, “I made this for you. Eat.”
I started eating. Dream end.
Michael Seidel, writer 