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.

The Zombies Are Here

The zombies are here.

He wasn’t surprised. Not eating brains. Yet. No. Just a matter of time. Someone will probably tell them that eating brains will save them from the coronavirus or something. He wouldn’t put it past them.

He’d been expecting the zombies for a while. They’d quit thinking several years ago. Clearly were unthinking and undead, not caring about anything except themselves and the undermining of their so-called freedoms.

What else could they be but zombies? Living in such an alternative world, believing ridiculous conspiracy theories for which proof wasn’t offered. Well, okay, sometimes they tried to put up some ‘proof’ – or their idea of it – but then it was shot down. You know, like masks don’t work. Vaccines will magnetize you. The coronavirus is a hoax. No worse than the flu. There’s a secret child sex ring on Mars. Trump is still secretly POTUS. And take ivermectin for the virus that doesn’t exist, that’s no worse than the flu. Now they were trying to blame Biden for Afghanistan. Biden, who has been in office for seven months, who took office twenty years after the war in that poor country began.

Yep, the zombies are here.

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Saturday’s Theme Music

Powerful sunshine kicked in the day. I blinked against the golden warmth. “Sol. What time is it?”

“Time to raise your derriere from the dead.”

“Seriously, time.”

“Time to rise and — “

“Sol, it’s too early.”

“6:32 AM.” Sol sat, flipping rays back from his face. “It’s also Saturday, August 28, 2021, if that matters to you, the last Saturday in August.” Sol sighed. “September is next week, you know. Soon, I’ll be a wintry sun, mourning the cold land from a sad distance.”

“Not everywhere. Just up in the northern climes.”

“True.” Sol sniffed. “An advantage of being omnipresent. I’m always somewhere. Got any coffee?”

“I’ll make some.”

My slumber ended, I peed first, then shuffled into the kitchen. Cats greeted me, falling into step. The necessary feeding detour was executed. “How long are you here today, Sol?” I asked the sun as he joined me in the kitchen.

“Until 7:52 in the evening, thereabouts.” Sol perched himself on the counter. “And I’m in a hot mood. Think it’ll be ninety-five to a hundred today.”

“Ouch.”

Sol watched the coffee making. “Make it strong. I like it strong.”

“Of course.”

“I am the sun, you know.”

“Right, right, got that.”

Sol and I began channeling David Bowie music, falling back into some of his early seventies stuff as coffee brewed, basically working through a compilation album with “Diamond Dogs”, “Rebel, Rebel”, “Space Oddity”, “Changes”, and “Suffragette City”. By the time we finished our first cuppa, we were belting out “The Jean Genie”. Sol and I agreed that should be today’s theme music.

As Sol told me, stay positive — “Like me, I’m always sunny, hah!” — test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the vax. Here’s the music. Cheers

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Floofpetitive

Floofpetitive (floofinition) – 1. Action or activity persistently completed for an animal, especially a pet.

In use: “His floofpetitive routine began every morning with fresh water — two bowls — followed by the feeding of the three feline princes, and then the daily morning love session (each demanded private personal time to be petted and doted upon), and the litter box cleaning. The routine was done again in the evening.”

2. An activity or motion repeated many times by an animal.

In use: “Whenever Pam sat down, her cat jumped up on her lap and commenced floofpetitive grooming of her face and hair, often employing her paws to hold Pam’s head still.”

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A Racing Dream

A group of us — all men of various ages, builds, condition, etc. — were gathered. A tense but excited current ran through us. We were being given an opportunity to race a Formula 1 car. These were not the current cars but vintage vehicles from the eighties. All of us could attempt to qualify but only twenty-three could race. My father was encouraging me to participate. I asked if he was, too, and he said, “No. Too old,” with a laugh.

I was in my early twenties and eager for the opportunity. An overcast sky murmured, it might rain, and a cool breeze kept us shivering. The track could barely be described as one. A run-down, overgrown place, we would-be racers walked about, attempting to clean off the track a bit, kicking off gravel, twigs, and leaves, removing old, rain-sodden black branches. Several drivers seemed much larger than me. Most were older. We chatted in knots as we impatiently awaited our chance. I was more knowledgeable about F1 than others there so I asked more questions and pondered things. One older, larger care took note and started asking me for advice to help him. Each time he asked a question, I asked, making a suggestion. When he thought the suggestion didn’t help, he wanted to take it out on me. I told him, “Look, I made the suggestions but you made the decisions. Own your decisions.” That seemed to take him back.

Meanwhile, I was becoming annoyed with the organizers. I understood that we were to be given cars randomly. Okay. Then we would practice, qualify, and if we were fast enough, we’d race. Okay. But the organizers were also issuing us old racing coveralls to wear, and helmets. Shouldn’t we have a chance to pick those out ahead of time and get used to them some? Why not? In my mind, the uniforms could be important because they could be too tight and hamper our movement, you know, like shifting gears and turning the steering wheel.

I was mentioning these things to other participants. None of them could answer it, of course, so I went in search of the organizers. The dream ended.

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Friday’s Theme Music

Today is Friday, August 27, 2021. Had some issues figuring out the day yesterday. Thought it was Wednesday. Had a Wednesday vibe. My wife’s comments abetted the Wednesday vibe. But it cleared up. I’m flying right now. Because, you know, it’s important what day of the week it is…isn’t it? Well, that’s how I was raised. Chores, school, vacations, holidays, work, it’s all built on the calendar.

Sunrise was at 6:31 AM. Sunset will come at 7:53 PM. Temperatures will range into the low 80s F today. They claim that our air quality is good today – first time it’s hit that mark in weeks – but the looks and smell don’t align with a good reading. I kept the kitties in and the doors and windows closed.

I’ve been thinking about the 1900s today. Started with wars. Progressed to a pandemic. Then the dust bowl struck. Obliterated millions of acres and displaced families. Thinking of all of that due to comparisons with now. The 2000s. Started with war. Then COVID-19 struck. Half of the western U.S. is suffering drought and fire. (Might be a little hyperbole there.) Thousands are being displaced.

Also been thinking about the Rolling Stones. Of course. Watts, their drummer, passed away. Long life. I think he would say he had a good one. Better than many, for sure. His passing has prompted me to listen to Stones music. A universe of Stone songs are out there. I’ve used many favorites as theme music already. What to do? How ’bout “Living in A Ghost Town” from last year. Fits the general mood. Smoke casts a ghostly pall over my world. COVID-19 lockdowns and smoke slash unhealthy air forces cancellations. Businesses are closed or hours are reduced. Activity slumbers. Why not, right?

Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, get the vax, celebrate life, remember that it’s Friday. Time for coffee. Enjoy the music. Cheers

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Exflooftrate

Exflooftrate (floofinition) – 1. To remove oneself from an animal with stealth.

In use: “Many people fall asleep and awaken to find a favorite pet asleep with them, looking as sweet as fresh cinnamon rolls, forcing them to exflooftrate themselves so as not to disturb their slumbering fur friend.”

2. To covertly or surreptitiously move an animal, preferably without disturbing them.

In use: “The sick dog was asleep on the floor. She exflooftrated her canine friend to the bed, where a heating pad would help warm his tired, old body.”

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A Dream of Secrets

Began with my wife and I establishing a home in a new location. Part of a community, seemed to be part of an apartment complex or condo. Outside, but up in the condo (that’s what I’ll go with) (and yes, it was both things – I was inside and outside at once), I set up reaffirming our place’s boundaries. This involved setting up green wooden railings on decks. Just trying to ensure that we were living up to our agreement. There were also storage units. Did we want those? someone asked my wife, who asked me. Yes, we did, I answered. She relayed that back.

Then we were inside. She was going off on some activity. I was working. A journalist. For some reason, it was important to keep my identity and work secret, along with my marriage. My wife and I were living together as husband and wife, but it was important others didn’t know that. Don’t know why. Other women approached, observing me. Wanted to know who I am. What I was doing. I kept responses to a minimum. They peeked into my home, attempting to see more. Fortunately, they didn’t see my wife’s clothing and items. She was worried about that, but we were safe. She kept coming and going.

Meanwhile, I’m writing. Outside the place, I see others reading my previous material. I’m afraid they’ll realize it’s me. Can’t have that. One person, a male, worries me most. Younger, he seems overly interested in me. I attempt to avoid him.

People are discussing my work. They don’t know it’s my work. Then they want to know what I’m doing. What am I working on? Can’t avoid them seeing that I’m writing, so I tell them that I am writing and revising. I downplay what it is. They’re insistent and prying. I finally tell them, I’m writing and revising. This is who I am.

Dream ends.

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