I suffered from writer’s block this past week. Yes, it’s real. Writer’s block exists. And it affected me.
I traveled with my wife to Pennsylvania to see Mom and celebrate her 90 natal day celebration and see family last week. I thought I’d write on the side. But no. Each time I sat down to write, my phone would ping with a text or ring with a call. I love ’em, of course, and was happy to do whatever favor was being asked, and appreciated getting updates, but The Writing Neurons were not as accepting.
Even on the flights, I had writer’s block. I pulled out my computer. Set it up. Began writing and typing.
Tap, tap, tap.
Wife: “How do I turn the volume up?”
Tap, tap, tap.
Wife: “I can’t get my tray up.”
Tap, tap, tap.
Wife: “Can you open this bottle for me?”
Tap, tap, tap.
Flight attendant: “Would you like more wine, sir?”
Yes, I know, I’m really stretching the complaining envelope here.
It’s good to be back in my cossetted, coveted writing routine. The Writing Neurons had become manic about getting more of the novel-in-progress written, pinging me via the headnet with new insights and plot points.
Now, time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
I encountered two hotel trends which displease me during my recent travels. Yes, here is your warning: this is a first world rant.
When I was making reservations, I specifically sought a place with a bathing tub. The hotel said they have tubs. My wife has medical issues, and a hot soak in a tub helps alleviate many symptoms.
Guess what the hotel didn’t have when we checked in our room? Yeah, no bathtub. I spoke to them about it. Can we move to a room with a bathtub? Alas, only one room in the hotel’s entire offering has a bathtub.
Say whaaaat?
That hotel, the Courtyard by Marriott, told us we needed to change rooms. They’d made an error. The entire second floor had been promised to another party. We could stay in the room but not use the elevator. Whaaat? So, we left that hotel and moved into the Hampton Inns.
It was much better. Guess what the room didn’t have? Yep, no bathtub. The hotel only has one room with a tub.
Whaaat?
My wife and I had already been aware of this trend toward showers only in hotels. This was the first time it slammed us directly in the face.
I will predict that as this trend spreads, a counter trend will kick up: we have bathtubs! They’ll be advertising the presence of tubs as they once boasted of air conditioning, cable TV, HBO, and free Wifi. Time will tell, of course.
The other disturbing trend was the lack of a ventilation fan in the bathroom. There’s no switch to throw to circulate the air, help clear the air when the room is steamy, or, ahem, help us cope with body functions, if you know what I mean.
According to brief research (I queried search engines), the reasoning behind this: reduce costs. Aesthetics.
Twozda, November 4, 2025, has pounced on us like a kitten hunting a leaf. 51 F in Ashlandia, rain clouds hide the sun. Rain is expected to visit off and on throughout the day. More leaves are surrendering to time, filling the ground with fading, decaying colors.
Mom continues to be lively back in Pennsylvania, according to sis. Which is thought by all of us to be good. Thought I’d share this photo of her from her 90th birthday. Yes, that’s a kitchen knife in her hand.
Mom, 90 birthday celebration, October, 2025
Today’s music is owed to a dream. This was one of those long, movie-like dreams my mind spins to entertain me while I slip. In this one, I was part of a group of young people. We’d found some books, then realized there was significance to the books, and then, ‘lo, a book was missing. We knew who collected the books, so we thought we’d recreate the journey he took to collect the books. Maybe that would reveal the missing book. We were traveling by train and car mostly, and yes, the travel took us behind the old ‘Iron Curtain’ into previous nations controlled by the Soviet Union. There was romance and comedy along with suspense. It reminded me of the 1980s Dabney Coleman film, Cloak & Dagger.
Anyway, my amused reflection of the dream triggered The Neurons into offering songs about spies in the morning mental music stream. After considering different music, The Neurons concluded that Carly Simon and “Nobody Does It Better” is the best choice.
Dick Cheney died. I was surprised. Thought he’d died in the 1990s. I knew he’d been re-animated to be Veep under Dubya, but I thought that spell wore off once he was removed from office. He was only 84, which also surprised me because he often seemed very old. The tributes will pour in for him. They’ll gloss over what he did to help forge a path to our current mess and speak of his service to the nation. Few will mention how extremely wealthy and powerful he became as part of that service. He did speak out against Trump in the 2024 elections and endorsed Kamela Harris. Just noting that.
Speaking of Trump, the Trump created Epstein Government Shutdown of 2025 rolls on. As someone else predicted, Trump became TACO and yielded somewhat on SNAP. Judges ruled that he must pay it but I think it’s most likely he’s doing it due to voters turning against MAGA politicians who worried about losing their seats, which might lead to the House flipping in 2026. Like others, I think Stephen Miller strongly influences Trump, and that having people die from starvation, even if in red states, is okay with the Regime. Death from starvation will make people more desperate and pliable, is their reasoning. That reasoning then goes, those folks will be willing to work for lower wages and can probably be pressed into service doing jobs that migrant workers used to do. Yes, the Trump Regime is trying to create a class of low-wage slave labor, like we had in ‘the good old days’, and thus help ‘make Amurica great again’. Sickening. Bet Epstein is smirking down on Trump, or up on him, depending on your thoughts about the afterlife.
In a Truth Social post, Trump said Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program benefits “will be given only when the Radical Left Democrats open up government, which they can easily do, and not before!”
There’s the TACO we know! Breaking the law, breaking the law. Not taking responsibility. Blaming someone else, as he always does. And screwing We the People.
Analysis I’ve read said that not paying SNAP will disproportionately affect his beloved MAGA base. Of course, in Trump’s altered reality, SNAP recipients are all scammers, people illegally in the United States, or people on drugs. The Trump Regime dismisses the idea that income-challenged families and individuals, the disabled, and children depend on SNAP. That administration is deliberately, maliciously, and dangerously warped.
Off I go. Hope grace and peace spring out from their hiding places and embrace us all. Till then, I’ll coffee up. Cheers
Flooftronage(floofinition) – The support or influence of an animal honored, chosen, or named as a special protector, supporter, or guardian. Origins: 1707, from The Book of Floofs & Other Mysteries.
In Use: “Bogart’s flooftronage was apparent the first day Megan was brought home, approving her with a thorough sniffing, warming the infant with his furry body, attentive to every cry and motion she made, ready to defend her against the world and oversee her upbreaking.”
I have been reminded of how privileged I am. How easily I succumb to convenience.
I’m back in my regular drive. Mazda CX-5. Nothing fancy, we’ve had it for ten years. It’s packed 64,000 miles around its waist. The thing about this, though, are the automatic creature comfort features. And the key.
When we were visiting family in the Pittsburgh, PA, region, we trundled around in an older Toyota RAV4. Fine car but nothing special. But it lacked things like a key FOB that let me unlock doors just by pressing a button as I walked up to the car. The FOB permits me to start the Mazda without taking the key out of my pocket.
Man, did I miss that. I ended up putting the RAV4 keys in and out, out and in of pockets multiple times across the day. Oh, the horrors, right? But see, this is a matter of connections. With the FOB, I stick it in my left pants pocket and leave it there. With this RAV4 key, I was constantly putting it into a pocket or setting it down somewhere and then asking myself, where is that fucking key?
Wife and I approach car. It’s cold. About 40 F. Gray, with a light drizzle falling.
ME: “Wait.”
“What?”
“I can’t find the key.”
Wife stands, stares, waiting, not tapping her foot but looking like she’s on the verge.
Pockets are patted and felt, squeezed, then reached into it. “Here it is.”
My wife’s restrained look called me IDIOT so loudly, it hurt my brain.
One time I got out of the car to put gas into it. When I returned, it’s like, OMG, where is that damn key? Pat pockets again and again, dive into them…”Oh, here it is.” Damn it.
It was one of those big, long keys on a clunky handle. The key itself could be swung close to make it ‘more compact’. That was good because otherwise that thing gets caught on clothing. You press a button to flick it out, like a switchblade knife. This all required additional thinking about what I was doing, soaking up Neurons’ limited attention.
Me: “Where’s the key?”
Neurons: “We don’t know.”
Me, looking around and feeling pockets. “No one knows?”
Neurons: “We weren’t pay attention.”
Me: “Here it is.”
The button is clicked. The long key extends. I unlock the door. Put the key back into pocket. Get into car. Go to start it by putting my foot on the brake and pressing a button. The button is missing.
Neurons: “Dude, what are you doing?”
Me: “Trying to start the car.”
“You need the key. You must put it in the ignition and turn it.”
“Oh, yeah. Where’s the key?”
Neurons: “We don’t know.”
Thank tech that I’m back home where I just stick the FOB into my pocket and forget it.
A thin grey cloud layer is sliding in. Eastern sunshine sings off the dwindling golden leaves hanging on the neighborhood trees. Autumn has a firm grip on Munda, November 3, 2025, in Ashlandia. 50 F, showers are going to visit amid an attempt to reach 62 F.
Sis made stuffed green peppers with the final harvest from her garden. The peppers were smallish, she said. Gave two to Mom with mashed taters. Mom ate one pepper and all of her potatoes, so she was rewarded with a cookie for dessert. Mom has been sharper, and sis, conversing with Mom, reports that Mom barely recalls what happened in the week in which Frank died. Mom acknowledged to several of us that it was a deeper shock than she realized. I think she’s happy to be out of the house where she and Frank spent more than twenty years together between their dating and living arrangements. I know from losses that every look around a corner and usual routine delivers a stab of painful realization about the loss. I’m like Mom so I believe that’s what she was feeling. And that pattern rocks emotions and disrupts focus. Prying her from her home was a good move. I think Mom even is beginning to realize that.
Sis is talking about putting a stair glide in her house for Mom. Sis’s house is a split level. Mom is in the lower level. A stair glide would provide her with more independence. While true, I worry that more independence and movement will also provide Mom with more falling opportunities. Fingers crossed, I’m wrong if the stair glide is installed.
Today’s theme music is “Blue Monday” by New Order. You must address questions about it to The Neurons. I was minding my own business as I went about the biznez of breakfast when The Neurons put it into the morning mental music stream. Here’s the part that was bumping through the MMMS.
How does it feel To treat me like you do? When you’ve laid your hands upon me And told me who you are?
I thought I was mistaken I thought I heard your words Tell me, how do I feel? Tell me now, how do I feel?
Those who came before me Lived through their vocations From the past until completion They’ll turn away no more
h/t to Bing.
Been a full month since the Trump Epstein Shutdown of 2025 began, hasn’t it? Sure, started October 1, 2025, didn’t it? Trump has been too busy golfing and partying to end this shutdown. It’s like he’s channeling the spirit of his old smirking partner, Jeffrey Epstein.
I mean, problems start from the top and they have to get solved from the top. And the president’s the leader and he’s got to get everybody in a room and he’s got to lead. And he doesn’t do that. He doesn’t like doing that. That’s not his strength.
Like a stopped clock, Trump is right: the problems of this country start with him. He’s not a leader. It’s not his strength. He can’t even get everybody in a room.
I read about Trump complaining about the NFL’s revised kickoff rules introduced last season.
“I HATE WATCHING THE NFL’S NEW KICK OFF RULE,” Trump wrote.
“IT’S RIDICULOUS — TAKES THE PAGEANTRY AND GLAMOUR AWAY FROM THE GAME, AND DOES NOTHING FOR SAFETY.
“THEY SHOULD CHANGE BACK TO WHAT IT USED TO BE. HOPEFULLY COLLEGE FOOTBALL WILL NEVER MAKE THIS RIDICULOUS CHANGE! IN THE MEANTIME, I’M GETTING READY TO WATCH PRESIDENT DONALD J. TRUMP (ME!) ON 60 MINUTES.”
Well, one, it’s RIDICULOUS HOW HE TYPES IN ALL CAPS. Two, if it’s so offensive, turn it off. As I did you, on 60 Minutes.
Does Trump have a point about the NFL kickoff rules. Well, I bow to his extensive football career.
Donald J. Trump football record by position, including regular and post season, professional, amateur and coaching, by year and results.
(This space intentionally left blank)
It compares favorably with his RIDICULOUS MILITARY SERVICE RECORD, doesn’t it?
Bone spurs – did not serve
Bone spurs – did not serve
Bone spurs – did not serve
Bone spurs – did not serve
Bone spurs – did not serve
Very impressive.
Gotta go on to other things. Watching for peace and grace’s arrival through the front window. Should be here any minute now. I’ll just have some coffee while I wait. Cheers
Rattlefloof (floofinition) – An animal who behaves in a flighty or silly manner. Origins: 1707, from The Book of Floofs & Other Mysteries.
In Use: “Just as the house settled for a quiet post-dinner reading and talking, the rattlefloof known as Digit galloped into the room, leaping over tables and chairs and non-stop talking before sprinting away with the sound of claws scrambling for traction on the hardwood floor.”
Suzanne’s post about her phone trying to … Well, I don’t want to spoil it. Her post had me laughing with sufficient joy that I had to share it with my wife. Partly it’s because Suzanne is a wonderful writer and this is hilarious, but also because we’ve experienced these things with our phones and Alexa and other computer and technology that’s supposed to be helpful but often seems to be messing with us. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
November 2, 2025, has taken hold. It firmly established that today’s season is autumn. Golden leaves are becoming golden brown leaf drifts. Naked branches shiver with the wind. 45 F now, worry not because today’s high will zoom to 57 F. Must say, yesterday’s 68 felt like a faux offering.
We lit a candle for Steve at 5 PM yesterday, per his widow’s request. That flame called to mind Frank, but also Chuck. Chuck is Bonnie’s hubby. I met him but twice, I think. Now he’s into hospice. Mom, meanwhile, has bounced back in a strong way. Physical therapy is being scheduled. This is Mom’s way, to bounce back, gain confidence and strength, only to be zapped by some new fall, injury, or organ issue. Been going on for a decade. Each time she bottoms out, it’s a little deeper, and the crawl out is slower and more energy consuming. We talked together about an actor dying when they were 100, June Lockhart. Mom said, “I don’t think I’ll get anywhere near that,” with glum introspection.
Today’s music is another gift of The Neurons. “I Wouldn’t Want to Be Like You” is a 1977 Alan Parsons Project creation. The song popped up in the morning mental music stream as I read about Trumpy’s Halloween gala, the one thrown while so many sink deeper into food insecurity.
If I had a mind to I wouldn’t want to think like you And if I had time to I wouldn’t want to talk to you
I don’t care What you do I wouldn’t want to be like you
If I was high class I wouldn’t need a buck to pass And if I was a fall guy I wouldn’t need no alibi
I don’t care What you do I wouldn’t want to be like you
Back on the bottom line Diggin’ for a lousy dime If I hit a mother lode I’d cover anything that showed
I don’t care What you do I wouldn’t want to be like you
I did a glance of the news. Did Trump recall the time he landed on the moon? He was the first one there, took the first steps for man, “Beautiful steps,” he said, “everyone told me they were the most perfect steps. They couldn’t believe how perfect they are.”
I imagine that somewhere in Trump’s altered reality, he’s a great friend to people of color and a champion to the poor. Bet he remembers marching across the bridge and standing for integration at Selma. Bet he recalls a time when he landed at Normandy and fought the Germans, who, he thought, “Were pretty good guys, really, just working hard, doing their jobs.” Trump believes with a glint of teary eyes, he is as persecuted as Jesus, nailed to a cross. Then he wipes the tears away, visits his new cold, black and white, dull, creativity-empty bathroom, beaming at its wonderful hard angles and linear symmetry, and then goes out and golfs, because he deserves a break. MAGAts everywhere breathlessly applaud, then hurry to buy meat before the prices go up, happy they have an extra freezer to store it because it’s gonna get pricy, they’ve heard the fake news, scowling at the homeless, stepping around the poor, reminding themselves to clean the house, because cleanliness is next to godliness.
Meanwhile, is that Epstein in the clouds, smirking at Trump, remembering how they used to run together, shaking his head with a laugh and whispering, “Oh, that Donnie. He never changes. He just gets more Donnie.” Perhaps someday they’ll meet and Trump will regale Epstein with details about how he starved the poor during the Great Epstein Government Shutdown of 2025. “You should’ve seen them, Jeffie,” Trump says, then launches into a mocking imitation of a person begging for food. “Please, we’re starving.” The two bodies shake with merriment.
Hope grace and peace find us today and every day. Even for just a nano. Coffee has found me and is shaking hands with some Neurons, making plans. I’m sure they’ll let me know what’s going on in a little bit. Cheers
Head down, I’m bulling through the story, editing to find the thread and resume my novel writing. I look up to see a man watching me. He delivers a sharp head nod. “Hello.”
I nod back. Smile.
He says, “You were on our flight last night.” He nods toward a blonde woman. Yes, I do recognize them now that they’ve revealed themselves.
“Yes,” I answer, trying to come into the moment.
They’re dressed in costumes. He is a plug. She’s a double outlet. I love it. They wish me happy Halloween and leave.
Then, ’bout an hour later…in come another man and woman.
“Hi,” she says, smiling, nodding. “You were on our flight last night.”
Shivers of deja vu had their way with me. It feels weird to be recognized and remembered like that, twice. I keep thinking, what did I do that made others notice? Drooling while I slept?
Michael Seidel, writer 