I feel like I’m on the edge. See, I’ve been writing a novel manuscript. Almost at the end, confrontations are underway. It’s tense and violent. I don’t want to stop writing, but —
Yes, life is littered with buts, those interruptions to intents and purposes. Several buts are engaging me. First, honestly, is my derriere, aka, my butt. I’ve been sitting and typing for about 80 minutes straight, and my butt is crying, “Up, damn you, up. Give me a break.” It’s classic writer’s butt.
My stomach is also complaining that it’s been too long since food was introduced to my mouth. And my coffee is cold. Just two swallows remain.
A war, then, is raging between the Writing Neurons and the Practical Neurons. The Writers want to stay and keep writing. “Damn it, man, you’re on a roll. Don’t stop now.” But the Practicals are urging, “Go get food. Run errands. Get other things done.”
The final piece of it all is time, though. Time is the empress. Much as I want to keep writing, I have real-world commitments to fulfill. So how do I feel?
Well, resigned to the inevitable brought on by the buts.
My wife exercises three mornings a week at the local Y. I’m typically abed, reviewing dreams, when she leaves. She normally comes by to say good-bye. I generally wave a foot or hand in acknowledgement.
Well, today, I was buried in sleep and didn’t respond to her. I got up and did all my usual things. As I finished dressing, I heard her arrive home. I didn’t go out and say hello, as I had something going on in my head.
Coming down the hall, she called, “Where are you?”
I didn’t answer but I walked around to meet her. She said with real relief, “Oh, thank God. I saw your car in the garage. Then I didn’t see or hear you anywhere. You didn’t give me a wave when I left this morning. I thought, oh, no, he died and I didn’t notice.”
We laughed but I had to note, “You are such an optimist.”
Chill morning it is on 29 August, 2025, Frida. 59 F at my house. Worry not: blue sky mildly scored with white haze and a climbing sun promise we’ll be in the 90s F before the sun finishes its daily mission.
We went a-bluesing last night. A place called Revolution Wine Co. hosted a blues group called The Brisbane Project.
“Where’s that?” my wife asked.
“Who are they?” I asked.
Someone had dropped the info on my Facey page. Research was chased. Puzzlement ensued. “Revolution seems to be down on the corner of A and Oak,” I said. My wife and I hadn’t been to that area in yonks. We reminisced about the location and what used to be there. ‘Used to be’ are some of our favorite words. We also talked about Brisbane and Revolution to friends. None were familiar with either. We talked about it, bought $10 tickets, and headed to the show. Well, BP did an awesome job. The power trio offered us some excellent ZZ Top, Stevie Ray Vaughn, BB King covers, among others, along with some original, impressive blues tunes. Running from 6:30 to 9:00 in the P, this was well-spent time. Most noteworthy covers were “Voodoo Chile”, “Jesus Left Chicago”, and “La Grange”.
As Papi and I checked out the stars last night, we agreed that today should be a blues day. Something to shake our souls. The Neurons stayed rarely mute on the subject. After some shame casting, they finally brought up Beth Hart and Joe Bonamassa into the morning mental music stream with “I Wanna Know You”.
Gritting my teeth now, I note that our ‘august President’ is at it again. The man, one Donald J. Trump, can’t help but lie and crow with imaginary success. His brain-dead sycophants don’t help by showing him with adulation. They love to claim that he’s the most amazing, beautiful, healthy, and wonderful president ever. Logic, facts, history, truth — things that are MAGA and GOP Kryptonite — prove that’s Trump is none of the things they say. Doesn’t stop any of them. In his latest ‘gaffe’, as the press politely labels them, Trump claimed to stop ten wars. While unable to name them all, he did give birth to a nation, The Republic of Condo. Dunce Donald kept on with it though, undeterred by the stunned gazes on people listening to him, because nobody ever tells Donald the truth. He goes on the attack when they do, firing people for presenting correct information, calling the people and their questions nasty and ugly, and generally verbally assaulting and bullying them. His admirers think that makes him ‘strong’. We know it reveals that he’s an insecure coward.
On the 20th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina’s appalling destruction of New Orleans, another news outlet reports about the Trump Regime’s cuts to programs which provide data critical to weather forecasting. As we see too often, PINO Trump thinks he’s taking the nation a step forward while leaping backward. ‘Drastic’: Life-saving California weather forecast data is about to disappear. It’s like claiming you’re saving money by leaving doors and windows off your house. You might save a dollar now, but such short-sighted moves cost magnitudes more later.
Hope peace and grace find their way to you. Coffee is providing The Neurons a pep talk as I type. Time to go crack this egg. Cheers
Today is Thirstda, August 28, 2025. We awoke to a pleasant 65 F. A cloud regatta keeps the sky from being blue and free. 96 F is expected today.
After dreaming about having a new kitten, I got up and faced a new challenge: remembering who was in the Partridge Family. The Patridge Family was an American pop singing group and television sitcom.
I owe this AM conundrum to an exchange during Mexican Train on Saturday night. Someone said something about getting happy. It was late. We were giddy by then. That’s when we have the most fun. Usually, we play off words and sing songs. Hilarity ensues. But in parallel, we’d been pursuing 1960s pop culture trivia. I asked our group, “Who sang, ‘Come On, Get Happy’?” None remembered the song, forcing me to sing it. None still remembered, so I played found a Youtube video of it. Now I pass it on to you.
Except, The Neurons were hijacked by The Go-Go’s, “Our Lips Are Sealed”. That video followed the other. I found the 1981 offering more interesting. I remember watching that video in some club on Okinawa, where I was assigned to Kadena Air Base from May of 81 through the end of 84.
My wife and I mentioned the Mexican Train game to multiple people. Many were familiar with it. One friend said she hated it but never explained why. She’s a very controlling individual who likes order, so I suspect the game’s chaos might annoy her. That’s just my suspicion and I really want to hear her explanation.
One thing that’s offered here in Ashland is lithium water. One can drink it straight out of the fountain at Lithia Park’s entrance. I mention this because we discussed the value of lithium in treating dementia last night. One individual said, “All we need to do is take a sip out of the fountain every day.” Another responded, “But that water tastes like wet farts.”
I read an excellent Mother Jones article today: The Brain Rot Cabinet. As the article points out, Trump’s cabinet are deeply invested in wild and unproven conspiracies. What’s important to Trump is that they share his values and are obedient lapdogs. They will do nothing good for the nation nor the world. Meanwhile, all those of us still anchored to reality can do is grit our teeth and resist.
Representative Ashley Hinson (Iowa, MAGA) got an earful when she tried convincing her constituents that the Big Beautiful Bill was wonderful, claiming it raised wages and improved the cost of living. We the People in Iowa weren’t having it. According to an article in The New Republic (via Yahoo), people shouted back objections.
“Higher wages?” shouted one woman incredulously. “For who? For you?”
“Cost of living is higher than it’s ever been,” another woman said.
“You are a fraud,” a constituent shouted at her at the time.
I only hope more wake up, stand up, shout back, fight back, and resist.
Coffee has made a controlled landing into my system once again. I hope peace and grace shadows you in all your endeavors today. Here we go, one more time. Cheers
First, I’ll tell you about my typical summer wardrobe.
But first, a side path.
The side path is that I suffer from edema. Maybe it’s the lymphatic flavor. Medicos are out about the source and cause. Addressing it means I wear knee-high support hose. They work, help, however you want to put it. However, I’m a vain guy and don’t want to be seen wearing them outdoors.
My standard summer clothing choice since I was a small child are short pants, or shorts. I’m not going out in them while wearing my support house. I’ve seen folks out there in that combo. I admire their courage. Did I mention that I’m vain?
All this means I had a new challenge: what to wear when the sunshine and air conspire to push temperatures into the 80s, 90s, and 100s, as happens here in Ashlandia in the months between May and October. Jeans do not work for me. They feel hot, sweaty, and constricting.
My wife said, “You should wear joggers.”
Suspicions roused themselves. What was that? Joggers? I know what they are. I’ve seen young people in them. And women wear them. I’m not a young person or a woman. However…
I began sniffing around joggers. Looking for garments which will meet my needs. There are men’s joggers out there, but they often lack pockets. I like having pockets, especially those of the pouch type on my front thigh, where I can safely and comfortably deposit my wallet.
My search culminated at Costco. There, as if in answer to my hopes, were Wrangler Men’s Tech Pants. Made of synthetics, they met all my other needs, and were priced to move at $22. I put them into the cart and tried them on at home.
They fit. They’re comfortable. And they look good without attracting attention. I am not fond of attraction.
After wearing the black ones for a few days, I purchased them in grey and khaki. My vanity is appeased, and my wife is pleased with my appearance. All in all, a small win-win for me.
Donald Trump’s hand, and his secret shame, where Jeffrey Epstein keeps showing up. “Out, out, damn spot,” Trump has been heard to shout with a mouth full of burger.
Today’s music was almost “Smoke on the Water”. After a day that peaked at 93 F, clouds swollen with thunder and lightning climbed over the mountains to fill our valley last night. At one point, smoke coiled out from the pass north of us and hustled down the street, congregating in the valley like a well-organized demonstration. After a recce, I came in and told my wife, “It sounds like the drum section of a drum and bugle corps is marching down the street.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand what that means.”
“It means there’s a lot of thunder out there. Sounds like drumming.”
“Oh. I got you.”
The smoke surrendered, though. I never did learn a source.
Today is Wenzda, August 27, 2025. 84 F, a hazy blue sky hosts lurking cumulo thingies. Gonna get to the mid 90s F again. Thunderstorms are on the menu, but they sometimes run out before their time here. We’ll see how it flows.
Papi the ginger master of all he surveys doesn’t appreciate thunderstorms. They’re loud and ominous. He goes into the master bath to outwait them. After their passing, he heads back out to his floofdom. A bit south of midnight, cat singing commences. I go out to see Papi chatting up a black and white tux. The tux is dismissive of Papi. I’ve seen this one before. They weren’t real concerned. I asked, “What’s your name?”
That suggested a song to The Neurons. “What’s Your Name”, a 1977 southern rocker by Lynyrd Skynyrd, was pushed into the morning mental music stream. I protested to Les Neurons that the song refers to a ‘little girl’ who is a groupie. This tux was not anyone’s groupie. Being as obstinate as granite, The Neurons dismissed this objection faster than the Roberts Court rules in favor of the Trump Regime.
I’m encouraged by arguments rising out of Iowa. Democrat Catelin Drey defeated a Republican by 10 points in a state legislative contest. Okay, good news, but it’s too early for me to celebrate its significance too much. Trump still rules MAGALand and can do no wrong in their estimate. Much of what he’s doing, declaring that he’s the president and can do whatever he wants, is gut-wrenching to hear. Checking polls, many GOPers are quite happy with his declaration, continuing to support and cheer him on.
Meanwhile, much of his activities reminds me of the U.S.S.R. under Joe Stalin. Stalin’s means of governing involved one party and a police state. Stalin established purges based on his declarations that those he purged were ‘enemies of the state’ and ethnic cleansing through deportations. Any of this beginning to ring any bells when thinking about Trump’s efforts to control the media, imprison enemies, send the national guard out as a police force, and ICE disappearing people off the streets?
MAGAs and the GOP will never recognize or acknowledge any of this for the most part. They’re firmly in the ‘means justifies the ends’ corner, even if that means disavowing all the principles, tenets, and checks and balances our founders established when the United States became a nation. What is also distressing is listening and watching while so much of the established media downplays events. It seems like they fear Trump’s retribution to the point that they’re making themselves more and more irrelevant.
Well, coffee has arrived in the system. I hope peace and grace gang up and reward you with a beautiful day. Time to go write like crazy, at least one. More. Time. Cheers
I am a known coffee-shop regular. The manager gives me a wave and a grin as she deals with the guard picking up the previous week’s take. I put in a fake order, an oat-milk iced siracha dusted with chocolate. The barista laughs. My usual order already awaits me at the pickup station despite five people in line ahead of me.
My favorite corner table is available. I’m soon in the writing realm, pretending to be a famous novelist. Habib approaches, bag in hand. “Michael? Cinnamon.” I don’t catch the other words as a wave of sound takes them out to sea.
I know it’s not mine. But I know another Michael is here. He’s one of five other regular Michaels I see coming through.
“No, it’s Michael’s,” I tell Habib, pointing out the other Michael. The other Michael waves and then gives me a thumbs up. Habib pivots his way.
Michael Seidel, writer 