My spouse is a fignatic, a figinista, a fan of high magnitude of figs. She loves figs. Through her, I’ve come to enjoy them. Knowing this, a friend has been supplying us with figs. I snapped this photo Wenzda; we have three bowls of figs like this. Or had, as we’ve eaten a few.
This is the second go round from this fig supplier. These are huge beauties. So delicious, so nutritious, and a good source for calcium, potassium, vitamins C, A, K, and B6. We just eat them rare, although I’m cautious, as they’re high in oxalates, and can cause kidney stones. I already have that issue.
Figs been hard to come by at the stores and have become expensive. The last pint we purchased was $11 and had five small figs. None were in good shape, so my friend’s largesse is happily accepted.
I was sitting on the porcelain can taking care of needed business but also reading S.A. Cosby because I like multi-tasking when a new aspect of the novel in process came in. Had nohing to do with what I was reading; my novels don’t run in the same genre as Cosby’s offerings.
But Cosby offers sharp, fresh writing and twisty plots. It awakens and stimulates the Writing Neurons. They come out and start playing. And suddenly the tale I’m working on has a new facet to be introduced. It emerged from one sentence, one word, really. And I said to myself, that’s something I should put into that scene I wrote yesterday. Then, bing, the rest flowered fast.
The work week is at its end. That’s what we used to call the Monday to Friday gig. Don’t know if that’s still the handle.
Yes, today is Frida, July 18, 2025. Today in Ashlandia, we’re at 73 F and expect a high of 95 F under skies that go on forever blue and steady sunshine.
More sucky news fills the cyber pages. I’m one who prefers to skim the net and read the news rather than turning to streaming or OTA tv. A news piece touched me with serendipity. From the 1440 Daily Digest was a summary of a new procedure to reduce disorders in newborns.
Mitochondrial disorders, affecting about 1 in 5,000 births, are transmitted via the mother and can cause vision loss, diabetes, and heart issues. Six of the eight babies showed a 95% to 100% drop in mutated mitochondrial DNA, while two showed reductions between 77% and 88%. All eight remain healthy; one experienced and recovered from an irregular heartbeat.
I had read the news elsewhere before. On the same day that I read the news, Jill Dennison shared the song, “In The Year 2525” from 1969. One stanza struck me from the song in connection with this news:
In the year 6565 Ain’t gonna need no husband, won’t need no wife You’ll pick your son, pick your daughter too From the bottom of a long glass tube, whoa
I guess my point is that I have always felt that’s the general direction we’ve been headed: manufactured people, whether it’s through cloning or genetic manipulation, or some other technology. I always think there will be dire unforeseen and unintended consequences. Time will tell, right?
My morning mental music stream music is much lighter than that other song. “Take the Money and Run” by the Steve Miller Band, is a 1976 offering about robbery and murder, but with a peppy pop beat. I’s about whims and things that go wrong, and how the consequences. A detective chased them and they remained on the run forever. But to me, the song was always about opportunistic criminals, like those populating the current GOP. Do what you can and need to get yours and screw all others. Yeah, you knew I’d turn this political. LOL. That’s me. At least, that’s why I think The Neurons put it in the morning mental music stream.
Have the best Frida you can. That’s my goal. Here we go again. Cheers
Sectflooferian(floofinition) – Limited to information or activities related to animals. Origins: 1819, Northeastern United States.
In Use: “After another kitten was added to the household, the patio was screened in and became a sectflooferian lounging area for the cats, dogs, and birds, with several feeding stations, beds, sofas, chairs, boxes, and artificial trees set up for the floofs’ exclusive use.”
Indivisible or someone was politically active in our region this AM. Protesters with banners against standing against ICE, protecting democracy, and defending the Constitution were on overpasses along I5 as we traveled from Ashland to Medford and back.
My wife is disinclined to protest and demonstrate this year. “Those are asking for permission,” she said. “We need active restistance, standing up and refusing to back down.” This is something she’s recently adopted from historian Tad Stoermer.
The toughest lesson in resistance history is the one people least want to hear: Institutions won’t save us, opposition isn’t enough, and authoritarianism doesn’t have a stopping point. Be an optimist with friends, but a pessimist in the mirror. There’s no normal to go back to—only what we do now. #ResistanceHistory#HonestHistory#HistoryTime#TikTokLearningCampaign#resistance
Thirstda, July 17, 2025, slid into Ashlandia with a fresh load of heat. And here we were, still dealing with the heat we already had. We’re in the yellow for air quality, a mind surprise if you look at the air’s discoloration. 87 F now, 1 PM, it’s hit 99 F before the heat subsides. Same ol’ story for the last several days.
Yes, we did early morning shopping runs so I’m into writing late. For reasons which The Neurons keep closehold, they have Van Halen playing “Finish What Ya Started” from 1988 and OU812 in the morning mental music stream. It could be very any number of recent news stories. One that particularly jumps out is the morphing Epstein saga. Once told as a horror story about Democrats, Trump wants it out of print and out of mind. His stance, so curiously different than how he stood not so long ago, amuses many and inspires more to want the files released. Who knows if that’s what The Neurons had in mind. They may have also been pointing to TACO’s tariff tango, where he slides forward and slips back about what’s going on with tariffs.
Coffee has been rehomed in my systems. Time to rock and roll another day. Here we go. Hope it all goes well for you. Cheers
Sharing some political humor from my friend Jill. Most made me laugh, although my teeth were grinding together from the truth behind the humor, but there are a few which really stood out for me. You should go check out the rest.
Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem is so freakin’ weird.
On Monday, the official Department of Homeland Security X account posted an image of a painting, along with the caption, “Remember your Homeland’s Heritage. New Life in a New Land – Morgan Weistling.”
First, Noem is showing a painting of people who could be immigrants. Many immigrants came to the United States and went west as settlers or pioneers. But let’s go on.
DK points out the Oregon Trail truth:
If you grew up playing the video game “Oregon Trail,” you know what this evokes: dysentery. The National Park Service estimates that 30,000 settlers died from it—nearly 10%—on the Oregon Trail alone. That’s 10-15 deaths per mile.
But maybe that’s on brand for today’s conservatives. After all, they’re bizarrely excited to bring back measles, too.
But dysentery was just the beginning. Gun mishaps, hypothermia, wild animals, drowning during river crossings, rightly hostile Indigenous tribes—this was a death gauntlet. It’s just plain weird to romanticize one of the most brutal chapters of American expansionism.
And that baby in the painting? That poor, nameless baby?
In the mid-1800s, one-third of children didn’t make it to their 5th birthday according to this study from Our World in Data. Other estimates suggest that infant mortality was closer to 40-45% during this era and likely even higher on the trail.
~snip~
And stepping back, what does this painting even have to do with DHS? Are they trying to police vibes now?
It’s just all so weird.
These Trumpists aren’t “tough.” They’re just strange.
What strikes me as so wild and strange about this is is similiarity to Trump’s fantasy that he’s like the fictional Superman character. Both Noem and Trump’s willingness to play make-believe has to dismiss the truth and facts. Many ratioed Trump’s post, pointing out that Superman was an undocumented immigrant, and that he stood up for the oppressed, and was not an oppressor, like Trump. Superman fights the kind of evil which Trump is spearheading.
Yep, the Trumpettes are delusional. They’re bullies. They’re liars.
Happy Wenzda. Jumped out of bed (it’s an expression), and went to the windows and —
“Alexa, what’s the air quality?” I asked. Because looking west, smoke sheathed the view. What fresh hell was this?
Alexa told me the air quality was good. Yes, I did not smell smoke. Windows were open. Cool 66 degree F air was flowing in. But that smoke was turning the blue sky gray. Must be from one of the nine fires burning west of us. Or one of the several blowing along mountain ridges from the fires burning south in northern California.
Supposed to be 97 F today. That’s what we saw yesterday. Ashlandia summer is in place.
I can become obsessive about things. My routine soon incorporate sniffing the air for smoke smells and looking out the window to see if the smoke was becoming better or worse. Some crow was yelling something the whole time. Another was responding from further away. I don’t know what it was about. I don’t speak crow.
Reading about Trump’s irritation with the Epstein files. While he’s still burning down the U.S., his base is upset about the Epstein List. Trump, being true to his core of caring only for himself and lying and throwing aspersians at others when he gets upset, lashed out on a lie-filled text. I read a good rebuttal with a timeline and a reminder, Presidents Obama and Biden didn’t have anything to do with it. It was during Dubya’s administration and Trump 1. Staunch Republicans Barr and Acosta were involved. Indisputably, though, Trump and Epstein were runners together. Photos exist. Trump talked about Epstein in glowing terms. No doubt, Trump is in that file.
Today’s music is a 1998 Eve 7 offering, “Inside Out”. The Neurons had it playing in the morning mental music stream for a bit, slowly turning the volume up. Finally hearing the part that goes, “I’m not as Ugly sad as you. Or am I origami folded up and just pretend, demented as the motives in your head.” Knowing some lyrics makes the modern net useful for finding the song’s details. Once those details were rehoused in my awareness, some memories about where and when I often heard it — in the car, driving around the bay area, Alex — stacked.
Now I’m feening for coffee. Off we go. Have a most excellent day, as we used to say. Cheers
My sisters and I, five years ago (April of 2020), on a river cruise. I’m the one with the face fur. The sisters begin with the oldest in the right corner and sweep counterclockwise to the youngest in the lower left hand corner. We had a good time that night. I’m second oldest of the tribe.
