Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Inflooftuous (floofinition) – Disruptive animal incursions, behavior, or activities.
In use: “The bird was inflooftuous by nature, singing and dancing on his corner swing, but also commenting on people as they entered the house or went into the bathroom, often saying, ‘There’s trouble.'”
Most of us view ourselves as younger than we are. Just a trick of psychology. I can see, then, how disturbing using a cane or walker because you’re now elderly and need it can severely disrupt your self-image.
I read about Trump strongholds and the lack of an impact the charges and indictments have on the former president’s supporters. One description struck me more deeply. From the NY Times:
“Among voters who plan to vote for Mr. Trump again, Nicholas Kalamvokis, 58, said he liked the former president’s “regular people” persona and was willing to overlook his role in the events of Jan. 6, which he did not believe rose to the level of a crime.”
The former president’s “regular people” persona is a startling description. Trump has been found to cheat in business, compulsively lie, and demonstrates little self control. Full of pompous bluster, he’s cheated on his wife, has been married three times, shows little intellectual curiosity, and is both demonstrably petty and greedy. As a business person, he has multiple bankruptcies and has led numerous failed business efforts, while his WH administration set a new record for indictments and convictions. Meanwhile, since leaving office, Trump has set records for the most indictments ever levied on a former POTUS, including obstruction of justice as he lied about keeping classified information and tried hiding the requested documents from the government.
Liar. Thief. Cheat. Immoral. Unethical. Untrustworthy.
If this is a typical Republican’s view of ‘regular people’, their attachment to reality is more tenuous than I ever imagined, and I wouldn’t want to hang out with their ‘regular people’. Then again, I suspect that people like Kalamvokis live in an information bubble. The light seems different in there from the light with which I view the world.
I enjoy people watching, especially at the coffee shop. Everyone has a story. It’s not always clear, so I’ll make one up for them, if they’re interesting enough.
Well, Austin is interesting enough. About six foot one, pale skin, moderate build, neat strawberry blond hair, he’s dressed for the outdoors and carries a full pack, a serious hiking and camping pack, white ear pods inserted. First time I saw him in April, I figured that he was another off the Pacific Crest Trail. It runs through this area and many hiking it will pop into Ashland. See the movie Wild or read the book by the same name, and you’ll see my town featured. That’s our plaza in the link I posted.
(Side note to all that: the city posted where they’d be filming the movie so we could avoid the area because of road closures and delays, and all that. You know what that did, right? Also, to have the right season depicted, the leaves had already departed the trees, so they made leaves, attached them to the naked branches, and then removed them after filming.)
Well, Austin remains here months later. I’ve wondered why. He comes into the coffee shop several times a day while I’m there. He’d usually just drink cold water. Sometimes hot tea. Rarely buys more. I’ve seen people offer him money, and he always turns it down. He only speaks to the baristas, which is how I know his name. He’s told me thank you as I was leaving and he was entering and I held the door. Thrice. That’s it.
I sense he wants to be alone, so I leave him alone. Also, I’m there to write, so I don’t want to strike up conversations. I initially thought he was just recharging his batteries. Then, waiting for something to arrive in the mail. Now I think he’s on the run, and hiding out in Ashlandia. The question is, why? Who is after him? What will happen when they find him?
Whatever, he’ll probably show up in a story sometime. That’s just how it goes when you cross a writer’s path.
Mood: moderate
I blinked, and it’s Sunday once again. Seems like it was Sunday just last week. Ever get tired of that routine? Maybe we should expand the names of the days of the week. The government could have a big auction. Proceeds would go to education, homelessness programs, Medicare, and Medicaid. So we could have Appleday, IBMday, Floday (sponsored by Progressive Insurance), Fordday, MCUday, Primeday, etc. It’d be odd at first, sure, but we would adjust. They would earn the rights for a quarter. That way, things could be seasonal, or used for movie promotions. Sunday could be Barbieday.
Today is August 13, 2023. 77 F and climbing. Gonna be a hot one. Like seven inches from the midday sun. 103 is expected.
The Neurons stirred “Head Over Heels” by Tears for Fears (1985) into the morning mental music stream (Trademark hot). The CD that song was on was Songs from the Big Chair and was part of my long-distance rotation while going on temporary duty assignments in ’85, when I was stationed in South Carolina. I’m not surprised Les Neurons plucked this song out of memory, as I was head over heels in dreams last night. Nothing particularly interesting. Mostly anxiety dream varieties. That’s what’s been dominating.
Smoke entered the valley last night so it was shut the windows, keep them closed, and stayed inside. Air Quality Index entered the Moderate zone. I smelled and felt it, though, eyes tearing up and drying up, nose developing a drip, throat growing sore. Amazingly quick period before that all happened. I suspect that it’s a COVID leftover from last year’s bout. Never used to be like this for me. Of course, it might be just aging.
While still mesmerized by Hawaii’s disaster, news in the state today is about the increase of cougar sightings. The article pointed out that the cougar population has grown to 6,000, and that the growth of security cameras in houses and increased trail cams has increased our awareness of them. We have almost daily stories of them here in Ashlandia, where the people are worried, and pets are kept in sight.
Time to kick off this Oppenheimerday. Stay pos and be strong. Remember to love yourself a little. Nothing freaky, okay? Coffee? Mine is black and hot, without sugar, thanks. French roast.
Here’s the music. Cheers
He’s planning a trip and reviewing hotels.
One rated a prospective place “10/10 – Excellent”. But their comments made him wonder:
“The room was good and bed was super comfortable however there were areas needing a little updating . Looked like there had been a roof leak in the bathroom over the shower area and the exhaust fan in the bathroom sounded like it was dying. Also the lighting in the bathroom was not very bright . The breakfast in the morning was good. Overall I’d say it was ok.”
Head shake. ‘Okay’ is far away from ‘Excellent’ is his mind.
Floofenriched – (floofinition) Experiences, lives, or individuals improved by the presence of, participation of, or interactions with, animals.
In use: “During the COVID-19 pandemic, many individuals found that animals in the house floofenriched their cloistered existence, and adoptions rose sharply.”
Burping blue smoke and violent noise, a pickup truck pulled into the line of stopped traffic.
Tan with brown accent panels and chrome wheels, the pickup truck was elderly, maybe an eighties vintage, dated as far as motor vehicles go. The right-side door – that’s where the passenger is in America – was smashed in. Broad black tape all around the door held the door shut against the body.
It looked to me like he’d been run into. I could see how another vehicle had slammed head on into the pickup truck’s side. Imagined scenarios easily rose. Maybe he ran a stop sign or red light. Then again, maybe the other vehicle ran the traffic order to stop and hit him, who was innocently motoring along.
Or, it could be the result of passion. He and his wife – or his girlfriend, boyfriend, cousin, sister, brother – argued. He fired up his truck to leave. As he was slewing the vehicle around, dust flying, the other person leaped into their vehicle and drove it into his truck, trying to stop him.
Perhaps it wasn’t passion, but a broken drug deal, or an attempted theft. Television tales and real-life reports fertilized possibilities.
Maybe, though, the driver wasn’t involved at all. Perhaps it wasn’t his truck; he was just borrowing it to move some junk.
The maybes are endless, and I’ll probably never know.
After an outrageously fun dream that had me grinning when I awoke, a later dream stamped its imprint, unsettling me.
The second dream was about a friend. Oddly, I can’t recall ever clearly seeing him. I can’t give any description to him except to say he was a contemporary, male, white, and both in our early twenties.
He came to my house and told me that he’d stolen twenty thousand dollars. No details about that were shared. The dream and I focused on what I should do, how can I help him? He’d already told me that he’d told others.
He suggested that he needed to hide the money. I agreed, telling him that I would help. Next thing I know, we’re at his house, a suburban home, in a lower level, in a small den. There’s one oblong window at ground level; I keep looking out it. Dusk is falling.
Green shag carpet covers the floor. He lays down on the floor, face down, legs stiffly together and straight, arms out at ninety degrees, like he’s on a cross. He’s wearing a yellow top and red shorts. I tell him that I think he needs to get out of there. He doesn’t answer. I’m pacing, worrying, and tell him the same thing. He seems to have given up.
I start telling him, “Give me your money and I’ll hide it for you.” That’s when I realize that I stole the money with him, bewildering me. I don’t remember doing that, so how was it possible?
I’ve hidden my share, which was also twenty thousand. I repeat, “Give me your money and I’ll hide it for you. Where is it?” Sirens are getting louder. I don’t doubt they’re coming to his house. He’s given up, so they’ll catch us both. Even if I have escape, I’m sure that he’d tell them who stole the money with him. He’s already told others. The dream ends with the sirens growing louder, me pacing, glancing out a window, running a hand through my hair, trying to understand what to do, and him still in a cross position on the green shag carpet.
My wife tells me again and again that she is thankful that I’m a ‘good’ driver, that I pay close attention and have fast reflexes. Had to use those again today.
I came down the hilly street and entered the intersection, a straight path. A third into the intersection, and the traffic light went yellow. Shrug; I was already in the intersection. But the young man in the blue Focus turning left going the opposite way decided that he absolutely needed to make that light and rushed into a left hand turn in front of me.
“Holy Jesus,” The Neurons shouted inside my mind. I didn’t answer because I was already telling my right foot to leave the gas pedal to stomp the brake pedal. Full lockup, traction control and anti-braking activating. Wasn’t going fast, so it was a hard, abrupt stop in the middle of the intersection. Fortunately, nobody was near in either direction, saw what was happening, and were slowing.
Two things. As events transpired, I saw the other driver, a young white man with short dark hair — early twenties? — flinch, raise his arm to protect himself against the crash he thought was about to happen, and lean away. Left turn completed, but in the other direction’s vacant left-hand turn lane, he stopped, hands on his wheel. I imagine that he was shaking, realizing how close he’d come to fucking up his day.
Mildly ruffled, I rhetorically addressed him in my car, “What were you thinking,” and drove on. But I recognize, if anything had distracted me in the second before I slammed the brakes, we could have had a much different outcome.
What a difference a second can make.
Michael Seidel, writer 