Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Some days I wonder and worry about it all. Then comes a day when I decide, screw it; let it roll.
From 1970, The Doors with “Roadhouse Blues”. Keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel. The future’s uncertain and the end is always near.
Gonna tell you a story. About a kitty I know. When it comes to loving, she steals the show. Ain’t exactly pretty, ain’t exactly small.
Well, she was small of body, but big of mind, and HUGE of will.
Anyway, back to the theme music. Going with AC/DC. “Whole Lotta Rosie”. 1977. You either know it, or you don’t. That’s how stuff usually works.
You may not know this, but I was born in 1956, so 1977 was part of my extended childhood. Truthfully, my extended childhood will probably end within a few years. I’m holding on, but all good things must end.
Go in for more work in Peckerville today. Wish me luck. Cheers
Hump day. It’s become embedded in me.
I don’t work nine to five. I write seven on seven, breaking for some sickness, some holidays. Mostly I write, following the words the muses strew along the paths, trying to connect the story that I glimpse.
Though I don’t work Monday through Friday, the weekend remains the week’s end, and Wednesday remains the middle, the hump that I gotta get over. All psycho, innit? Yeah, a marriage of mental, physical, and emotional energy that started when we were in school in the U.S., and then carried on through employment.
I’m going to get through it with a little Dire Straits, cause I’m doing the “Walk of Life” (1985). It’s a good walking song to stream. “Here comes Johnny singing oldies, goldies, bebob a lula, baby, what I say?”
The video is a fun look back at sports and hairstyles…
Today’s music is owed to a cat. I opened a new can, put it in his bowl, and set it down in front of it. He took a step toward it, bent his head, sniffed it, looked up at me, and meowed.
“Looks fine to me,” I said. “Whatcha see is whatcha get.”
That naturally triggered the 1971 Dramatics’ song, “Whatchat See Is Whatcha Get”.
I gave another cat the rejected food. The other cat wolfed it down and then washed itself. The first cat, Boo, found kibble in the always there kibble bow.
Thinking about the song, I thought that it’s not only effective for telling the cat this is his breakfast choice this morning, but can hold to our politics with Trump. What you see, an ignorant, self-absorbed person and known cheat with a first-graders’ maturity level, and nursery-school knowledge of history and the U.S. Constitution, is what you get. That seems fine with the Trumpettes, but the rest of us are not pleased.
The song’s first words:
Yes, I think that’s apropos for Trump and the Trumpettes.
In our world’s tiny niche, this was a significant hit when I was a teenager around 1973.
Jim Croce had been around for a few years and had several hits, like “Operator”, “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown”, and “Time In A Bottle”. Then a black crash killed him, devastating us, his fans, although it was probably harder for his family and friends. It seemed like even as they were still talking about it on the news, he had a new song rising on the charts, “I Got A Name”.
I awoke this morning still streaming several songs heard in my dreams. Among those were “Sisters” from the movie White Christmas, and James Blunt with “Make Me Better”. But “I Got A Name” was sharper and stronger. It’s silly and sentimental, but here it sits as my theme music this morning.
Was walking and streaming to myself (of course, but who else could I be streaming to?), “No more speed, I’m almost there. Gotta keep cool now, gotta take care. Last car to pass, here I gooo. And the line of cars go down real slow, whoa. Radio’s playing that forgotten song. Brenda Lee’s coming on strong. And the newsman sang his theme song.”
Yes, it’s Golden Earring’s 1973 hit, “Radar Love”, at least how I remember it. I was pushing myself to get to nine miles for the day and reflecting on it all. Blueberry pickin’ at 6:30, the writing day at 9:30 (with forlorn results), drinks with a friend at three, then the final walking to reach nine miles. Mixed bag, you know?
The blueberries weren’t as fine and ripe this year. We came home with an ounce over eight pounds, which cost us $18.25. Long drop from those heady days of eighteen pounds for $36.
Meeting with FX was fun. He’s an established actor, most recently seen as a judge in On the Basis of Sex. After talking life and politics for a bit, we shifted to books and writing, and then movies we’d not like to seen remade, like Doctor Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. I also don’t want to see The African Queen remade, Twelve Angry Men, or Bridge On the River Kwai. I don’t think they can touch the Godfather series, but who knows what lurks in the minds of Hollywood producers?
Memories,
I make them now,
so far my brain hasn’t forgotten how.
Time shoots by in a quickening blast
and I recall with fondness a nebulous past.
Starry-eyed and glittery mind, I used to look ahead.
Now, sometimes, it’s wearying getting out of bed.
My oceans of thoughts seem dark but calm,
a prelude, or harbinger, of a once-remembered song.
I seek comfort, I seek reminders, I seek the past,
even though I know, like the future,
it never lasts.
Chicago was a friend’s favorite group when I was a teenager. Sometimes when we hung around at his place, he’d put on one of their tapes. He bought all of their early albums, so I became familiar with their songs. One such song, “Saturday In the Park” came to mind today.
You can see how it all came together, right?
Saturday in the park
I think it was the Fourth of July
Saturday in the park
I think it was the Fourth of July
People dancing, people laughing
A man selling ice cream
Singing Italian songs
[Chorus]
Eh Cumpari, ci vo sunari
Can you dig it (yes, I can)
And I’ve been waiting such a long time
For Saturday
[Verse 2]
Another day in the park
I think it was the Fourth of July
Another day in the park
I think it was the Fourth of July
People talking, really smiling
A man playing guitar
Singing for us all
If you’re looking for me, I’ll be in the park.
Called Mom today to wish her happy birthday. I was born sixty-three years ago, today, if the records and Mom’s memory are accepted. I accept both, especially Mom’s memory. I wished her a happy birthday because she did all the work. I’m not lyin’, I don’t remember any of it. It was barely like I was there.
“Wasn’t I overdue?”
“Yes, eight days,” she answered.
“Oh, eight days. That’s nothing.”
“After nine months, it feel likes eight years.”
###
I woke up with pain. I knew it was time and woke your father up. “The baby’s coming. We need to go to the hospital now.”
I was already dressing. He got up slowly. While he dressed, I went down to the car. Our apartment was on the third floor. There wasn’t an elevator. I knew it would take me time to get down those three flights of stairs.
I was down in the car, and hard labor had begun. I wasn’t surprised. You sister took just three hours. I was in enormous pain because it was all happening so fast. I was wondering, what’s taking your father so long and kept blowing the horn, shouting, “Come on.”
He finally came down. I said, “What were you doing?”
He said, “I was combing my hair.” I could’ve killed him. No jury would have convicted me, if there was a woman on it.
He started driving, came up to a stop sign and started to stop. I said, “Do not stop.”
A motorcycle cop pulled us over right after that. Your father told him that I was in hard labor. The cop said, “Follow me.” He turned on his sirens. We blew through every red light and stop sign.
When we arrived at the Fort Belvoir hospital, the nurse came out to meet us. She said, “Oh my God, you’re in labor. You should have come in as soon as it started.”
I said, “I did. I got here as soon as I could.”
She said, “Let me get a wheel chair.”
I started labor right at six in the morning. You were born at seven twenty-four.
After giving birth, I was taken to the maternity ward. There were seventeen beds, all with women who’d just given birth. A major came in. She said, “All you ladies who gave birth yesterday need to do your exercises.” This was a military hospital, remember. They didn’t coddle you. They were military, and they treated you like you were in the military. Visitors and flowers, candy, all that wasn’t allowed, because they worried about germs and infections, and they began exercising you right away.
Well, I’d just given birth, so I didn’t exercise. The major said to me, “You. Why aren’t you exercising?”
I said, “I just gave birth four hours ago.”
“Do your exercises. Now.” So I did.
The next day, we dragged our iron beds down the hall to another ward, where we were discharged. You were thirty-two hours old when I took you home.
Happy post Independence Day to any United States citizens reading. We’ve survived another.
Happy Friday to the rest. We’ve survived another Thursday. The typical work week is ending.
Let’s have a little victory song. Just imagine: you’ve scored the winning goal. You aced a test. Graduated. Retired. Finished writing a novel, short story, or poem. Published something.
Here’s a 1972 offering by Gary Glitter to help you celebrate. It’s a bit repetitive but that beat’s helpful for asserting yourself and cheering yourself on.
Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 