Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Dufloofcity (floofinition) – Animal behavior that seems to show they’re going to do one thing but then do another.
In use: “Many people were aware of their pet’s dufloofcity, warning before they left the house, “Stay off the sofa,” or “Don’t jump on the counter,” to which the animal replies with wide-eyed assurance that they will, and then wait to hear their people leave and go do exactly what they were told not to do.”
Hello. Welcome to our show.
Today is Saturday, the tenth of April, 2021. Weatherwise, clouds have rolled in with ominous harbingers of rain. Their presence has kept us cool. Sunshine spilled into our southern Oregon valley at 6:39 AM, bringing a token of warmth. We’re up to 55 F now, and think, maybe ten degrees more will be achieved, before the sun retreats at 7:47 PM.
The post is a later than usual as we were out getting the COVID-19 vaccination. That’s done.
To the music! Today’s offering is cat-influenced, or as animals say, infloofuenced. (They — my cats — always insist that the word, ‘influence’, was originally, ‘infloofuence’. I point out that there’s no history supporting their claim. They smirk back. “We’re older than words, boy.”) Youngblood (aka Papi, Meep, and the Ginger Blade) loves going out throughout the dark hours. He loves coming back in during those times, as well, and then going back out again. He’s developed his knocking patter, coming to the bedroom slider for entrance and exit. Although socks are sometimes tossed his way to stop him, he’s a persistence boogerfloof. So I let him in and out, in and out.
Well, that in and out thinking dredged up a 1975 song by The Who out of the memory mines. “Squeeze Box” was an international hit for the group. The lyrics are all about an accordion, which is also known as a squeeze box.
Mama’s got a squeeze box
She wears on her chest
And when Daddy comes home
He never gets no rest
‘Cause she’s playing all night
And the music’s alright
Mama’s got a squeeze box
Daddy never sleeps at night
Well the kids don’t eat
And the dog can’t sleep
There’s no escape from the music
In the whole damn street
‘Cause she’s playing all night
And the music’s alright
Mama’s got a squeeze box
Daddy never sleeps at night
She goes in and out and in and out
And in and out and in and out
She’s playin’ all night and the music’s all right
Mama’s got a squeeze box
Daddy never sleeps at night
h/t to Genius.com.
Wear a mask, get the vax, stay positive, test negative, and carry on. That is all.
I had a dream in which I ended up wondering, while in the dream, if I’d dreamed what I was thinking. I’ve gone similar routes to this before, but this one ended up as a laugher to me.
I was racing at LeMans in a D type Jaguar. The race had just begun. My co-driver (name not given, never seen), had qualified us, putting us at the front of the grid (but not pole). I was starting the race for the team. I managed a great start, and was battling for the lead.
From my point of view in the open cockpit, another driver and I raced our cars down a long straight, engines screaming, car shaking and vibrating around me. Taking the car to the absolute limit, holding it there, I edged my car’s nose ahead past a competitor on my right.
Now for a surreal bit. There was a small, bright green, bean bag hanging to the left along the straight. Whoever reached the bag and pulled it down was the leader of the first lap. I raced toward it, pulling ahead of the other car. Veering left, I threw my hand up and caught the bean bag.
Wasn’t over, though. We were hurtling toward the final corner. My competition wasn’t making it easy for me. They were holding back to brake at the last second; they also had the inside line, the true racing line. Coming up on the corner, I counseled myself, “Wait, wait,” watching the competitor. When he finally braked I told myself, “Now, brake, downshift, turn.”
I guided the car into the turn. Teetering on the edge of cohesion, the car progressed through the long righthander. Then I was through, in the lead, leading the first lap of LeMans. Jubilation roared through me as crowds cheered me on.
Then, as the segment ended, I pulled into victory lane.
I’d won the race.
Still in the dream, I was stunned. I’d won LeMans. As it was a D type Jag, that was in the fifties. Sitting before my computer, I searched on “Seidel Wins LeMans”.
Then, I thought, hold on. I couldn’t have won LeMans in the fifties; I wasn’t born until 1956.
And in the dream, I wondered, did I dream that? It seemed so real.
As I was about to tell this to my wife, she brought a tall white man and his daughter into the room. I was like, “Excuse me, WTF, who are they, why are they are?” My wife brushed aside my questions.
The child went to play. The man joined me. Reading a newspaper on the desk beside me, he scoffed. “Mansfield is in trouble.” He scoffed again. “I’ve seen this happen before.” He blithered on about some other companies who’d been in trouble. “They’re going to need help. Search for Mansfield and help.”
I did as he directed. I was only typing with one hand, however, and kept screwing up the search. Then, dream shift, I’m in a writing class with other students. The instructor is telling us about four elements. I’m taking notes.
A man comes in and calls my name. He wants to know if I’m okay. “Yes, fine,” I reply, puzzled. The teacher tells the man that I seem fine, why is he interrupting the class to check on me.
“Because he sent a message that said ‘help’ on a computer,” the man replied. “We received his message.”
Realization rising about what happened, laughter spilled out of me. I explained that I’d been trying to do a search on Mansfield needing help but kept screwing up.
Two other men, stocky, with crew cuts, in suits, solemnly brought stacks of books to me. “What are these?” I asked.
“Help books,” one man replied. “You sent so many messages for help, we thought you could use these books for help.”
End dream.
Spanky, a navigator who I worked with in Germany, was in my dream. He wanted a Playboy magazine but didn’t have time to get it. I decided that I would get it for him.
I ordered it and it arrived. Before I could give it to him, he had to go on a mission. My wife didn’t want a magazine like that in the house, so I had to hide it. I ran around the house considering hiding places, finally deciding that I’d hide it behind the HVAC return filter. She’d NEVER look there. But as I was hiding it, Spanky came in. I gave him the mag. Delighted, he took it with him and left on another mission.
Meanwhile, I’d received a red notice in the mail. The note said in big black marker, “Your package delivery was delayed by bad weather. We apologize for the delay.” The note confused me because I wasn’t expecting any delivery except the magazine. It had already arrived.
I then went to my wife and told her I’d bought the magazine for Spanky. That angered her, but I shrugged it off. Spanky wanted it, and I thought he deserved it. It only cost me five dollars, including delivery. I thought that was a good deal.
Efloofgelist (floofinition) – A person who seeks to convince others of animal rights and intelligence.
In use: “The Internet has amplified efloofgelists’ message by showing videos highlighting animals acting and thinking compassionately, like bears saving crows, a pit bull mothering kittens, a cat befriending a lynx in a zoo, and a cat embracing an orphaned squirrel as one of her own.”
Mondefloof (floofinition) – A misheard word or phrase that causes an animal’s reaction.
In use: “Noting that when she asked her husband where the wok was, the dog went for his leash to go for a walk, she vowed to spell wok in the future to avoid the mondefloof.”
Welcome back to another edition of Tuesday. Today is April 6, 2021. It’s coolish today, 42 degrees F, with mild threats of rain showers. Spring is enveloping our valley with blossoms, buds, and blooms. Tulips, daffodils, and star asters are abundant, setting senses aflame with their sweet fragrance and bold beauty. Ms Sun appeared at 6:45 AM in Ashland. She expects to spend the day with us before jetting out of sight at 7:42 PM. During that period, it’s anticipated that we’ll get warmer.
We’re scheduled for the J&J one-dose COVID-19 vaccination this weekend. Oregon had shifted eligibility. The lowered bar now includes us, folks in our lower sixties without children and minor health issues. Other states are including everyone over eighteen, so PROGRESS!
Dad remains in the hospital, experiencing edema. He and his wife were vaccinated against COVID-19 months ago. They’re not certain what’s causing the edema. He’s now been in there two weeks as they address built up fluid in his legs. Eighty-nine this year, he’s been medicating for COPD for years (after being a Lucky Strikes smoker (LSMFT), pipe smoker, and cigar smoker), along with minor kidney matters. He’s usually a good hospital patient, he tells me (and his wife agrees), but this visit has him on a low sodium diet. The limited food choice is making him cranky.
I woke up singing “In A Big Country” by Big Country this morning. Not infrequently, sunshine and sprawling green vistas summon this 1983 song to emerge from the deep memory well into consciousness.
Been writing like crazy every day. I’m closing on the end of the first draft of the novel-in-progress. I’m one who modifies and edits as I progress, tidying pacing and story, clarifying details, and sharpening focus as I go. I’ve also been reading a great deal, two to three books a week. Last week was Transcriptions (Kate Atkinson), Echo Burning (Lee Child), and Under a Midnight Sun (Keigo Higashino). This week, it’s The Night Watchman (Louise Erdrich), Circe (Madeline Miller), and The Sentinel (Lee Child with Andrew Child).
Still keeping up with my walking, too (knock on wood), achieving at least twelve miles per day, averaging 12.3 miles per day for the last six months. It’s a lot easier with the long days of sunshine and comfortable weather.
Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask, and get the vax. Got my coffee. Gonna go write like crazy, at least one more time.
I enjoy watching “Would I Lie to You?” Hosted by Rob Brydon, Lee Mack and David Mitchell lead two teams. Two guest celebrities appear on each team every show, people like Bob Mortimer (who shares hilarious tales), Jo Brandt, Richard Osmen, and Greg Davis. The team members then tell a story about something that happened to them. The other team then guesses whether it’s a lie or true. Points are awarded. Yes, it’s British. My favorite episode involved Germane Greer and cannibalism. I love how the panels and Rob really get into the premise.
I stream it on Britbox via Amazon. I’ve watched many episodes more than once, tests to see how well my memory works as I try to recall if they’re lying or telling the truth. I’m usually wrong. I don’t think that bodes well for me doing my taxes in the future.
Whenever I watch the show, I think, what tales could I share? I’ve come up with one. First, the opening statement. That’s what’s used to launch the premise and cross-examination.
I once passed out three times trying to give blood just so I could have a doughnut.
They would ask the usual questions. When did this happen? Where? How old were you?
I’d answer, “I was in my early twenties, working at a bank in Pittsburgh, PA. The American Red Cross was having a blood drive in the lobby. If you give blood, you’re given a free doughnut. I really wanted a doughnut, so I took my place in line. Then, well, as I approached, I fainted.”
For some reason, as I write this, I imagine it being spoken in David Mitchell’s voice.
You fainted, will be repeated. I’ll nod, affirming that’s what happened.
Then?
“They put me on one of the little beds they had set up and gave me some orange juice. I returned to my desk, but I really wanted a doughnut. I got back in line and fainted again.”
They would ask me, “Was this your first time giving blood? Have you ever fainted before? Do you have a history of fainting?”
It was my first time giving blood. I’d never fainted before.
The ARC again put me on one of their little beds with orange juice. After I felt better, I returned to my desk. But…
I really wanted a doughnut.
I returned to the line, worked my way forward, and fainted again.
“A third time,” people exclaim. “Boy, you really wanted that doughnut.”
“Well, it was free,” I reply, “and I like doughnuts.”
“What kind of doughnuts were they? Were they special doughnuts?”
“Glazed.”
“Were you hurt whenever you fainted?” They would ask. “When you say, fainted, do you mean that — what do you mean?” (Lee Mack is questioning me; I hear his voice.)
“I swooned,” I answer. “My vision grew dim, my legs grew weak and then buckled, I lost consciousness, and found myself being helped off the floor.”
“How long were you out?” Lee asks.
“Not long, a few seconds, maybe ten seconds, I guess.”
“Did you ever get a doughnut?”
“No.”
Rob asks, “Well, Lee, it’s time to decide if he’s telling a lie or telling the truth.”
He’s lying, they agree. Nobody would get in line three times just for a doughnut. Or the ARC would give him a doughnut after the second time, to reward him for his efforts.
“It is a lie,” I tell them when the time comes. “The truth is, it wasn’t me; it was my sister.”
And that’s the truth.
Michael Seidel, writer 