Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
A radio announcer said she’d read a survey of millennials between twenty-one and thirty-seven years old. The results said that fifty-three percent of them expected to be millionaires and the average millennial expected to retire by age fifty-six.
I read today that millennials are the worse tippers. Ten percent of them don’t tip at all when they eat out. Their average gratuity is fifteen percent.
Guess they’re saving up to be millionaires.
“I’ve seen some things, man.”
Recognize that line? Anyway, this is about what I saw while traveling through airports during the last few days.
How about you? Notice any trends in your air travels?
Watching others cope with diseases and declining health, slowly moving hunched bodies as they struggle to remember simple words and phrases and master common movements, do you ever wonder, what’s secretly going on inside yourself that’s waiting to come out?
It’s like looking for the monster hiding under the bed.
He sighs when he wakes up, realizing it’s another day, and sighs when he gets out of bed, stands, and sits, motions stiff with pain. Sighs slip out as he makes his meals and eats them, and as he reflects on his life. Sighs accompany every task, as if his world is filled with strife. Sighing, he works hard to do what he can, trying to get by, contemplating his death, sighing, holding on, and trying to stay alive.
Approaching the ATM, I process a mental flowchart. Which account am I using today? What PIN is required? There’s a line, so I wait, but while waiting, I begin to doubt that I’ve remembered the correct PIN for this account. I start going through PINs and their applications. Some were based on phone numbers, prompting recall of the whole telephone number and where I lived then, triggering memory of the address and where I worked, and my office number, further driving me from certainty that I have the right number, and suddenly opening up a memory chasm which swallows the PIN I’m supposed to be using, launching me into panic about the fucking PIN number – number is redundant, you idiot – and then it’s my turn and I step up and remember —
And then it’s all good. All that worrying was for naught.
“I’m not really a morning person,” the first said with an air of contrition.
The second said, “But you’re not really a night person, either.”
The third said, “It sounds like you’re a middle-of-the-day person.”
“Yes,” the first said with a smile, “but it’s a very small window.”
Stormy Daniels was on Sixty Minutes. I watched. Didn’t learn anything new. Her situation with Donald Trump isn’t changing anything.
Nor will Karen McDougal’s situation with Donald Trump change anything.
Nor will what the other sixteen women who claimed, with graphic details, how he sexually assaulted and molested them, change anything.
Trump supporters will not, or do not, care for the most part. A few outliers will quit supporting him for this behavior. Most of Trump’s supporters will not. They’ll say, as Rush Limbaugh has said, “Bill Clinton,” cherry-picking exactly what happened, and twisting memory into making history different. And, or, Trump supporters will say that his personal behavior doesn’t matter, that it’s his political agenda, and what he’d doing, draining the swamp, that matters.
All that infuriates Democrats, many Independents, and those on the left. They’re disgusted when this behavior is uncovered, no matter who the person is, from Bill Clinton to Al Franken, to Hollywood actors and producers. Anger and support withdrawal usually quickly follows.
It’s been pointed out multiple times that Trump hasn’t drained the swamp with the quality of people he’s selected for his cabinet and leadership positions. Trump claims the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were huge mistakes, but he hired one of the architects, John Bolton, to be his NSC advisor, and John Bolton is hiring more of the thinkers behind PNAC and the horrific continuing wars of the Middle East. That’s one more point that seems to prove that what Trump says doesn’t matter, just as he said he’d never be on vacation as POTUS, and never go golfing, because he’d be too busy.
The children’s protests, walk-outs, and March for Our Lives won’t matter either, to Trump supporters and the NRA. They’re doing their damn best to ensure that the narratives are twisted to fit into a surreal political reality.
In the larger context of our politics, it all matters to the world’s citizens. What Trump and his supporters say, how they say it, and what they do, reveal enormous logic gulfs, and shreds their claims to ethics and morals. They can’t see it, won’t acknowledge it, or, when they acknowledge it, rationalize that it doesn’t matter.
No, the best that can be said about these matters is that America’s youth are bending more sharply to the left and equality every day.
Left is such an easy label, but we’re forced to use it, because gun control and equality are defined as left issues. So, every mass murder in a school followed by nothing more than thoughts and prayers pushes America’s youth further left. Every action against equality for transgender people and the LGBT citizens of America that Trump announces, like his ban on who can serve in the military, pushes them further left.
Because here is the funny thing. Not many of the youngest American generations watch television. They don’t read the mainstream media. They find their own news. Those children who organized, who hear Trump’s words and see how his statements don’t align with his behavior, how he flat-out flips on issues and lies about what’s going on, are being pushed further to the left. Every time they go through these lock outs and lock downs in their schools, and hide in fear, they think, “I am tired of this. It’s not fair.” That’s what they said this weekend. And they move further to the left.
Which isn’t good news for Democrats and the Democratic Party. That party holds itself in the center. It’s opportunistic, short on principles and leadership, and doesn’t offer a great vision for America itself. No, this isn’t about whether Hillary should have won, would have won, or did win. Hillary, despite what so many on the right say, has nothing to do with it.
This is about, for example, stripping away the laws put in place after the last economic meltdown, which is what Democrats and Republicans in Congress just did. This is about, as Trump supporters have pointed out, business as usual in Washington D.C., and the merry-go-round of elected officials and lobbyists, and the influence of money in politics.
Trump wasn’t the answer to that.
Neither was Hillary.
No, this is about a new political will that’s growing and shaping itself. It’s growing among the young people. I’m not sure what shape it’ll take. I’m old, male, and white. They, the young, no matter what their color, race, gender and sexual identity, don’t think as I do. They create their own spin, decide their own truths, and pursue their own actions. Egged on by the high costs of living in America, dwindling opportunity, and failed government leadership, they’re moving away from the institutions and norms that were set up as the functioning center for the last one hundred years. Fewer of them are driving, so cars matter less. Manufacturing had already drifted away and they, the young, no longer see it as the savior it was after World War II. Money matters less because they have to do without it. Bankers have already betrayed them, and revealed their infinite greed, so the young have grown up not trusting them.
Water matters more because they see and experience what happens without it. The environment happens more because they see the impact of the plastic dumped into our waters. Equality matters more, because they know people who are transgender, and LGBT, and recognize them as equals and friends, regardless of the law.
And that is the change that matters, because they are bold and powerful, and growing in numbers. When they finally take control, it’ll be something to behold.
I’m wearing green today, homage to St. Patrick’s Day in America.
I don’t celebrate holidays much, and celebrate them less as I age. I don’t look forward to them much. Putting out decorations rarely occurs to me.
After thinking about it, I’ve realized that I little associate with the external world. Events are remote. I live by and enjoy the internal worlds created as I imagine and write. It’s a problem, and it’s a benefit. The problem is that my wife is exasperated because I’m not all up about holidays like other people. The benefit is that I feel like I’m successfully writing, and that makes me happy. Like most things in life, the value is on a sliding spectrum, and changes often.
I suppose I could change it, or try, since I’m now aware, but I’m not inclined to do that – for now.
Our Roomba is dead. Long live our Roomba.
Well, maybe not dead. The motor runs, it makes all the expected noises, the lights come on, it runs around, and air comes out, but the brushes aren’t turning, and it’s not picking up. Roomba support is urging me to call them, which I’ll do. I want to get to the bottom of this.
The Roomba has lasted only a few years. It’s our third Roomba. The first two died mysterious deaths. I eventually learned that my cat was pissing on it.
That surprised us. Lady was a sweet rescue. Never put a paw wrong. All she wanted was some food, a quiet place in sunshine, and a warm lap. We were happy to oblige.
It was a surprise to discover she was pissing on the Roomba in her final months. She didn’t like the Roomba; it disturbed her rest. I figured she said to herself, “I’m dying and I’m going to piss on that machine before I go. What are they going to do? Kill me?”
The Roomba folks were good about it. A refurbished machine was provided at a discount price. We kept Lady away from it.
The Roomba’s decline and possible death is parcel to a larger pattern. We bought our house in 2006. They’d just finished building it. Brand spanking new to use a cliche that I know but don’t really understand (how does spanking fit in?), my wife and I were the house’s first occupants.
All the appliances were new. Everything. Yet, in the eleven years we’ve lived here, we’ve had issues.
Naturally, these things angered my wife and me. These are Maytag, Kenmore, Rheem, etc. Supposed to be quality stuff, maybe not the apex of quality, but high enough up the pyramid that you wouldn’t expect these issues.
So, I did what I always do when encountering problems: I researched. I looked for how common these issues are, and how difficult and pricey they are to fix. I did this each time things happened.
I learned that water heaters will usually last seven years in modern America. Most other appliances die at ten years. That’s our new standard.
We learned that most dishwashers are manufactured in one giant factory. So are ranges and microwaves.
I learned that the control panel’s broken plastic can only be repaired by replacing the entire control panel assembly, and it’s not cheap. Replacing that still leaves us vulnerable to other parts and assemblies breaking because, hey, they’re ten years old. That’s their expected life.
Appliances are being replaced. We’re not happy about it, but we’re fortunate that we’re financially secure and can do this without significant strain. Let me tell you, it’s not a cheap process.
We’re beginning with the microwave and range. New ones have been purchased. We’re awaiting their delivery and installation.
We’re not certain what we’re going to do about the rest. Only our refrigerator, a Jenn-Air, is still running as expected and hoped for when we purchased it. We’ve looked at washers and dryers, and dishwashers. They’re not cheap, America. More, it annoys us on a fundamental economic and social level, even philosophical, you might say, that these appliances require replacements. Our parents had appliances that lasted them a lifetime. So do our older friends. It’s irritating that America has succumbed to this new and wasteful approach.
Meanwhile, I’ll call the Roomba folks tomorrow.
I wasn’t satisfied with how things were going last month. I was in a tunnel, that tunnel shaped my life and attitude. There were no lights in my tunnel. Changes were needed to provide me a light to look to at the end of the tunnel. So, on a whim in August, unmentioned to anyone, I sought to make five changes.
My decision to stop drinking quad-shot mochas during my writing routine at the coffee shop freaked my barista buddies. I had to assure them, it wasn’t them, it was me. I didn’t explain why, though, just ordering black coffee. I’ve had two mochas since August 27, when I stopped, but they were of the weak Starbucks variety, which is more like mild hot chocolate than anything else, and were accepted when another bought them for me.
To re-evaluated priorities, I had to change how I approached blogging and my Fitbit activities. I’d become almost obsessive compulsive about establishing goals for them and following through. I had to remind myself, they’re not as important as other life matters. I blog far less. My daily Fitbit goals are met, but they’re the last item of focus.
Re-balancing myself required the biggest effort. I posted about it in The Resentful Writer.
I’m not and wasn’t a ‘big’ drinker. I liked having a glass of red wine in the evening. I stopped it. I haven’t had wine, except at one dinner, in three weeks. I reduced my beer intake. I enjoyed a beer when my wife and I went out to eat, so I took a pass a few times, and I forsook my Wednesday evenings spent having a beer with friends.
The apple cider vinegar was last. I think it’s the most drastic step. I’m frustrated with my digestive system. I’d recently read about the Kansas City Chiefs, an American pro football team. They like pickle juice as an electrolyte. A few days later, a friend told me that her late husband loved pickles, so she had a huge stash of pickles of different varieties, and she doesn’t like pickles. I told her about the Chiefs and pickle juice, and she reciprocated by remarking that people often come up with interesting remedies, such as apple cider vinegar. She couldn’t remember what people drink it for. I made a note to look it up later. The results I found enticed me to try it.
Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Michael Seidel, writer 