Well, I’m a Paypal user. I received that message. I immediately deleted it.
I wasn’t being brilliant. I usually don’t complete or make the user profile that services, accounts, and apps want. They’re often asking for information that I don’t want to share. Screw that, is my heartful, enduring attitude toward such entreaties.
In this case, it might have saved me. Or maybe, I think, it really saved me again. I’m frequently urged to finish my profile, create a profile, or update a profile. As far as I’m concerned, they deserve and need what I gave them, and nothing more.
I’ve known my sister-in-law for over fifty-five years. We get along great. She’s been married three times, has two children, and has had three boyfriends that I’ve met. She’s also a successful businesswoman. I wasn’t sure what to expect from her new BF, Norm. We had learned little about him. Here are the results.
A Florida resident for most of his life, he still lives there, but now in a Key West condo. Originally moved there from western Pennsylvania when he was twelve years old in 1967. We found out he lived in the same general area as me when both of us lived in Pennsylvania as boys. A year plus older, we ended up with much in common via classic rock and musical preferences, along with politics. He’s not much of a reader, but he believes, as I do, that Justified is an excellent TV show. Married twice, with a son and daughter and a granddaughter, along with four sisters.
An avid golfer and fisherman, he roots for all pro sports in which Pittsburgh, PA, has a team playing. He’s almost fanatical about the Pittsburgh Steelers, which is the team I root for.
Norm didn’t shy away from having a drink. Beer is his go-to preference. He doesn’t like lagers or IPAs. I introduced him to Caldera Brewing’s porters, Mogli and Pilot Rock. They happen to be two of my favorites. He declared them as excellent.
He worked as a wastewater engineer in Florida, retiring after 27 years with one plant. He’s pretty passionate about it, too. He retired when he was sixty and then had triple bypass surgery.
An outraged anti-Trumper, he’s been involved with the Everglades for a long time, working to keep it preserved. So he was very informed about what was going on with Alligator Alcatraz and was passionately anti Gov. ‘DeSatan’. He’s also a fan of Southpark and their brutal take on Paramount, Trump, and the right-wing.
The way that Mr Mackey is hired by ICE, his ‘orientation’, and the depiction of Kristi Noem is so bloody sharp and satirical.
We had a good time. Kept very busy but he was interested in all things Ashland and Oregon, and displayed charm and intelligence.
Oppressive humidity is doing in the morning. Not overly high humidity in the general sense. We’re just not used to humidity here.
It’s Frida, September 5, 2025. Temperature is 72 F but it feels warmer and less comfortable due to the humidity. We’ll peak in the low 90s today, unlike yesterday, when we clashed with 97 F.
My sister-in-law and her boyfriend arrived. Although they came in from Florida, they weren’t prepared for the heat. They’d been on the coast, then went inland to see the redwoods, and talked about the 30-degree temperature change they experienced in a short time and distance. The boyfriend, a year or two my senior, then asked as we walked around, “Can we go to somewhere with air-conditioning and sit down for a pint?” He’s an amiable individual. An engineer, we discovered that he and I grew up in Pittsburgh suburbs about four miles of each other. We’re both Steeler football fans. Besides three pints, he drank a tumbler of scotch during the space of dinner and the next two hours.
They’re sleeping in this morning after doing a lot of driving and traveling over the past three days. Once they call, we’ll take them somewhere local for food and then do local sightseeing.
I saw the jobs report this morning. Funny that firing the BLS person responsible for the last dismal jobs report didn’t change the dismal numbers. Just 22,000 jobs added. Oh, my. Not looking good for Trump’s economy. These hard numbers are backing up the anecdotes we’re hearing about business chains closing locations, small and medium businesses shuttering their doors, layoffs being announced. Lots of FAFO stories emerging. Of course, that could be the news services which I frequent catering to my interests and attitudes, at least to some degree. I try vesting such info as best as I can but that’s a challenge in this digital era.
Today’s music arrived from a confluence of events. One, Papi and I were out last night. I first was checking the moon, then looking for spaceships. Papi accompanied me. I’m not sure what he was checking out. Then, I dreamed that I was cooking. The meal was coming out looking good and smelled good. It was being done in this strange little apartment. But as I was cooking, several Russians stopped by. They were mostly talking to my wife but also addressing questions to me. This annoyed and distracted me.
The net of this, as I recalled last night and the dream, is that The Neurons rose up with a Jackson Browne song called “Lawyers in Love”. A satirical song about U.S. politics, consumerism, and U.S. pop culture, its lyrics feature both Russians and spaceships. I enjoy the song, but many friends thought it odd when it came out. Of course, that’s precisely why I enjoyed it.
I can’t keep up with what’s been going on I think my heart must just be slowing down Among the human beings in their designer jeans Am I the only one who hears the screams And the strangled cries of lawyers in love
God sends his spaceships to America, the beautiful They land at six o’clock and there we are, the dutiful Eating from TV trays, tuned in to Happy Days Waiting for World War III while Jesus slaves To the mating calls of lawyers in love
Last night I watched the news from Washington, the capitol The Russians escaped while we weren’t watching them, like Russians will Now we’ve got all this room, we’ve even got the moon And I hear the U.S.S.R. will be open soon As vacation land for lawyers in love
I find it humorous and love the musical flourishes which reflect different eras of pop music.
Time to rock and roll another day away. Hope that grace and peace finds and guides you. Have the best Frida possible. Cheers
I was in the kitchen, looking for a dropped blueberry. “What are you doing?” my wife asked as she came around the corner.
“I lost a blueberry. Do you see a blueberry on the floor?”
“No.” She and I squinted at the hardwood floor together. “You sure you lost i?”
“Pretty sure.” I missed Quinn. Anything hit the floor and black paws was after it fast. Almost everything scared him but he was always willing to approach and sniff before giving things a bat. His ability to spot these things was useful. Papi, on the other hand, has no interest in anything falling on the ground. I once dropped some treats on the floor to see what he would do. He sat and stared at the treat before turning a puzzled expression onto me.
Without Quinn, I could not find the blueberry. Nor could my wife. While I had her, I asked, “Should I change?” We were going to dinner. I was rocking light grey slacks and a white shirt.
Her eyes went nuclear. “Absolutely. Go put on your nice blue shirt.”
She walked off.
I looked down. Something was on the floor. I picked it up. Piece of granola. I remembered dropping it two days ago. I couldn’t find it.
Probably find the blueberry in two more days. I certainly can’t depend on Papi.
PINO Donald J. Trump is in ill health. Some of it has been admitted. We’re guessing at more.
His diet has never been a poster for healthy eating. That seems to be catching him and taking him down via obesity and chronic venous insufficiency. That latter is what they say he has. But basically, his swollen ankles point toward edema or lymphedema. Probably both. The point about any edema variation is that it’s usually an indicator of other failures, like heart, kidneys, or liver, and poor circulation. To combat the edemas requires changing diets, drinking more water while sucking up less soda, and exercising more. I don’t think the Trumpster has the discipline to do any of those things.
If he doesn’t change, he’ll get sicker. That will accelerate as he slides down the death rail at an increasingly faster rate. As he does, TACO will get flakier and more erratic, IMO. He’ll start doing wilder and more impulsive things to distract others from his impending demise. Always one to bloviate about his health and capabilities, never willing to admit a weakness or flaw, getting body slammed with sickness, diseases, and declining energy and abilities is sure to trigger him in bigly ways. And whatever happens, he’ll keep denying, denying, denying. That’s one reason why he won’t change his ways.
But he’ll keep up with his Trumpy style, bullying others, acting like a king, lashing out to gain greater fame and adulation, begging for a Nobel Peace Prize, bragging about how great and wonderful he is. Who knows what he’ll do with the military, economy, foreign relations, and the U.S. in general then. He’ll probably do something which he thinks is brilliant. The fawning sycophants surrounding him won’t tell him otherwise. The rest of us will probably be horrified.
So strap in and hang on. The Trump ride of horrors is probably gonna get weird.
Jill Dennison posted some wonderful toons on her site. I have to share them. I will note my favorites. You should check them out and see which ones talk to you. Cheers
My wife does a lot of scrolling. Not just doom scrolling, but also watching animal, political, and humor videos. She also reads a lot and constantly prowls for more books for her TBR list.
Today she was listening to Kristen Key talking about Buffalo Wings and other matters in Buffalo, NY. I found it funny and interesting and thought, let’s share this with the world. Socialize Kristen Key’s humor. Let us all laugh a bit. Hope you enjoy it as much as me.
I have routines. Mostly moored in sanity and routine, they help me navigate days and night and months, seasons, and years.
The regular recurring four dominate: dressing, eating, exercising writing. Dressing is actually showering, shaving, brushing my teeth, all that. We just call it dressing in our household. Why get bogged down in details? Same with eating. I’m talking about three meals, snacks, etc. All aimed in a healthy direction, based on medical limitations and bodily needs. Cooking or procuring food is part of ‘eating’.
Writing, ditto, is just something burned into every day’s DNA. I passed on it while vacationing recently, a grueling time for me. I kept writing in my head. That’s an activity that takes me out of the moment. So I made fast notes, lopped off the process, and pressed myself back into local, ‘real-world’ events, like going for a walk at sunset and admiring the waves.
But I also have a habit of deciding what three things I will do besides those things. It’s a mental list I assign myself as I talk to my wife and walk around the house each morning. Weather and other plans are taken into account. Like yesterday’s three things was hanging this new hook we purchased to drape a towel on in the bathroom, then dusting and polishing all the wood cabinets and furniture in the kitchen, dining room, foyer, and living room, and tidying paperwork. Today is a lazier day. Wash and shine the car, gas up my wife’s car, yardwork. A bonus offering is clean off some pint containers and drop them off at a friend’s place.
I’ll also read. Surf the net for news and read some fiction. That, too, is just part of my current DNA. Do both of those every day. Pet the cat, of course. Clean up after him. Also DNA-driven. He enforces it, though. Oh, and take a walk. Do that daily as well. Just who I am.
In the first dream, I was traveling with friends and my wife. A small group, I don’t know the travel’s purpose nor the means. At one point, we encountered a storm. Seeking refuge, we found a house. The house unlocked. We went inside. It was solid, warm and comfortable, but completely unfurnished. There was one book in there. A soft-cover trade book, it was open to a page.
We decided we’d stay there and outwait the storm. Meanwhile, we each went by and checked out the book. I don’t recall any name, title, or colors associated with it. But when we each read the book, we discovered it was different for each of us. I thought it was a thriller/adventure. Someone else thought it was a cookbook. Another deemed it a book of poetry. I read through the book quickly but when I came back to look at it again, it was a different book. It looked exactly as it had and was still open to a page, but its contents were completely different.
We’d stayed in the house longer than planned. Although no food was there, we didn’t get hungry. In fact, we were all in very good moods. Despite the lack of furniture, we were well rested. But we decided to move on if the weather was good. The weather was good. After going out and looking around, I realized we were in a different location. Another noticed that the season was changed. Trying to figure out what was going on, we went back into the house. Through testing and talking, we concluded that the house was a time machine and also moved through space. (Yes, like Doctor Who‘s TARDIS, except this was a house, not a phone box.)
A young couple, people we didn’t know, arrived. Like us, they were taking refuge from a storm, We decided not to tell them what we’d learned, to see what they discovered on their own. Then we’d compare notes.
Dream end.
In the second dream, my wife and I were sitting at a small metal table by the side of a road. Another woman was with us. We were chatting. The table was right off the road’s shoulder and the road was lousy with traffic. At one point, my wife saw a big box truck coming. As it went by, she said, “Oh, there’s the artichoke man. I want to catch him and tell him something.”
Leaping up, she ran after the truck. I was wondering if she caught him and what she was telling him, when a second artichoke truck, identical to the first, roared up the road. This was on a hill and a tight curve. He was going way too fast. The driver slammed on his brakes. He went into a skid and fishtailed hard into a hillside. My wife’s body went flying through the air. She landed on some rocks on her back, her head dangling backwards, unmoving.
I leaped up. A car went by, down the hill, oblivious to the scene. Shouting at the person at the table, “Call 911, call 911,” I looked up the hill. People were running to help the truck driver and another car involved in the accident. I sprinted toward my wife, thinking, I’ll check for her pulse and look for breathing, but I don’t think I should move her.
Michael Seidel, writer 