This Thanksgiving through Cyber Monday – let’s make our dollars count. We’re asking Americans to hit pause on shopping from major corporations.
JOIN US ON NOV. 27TH – DEC. 1ST, 2025
Target
Target has rolled back their DEI initiatives, which included ending programs that help Black employees advance, cutting financial support for Black-Owned businesses, and removing LGBTQ+ products from their stores.
Amazon
Amazon holds a monopolistic position in the market, contributes to dangerous working conditions for its employees and drivers, and CEO Jeff Bezos has donated over $1 million to this administration.
Home Depot
Home Depot is allowing ICE agents to illegally detain and kidnap laborers from their stores. The laborers in our communities are not able to look for work safely.
How to Participate
Full Black Out: Don’t buy anything from Target, Amazon or Home Depot stores during this week. Use the time and money to connect with those you love, and rediscover what matters.
Redirect Spending: Skip the companies undermining democracy. Shop small, local, or with businesses affirming our humanity.
Join the Movement: Pledge to be a conscious consumer.
Amplify: Spread the word. Share the message in conversation and online.
The coffee shop will be closed on Thanksgiving Day. That’s the bottom line to this. To me, great. Be with family or friends or whatever works in your sphere.
No, my problem is in their poster announcing their closure. They say they’re closed Thanksgiving Day.
On November 26.
Umm, hello? That’s today. Tomorrow, Thursday, Thanksgiving, is November 27.
Being the anal fellow I am, The Neurons forced me to mention it to the staff. And yeah, as I told The Neurons, the staff knew. But they were okay, because they were emphasizing that they were closed on Thanksgiving, regardless of the date. Nobody else had mentioned the error, if it was noticed.
It’s okay. Last year, Thanksgiving was on the 28th. Next year, it should be on the 26th, and then the signs will be okay. The Neurons aren’t happy about it, but then again, they’re rarely happy.
I was in a store with friends. This clean, mostly white, and well-lit place was like a fancy grocery store. No friends from real life were present but the people there were all known to me as friends. I knew that we were there for the second time. The first time, we’d made minor purchases. Liking the place, we returned to buy more.
So, we’re in line to pay, and we’re comparing how much our purchases will probably cost. Most of what we’re buying is food, especially cheese and bread, it seems like. The owner, a young and petite white woman with black curly hair and red lips, is behind a counter ringing up purchases.
I estimate to my friends that I’m buying several hundred dollars of food. Then it’s my turn and I step up to pay but the owner waves me off. She tells me that she knows who I am, that I’m a writer that she admires, and that she loves my books. I’m perplexed as I’ve only self-published a few books and had a few stories sold, so I tell her that I think she’s thinking of someone else. No, she insists, she knows me, knows who I am, and I will never need to pay for anything in her store. Her insistence stirs guilt in me; that’s not the way the system is supposed to work. I’m also flattered but doubtful. We talk more; she stays on point. I surrender and walk out without paying.
I’m in RoCo. It’s my new favorite coffee place, an old house converted to a business on the corner of 8th Avenue and East Main Street.
Every table is in use. Many regulars are in attendance. Like me, at a table, computer open. My eyes and ears are open even as I read, think, and type. Wonderful community and social energies swirl through the room like a strong, happy breeze. I love the noise and action, enjoy looking up at the faces, glancing at the fashion.
Most clients are, ahem, ‘my age’. They look like, ahem, boomers, like me. I’ll be seventy next year. I think I’m in the middle of the age spectrum here. Sure, there are so younger outliers. Teenagers who look like they’re wearing colorful fleece pajamas come in as pairs, order, take their stuff and leave. A few twenty-somethings, thirtyish, and fortyish folks are partaking of drink and food, chatting with others, reading, so forth. Hoka shoes are spotted on many, the shoes of my people. Columbia sportwear and Patagonia dominates. They’re the clothes of my tribe, but this is Oregon, where some of that stuff is produced, and where Columbia is headquartered, up north, west of Portland. Two children, about ten, are also present with an older woman. The children are on ice cream on this chilly, foggy, autumn day. The weather doesn’t daunt them from enjoying a cold but sweet treat.
The baristas take orders, prepare, and serve, all laughing and chatting as they do. Regulars come in and get greeted by name, including Sugar the dog, who waves their tail in happiness and await their standard treat.
Sunshine has burst through outside. Cold air storms me as the doors open and close. This is the United States, Oregon, Ashlandia, in 2025.
We’re Gloomsville today, Munda, November 24, 2025. Fog is squatting on us with a chilly, gray ambiance. Sunshine took a look and said, “Pass,” for the morning. Warmer today than yesterday, 44 F, we’re hoping to plumb 60. Such a winter feel soaks the air that I wouldn’t be surprised if Frosty the Snowman strutted down past my house.
Yet this all feels like many childhood Thanksgivings in the Pittsburgh area where I spent my elementary and junior high school years. We’d be released from school for the holiday and rush into this stuff, noses red and running above our grinning mouths. Eyes sparkling, we’d ask one another, “What do you want to do?” Because we were free! And also because we knew good food was coming. Yes, some restrictions would also rise up about how to behave and dress for the good times as the larger mass of family, the ones we only saw a few times a year, all came together. Wish I could recover some of that youthful hopefulness and energy but the weight of too many events in too many years tamps it down tight. All that remains are reflections.
Sunda was spent celebrating another friend’s 78th. We treated them to dinner and then retired to their home for a few hours of Mexican Train, because that’s what she wanted to do. Phone calls of others interrupted out time, but that induced smiles instead of resentment. Good to know she was well thought of by so many friends and relatives that they took time to call.
My post today is late as it was our turn for our monthly Food & Friends deliveries. A smaller list this time. We wondered about the absentees and wished them the best. Then my wife suggested breakfast out somewhere. Although I’d eaten breakfast, I agreed because I know this as one of her favorite things to do. I’m still cautious and mindful about what I consume, eating in moderation and then monitoring my bod for problems.
Today’s song is “Man in A Box”. This is a 1991 grunge song by Alice in Chains. It’s a song about censorship and government restrictions, and was inspired by the songwriter learning how veal was produced via calves kept in cages. Later interviews, band members said that the song’s inspiration was derived from how the media worked in conjunction with the government to control the story. We’re all familiar with that, aren’t we. So, as I was reading the news this morning, The Neurons came up with this song.
I last played this in July of 2024, when we were still hopeful that people would Vote Blue. Not enough did. “The economy,” they cried. Now look where we’re at.
There was cause for some show and victory celebrations today. That would be the dismissal of the Comey and James prosecutions because the prosecutor was not lawfully appointed. I suspect that this will be challenged and end up at the Roberts Court. Odds there probably favor the Trump Regime. I write that because I don’t think the Roberts Court is overly invested in law, precedence, or the Constitution. The majority are more about right-wing ideology.
Next food for musing came from news about a new investigation.
This is all about the video released the other day that urged military members not to obey illegal orders, reminding them that they swore an oath to the Constitution. I’m retired military; I fully understand what was in that video. I suspect Senator Kelly is like me and probably laughed, saying, “Bring it on!” This advice is continuously given to military members. Ain’t nothing new. That it’s a military veteran and senator, and Democrat giving that advice, along with other Democrats and veterans doesn’t change that it’s anything new or unique. It’s just timely, needed advice, given the Trump Regime’s propensity for lying, ignoring the law, and attacking people and encouraging violence against others based on political stances. We always address following and obey lawful orders, as called out in the Uniform Code of Military Justice, or UCMJ. We learn that in initial training sessions and it’s reinforced multiple times in training sessions while in the military. It’s a serious matter, and that’s how we treat it.
Peace and grace ain’t here yet but I still light a candle in the window. Meanwhile, coffee up and carry on, or if you’re not part of coffee nation, whatever bevie works for you. Here we go again, once more into the foggy sunny windy chilly warming autumn winter day. Cheers
“My name is Brenda,” I said, with a touch of happy humor.
My current coffee haunt is RoCo. The local Food Co-Op owns RoCo. Members of the co-op, we get a dividend back from the co-op at the year’s end. And guess what? All you need to do is give the RoCo barista your name and number. That’s what I was doing.
“Is Brenda your wife, Michael?” Kat asked.
“Yes.” I released a small scoff. “The funny thing is, she doesn’t go by Brenda. She uses a name that she made up a long time ago, so it always makes us laugh when we reveal our account name.”
Kat grinned through the entire tale. “I like that.”
It’s the small things which give us spirit, innit?
Here comes the fog, do do do do do. Yes, ’tis a foggy Frida, November 21, 2025. Temp is hanging on to 33 F but we expect a rise to 52 F. Then we’ll be smokin’ with gas. Or something.
Political and economic news just seems to get worse. Trump and his regime continue to amaze with how low into the muck they’ll lower themselves. Trump is setting another deadline for Putin and Russia. I believe Putin will skip by that. Tell me if you think otherwise. Far as I can see, Putin continually games Trump because Trump has weakened the United States and its military alliances by his dumbfuckery. Putin knows that. He’ll be all smiley and sweet to Trump’s face but knows that Trump is a bully and a coward and shies away from real confrontation. Yet, Dizzy Donny, in his altered world, considers himself, brave, strong, powerful, smart. So trumplusional. That’s a level of delusion when the truth can’t be acknowledged even when it slams into your face and breaks your nose and cheekbones.
Today’s music comes from Sublime. It seems fog related. That’s my guess. My evidence is that I was looking out the window and remarking to myself about how the fog reduces visibility to the point that it feels and looks like we’re on an island. At around that point, The Neurons turned “Badfish” on in the morning mental music stream, starting with the line, “Won’t somebody get me off of this reef?”
Grace and peace might be out there, hidden in the fog. Or not. Not out there, I mean. Hope they come soon. Meanwhile, yes, coffee. Strong, black, as pure as it can be made with modern processes. Say no more. Here we go, once more into the breach. Cheers
It’s a sunny but pale blue sky heavy with chilly hair outside my windows. Sunshine coats the rooms but the heating system works against the tilting, spinning, revolving Earth’s travel through space. It’s gettin’ colder here. Winter is on the way. 42 F today, 52 F is our high after a night of light rain.
Power outage struck at ten fifteen PM. It was to last three hours. Social media kept us informed. No, not the city, or emergency services, or the power company, or any official outlet. Those were mute. This was off hours, don’t you know? Nobody works on social media for any city org during night’s darkness. Nope, it was neighbors on FB and NextDoor sharing where power was out, the probable cause and the city’s estimate for when it would be back up. One had learned the last by calling the power company. Overall, we all refrained from calling the company because we knew it was a wide outage and we knew they were busy. But we hungered for information. Social media filled that gap.
The Neurons have “Breakdown Dead Ahead by Boz Skaggs going in the morning mental music stream. This is in direct response about 1) stories of Trump losing his grip (along with tangential questioning about who will run the GOP with Trump gone) and 2), the fucked-up place where We the People stand. Thanks to the Roberts Court, Project 2025, aided in some part by the super wealthy who own media chains and outlets, we’re drifting further and further from a nation of equality and freedom. A twisted form of ‘Christianity’ is being given a pass to the detriment of other religions. Prices are rising, affordability is falling, and the regulations which worked to give us fresh air and water and healthy food choices are being shoved aside.
Meanwhile, yes, since the Trump Epstein shutdown has ended, and the Trump files — sorry, it was a slip — the Epstein files are being released. CNN has pointed out the massive loophole to that. Basically, anything ‘under current investigation’ is exempted from being released. And who makes that call? The Trump AG and DOG. That loophole aligns with the suspicion many of us carry that the Trump Regime will not let the full truth out and will protect Dizzy Donny. As my wife summarizes in her succinct way, “Oh, we knew it was going to be dirty.”
The truth of what happened with the four smirkers is still out there, waiting to be uncovered.
I’ve checked the front and back entries. No peace and grace out there. Don’t know when they’ll show. They haven’t been answering my outreach. Tried emails, texts, phone calls, and there’s nothing. It’s like the Trump Regime has disappeared peace and grace. Meanwhile, I comfort myself with hot, black coffee. Okay, here we go, boiz and gurlz. Cheers
I thought EB was in love with me. She’s a very sweet small dog with wavy caramel and white fur. Her people say, “She’s a bit of every cattle dog you can think of.” I thought EB was in love with me because of the way she was staring up at me.
Her person said from beside me in the coffee shop, “I’m sorry, she has a staring problem.”
I laughed that off. What soon became apparent was that EB loves attention and people love to bestow it on her. Every other person going by stopped to pay an EB fee, loving on the small, sweet pup.
Then Sugar entered. Sugar is a ‘service dog’. Says so on her vest. She’s a coffee shop regular. The staff knows her and spoils her with treats.
Sugar and EB met nose to nose, tails going with enough propellor motion that take-off seemed imminent. After permitted to converse a bit, Sugar was led across the room with her people where she rested by a table.
Didn’t end there. Sugar and EB eyed one another across the floor with a quiet wistfulness, like teenagers longing to know one another. “Why are they keeping us apart?” their eyes asked.
Both eventually gave up, settling down to sleep under tables, part of the brisk and lively coffee shop scene.
