

Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Yes, it’s a little early in the week for a rant, but here I am.
In July of 2023, Twitter was renamed X. Since then, there are many who still write things like, “X, formerly known as Twitter,” or some variation of that.
Do those posting that really think people need reminded? Are there people out there asking, “Say, whatever happened to Twitter? And what is this ‘X’?” Are people reading those posts and articles where it’s written, “X (formerly known as Twitter),” and then turning to others with a gasp of surprise and asking, “Did you know that Twitter is called X now?”
How many more months will pass before this trend ends? Do we need to have a New Year resolution about it?
Between Donald Trump refusing — well, backing out of testifying at his trial — and refusing to debate opponents after avoiding military service decades ago, he’s really a solid coward in my eyes. Others share that opinion, like DeSantis, Ben Meiselas, Dick Cheney, Mary Trump, Adam Kinzinger, Chris Christie, my wife, most of my family, many net friends, and my beer buddies.
I don’t understand why people support such a coward. It’s like such supporters embrace and cheer cowardice as an American value.
Mood: anticipation
Ah, Sunday, December 10, 2023. The fog has lifted and spread out into a thin layer in some northern spaces of the valley. Break out the rain gear again, though, as more is on the way. Also be sure to wear some warm clothes. 34 F now, cloudy skies and a chance of 50 F as the high in Ashlandia, where the people can be pretty remarkable, sometimes.
It’s concert weekend. Rogue Valley Symphonic concert has their holiday offering going on, as to the Siskiyou singers. My wife attended the latter’s concert yesterday, one of three, and we’ll hit the symphonic offering today. Then the RVS has a thank you/support by invitation event, for $20, at a local store. I’m not attending that, as the store offers substantial discounts and I’m not a shopping individual, so my wife and a friend who likes shopping will be attending. Later this week is a friend’s 75 birthday celebration, and then a tradition Swedish smorgabord is scheduled for Saturday. There’s a lot of food to be eaten this week.
The Neurons had nothing in the morning mental music stream (Trademark eaten by the dog), so I turned to the net. I found an article on the NYTimes called, “Best Songs of 2023”. First up is Allison Russell with “Eve Was Black”. I’d never heard of it or it, which embarresses me. Looking it up, I enjoyed it, so I’m offering it to you. I’m offering a recording of her playing it live at Farm Aid 2023, as I like seeing the musicians’ skills on display. It is different from the studio version, so I added it, too, after some thought. Hope you enjoy the song as much as I did.
Be safe, stay positive, and leeeaaannn forward. Coffee is in hand — I’ve even had a few sips. Here’s the video. Cheers
I was in my primary coffee shop yesterday, writing away in a corner and deeply involved with what I was doing. Even with that true, I’d followed who arrived and left, where they were and what they were doing. It was a habit or talent I’d developed while young. It’d become bolstered first by military counter-terrorist training and situational awareness, and then fostered more as I leaned in to writing fiction and honed my observational skills.
Left was a man who seemed about five years older than me, putting him in his early seventies. He was a regular at both of my coffee haunts. Striking me as a lonely person, I’d witnessed him start conversations with others. When I overheard them, the topic was usually novels he’d read or novels the other was reading.
Rising from the chair he’d settled into, he approached the early twentyish woman on my right. Another regular but not as frequent as me, she was familiar to me. I’d seen the other man talk to her a few times. He greeted her as a friend and she reacted in kind. They began talking about books and his recent visit to a bookstore.
The coffee house manager went to them. I didn’t hear what was being said, but it ended with her escorting him out. After he was gone, I saw the shift lead go talk to the manager. Again, nothing was heard. The shift lead returned to her spot behind the counter, and then the manager approached the young woman the man had been talking with.
After giving her name and explaining her position, the manager asked, “Do you know that man?”
“No, not really. He’s spoken to me before.”
“Well, I came over because we’ve had complaints about men approaching young women such as yourself without being invited. Some feel threatened and believe that the man was trying to groom them or other young women, so we felt we needed to act.”
The woman thanked her and the manager went away.
I sat, reflecting on all sides of this, wondering exactly what was true and real, respecting the coffee shop’s position but understanding the man’s loneliness. Yet, I didn’t know if he was grooming. I don’t know his intentions. And then, there are other men who may have approached young females to groom them. It can be an insidious world.
I mentioned it all to my wife, who reminded me, “Woman are often socialized to be friendly when a man approaches. It’s hard for them to say no to them or rebuff them. That’s just how we’re still taught through movies and television shows, and the things we see. Men are in power and are to be respected is what we’re taught, and it’s hard to break the habits that come from that training.
I understand that, too, and thought of my own position when I go into the coffee shop to write. I’m friendly with staff but not other customers. While I want to be friendly with others, my natural inclination, I decided that I need to not be friendly with other regulars; I’m there to write, and the time that I’ve carved out for that is precious. Despite observing so many who seem desperate or hungry for social interations, I do so with regret but remain firm about it.
We’ve followed long and tortured paths to come to these moments of who we are.
The writing center — known by everyone other than him as a cofffee shop — had a full parking lot. With past experience as a guide, he thought that getting a prime writing table* wouldn’t be possible. Head for number two, he ordered his brain, which delivered the message to his body, which set his car on the required course.
Coffee shop number two was packed. He selected a tertiary choice location with plans to move to a better spot when one opened, and joined the short line to acquire the necessary hot and dark magic water that helped stimulate his writing efforts. As he stood there, movement flickered in his eyes’ left periphery. Leaning a little, he confirmed, people were leaving a prime space. Hustling followed as he relocated his gear and thanked the coffee gods.
The place, he realized as he picked up his coffee, was packed. Every table, prime or not, was in use. Both conversation pits were filled, and almost all the window bar seats were engaged. Five baristas in black outfits worked in mechanical precision behind the wood-encased retail island to restock food and dishware, prepare orders, take, or deliver them. About fifty people filled the small business.
The place’s warm hum keyed his sentimental side. Such a friendly, happening scene. While a few patrons were like him, solitary animals focused on keyboards, staring at phones, or reading books, most people were chatting and laughing in twos and threes as they ate breakfast sandwiches and pastries and sipped coffee drinks, chai, or tea. The scene made his heart swell three times its normal size.
Then he sipped his coffee twice — once to sample it, the second time to more fully appreciate its warm, bitter flavor, put his head down and started typing. An hour later, he looked up and smiled as he gazed across the quiet, almost empty place. Music unheard over the previous rattle and hum was audible. The baristas were reduced to two, and plenty of seats and tables were available. Take your pick.
How quickly things could change.
*The prime writing space is a table or counter with space for a laptop, mouse, and coffee, a chair, and an outlet, and is located two to three feet away from others for privacy and isolation.
My wife and I are fumbling around plans to move to the northeastern US. Part of that is researching locales and checking out houses on real estate sites. Some of the interior decor ideas startle us, and not in good ways. We’ve always preferred lighter colors on our walls. Seeing them in cherry red, lemon yellow, and apple green — not infrequently in the same room — takes our breath away. We remind ourselves, it’s just paint.
Several facets strike us about these homes with brightly painted walls. They seem to be older homes, and they seem like they’re in places where cold, long winters are endured. Just saying.
Rain showers the street and sidewalks outside the coffee shop windows. Between the clouds and rain, gray smothers the day like swaths of gray flannel.
The coffee shop is cold. It’s always cold when the sun ain’t cracking through to brighten and warm us. Despite wearing a fleece jacket, I’m shivering, and my hands are cold. My wife, who suffers Renaud’s disease, would be in misery.
And I had to pee again. I finally decided to seek the answer about why I pee more often when I’m cold and did a search.
“Cold-induced diuresis,” thenakedscientists.com on the net informed me, basically an increase in urine due to more blood being filtered due to vasoconstriction to conserve heat, more or less.
At least I know the reason now. At least my laptop’s keyboard warms my fingertips a little. How we artists must suffer.
Do you ever imagine that invisibile beings surround you, watching what you’re doing when you’re in your home alone, commenting on it to each other?
They seem to come in three flavors: aliens from space, time travelers from the future, and deceased individuals — especially family — returned as spirits. What they say and how they watch varies, depending upon which group they’re in, and their intentions.
So, for example, aliens crowd around you in the kitchen as you clean up, remarking upon the cultural significance of your routine, applauding your efficiency (or lack of it), comparing it to their own processes and habits.
No? You never have this happen?
Yeah, neither do I.
I awoke feeling tired and realized I’d gotten about six hours of sleep. Wasn’t real concerned as that’s been my norm for years. But I usually don’t feel tired, and I wondered if it had to do with aging, as I’m now sniffing on the border of being 68. So I thought, yes, this is probably the case.
When I went into the office, cranked up the ‘puter and turned to the NYTimes this morning after breakfast, the first story spotted was, “Why Does Sleep Become More Elusive As We Age” in Salon. I don’t think sleep is my issue per se, but rest. Still, it made me feel like they were spying on my private thoughts.
I wouldn’t be surprised if another story emerges soon, “Why Do We Get More Paranoid About Being Spied On When We Age” soon.