Sunshine abounds outside the hotel window. It’s up to 38 F, a rise from the 32 it was when I took an early morning walk. Didn’t feel that cold when I walked. I wasn’t out long. Maybe that’s all part of how the weather ‘feels’.
It’s October 26, 2025, the day of Mom’s birthday do. We visited her yesterday. Early hours found her sleepy, lethargic, sluggish. She wrapped herself in a blanket, put her feet up, and napped in her wheelchair. A few sixties later, she was lively and alert, and gobbled down a couple pieces of pizza.
Which delivers me to this morning’s music. We visited Mom’s house yesterday, our third swing by it to pick up things for Mom. The inside was in disarray, partly from Frank’s fail, but added by Mom’s bug out to sister’s house, and Frank’s family descending to grab and remove anything that might of been of value that belonged to Frank. I tidied a bit but then stepped out. A storm had swept through a few months ago, wrecking the side porch and taking down trees and branches. It looked so starkly different, like a forecast of the emptiness that was coming to the house.
All that in me head, and The Neurons responded, “Time, time, time, look what you’ve done to me.” Just like that, The Bangles’ cover of the Simon & Garfunkel offering, “A Hazy Shade of Winter”, rolled through the mental music stream, staying strong into the morning.
Off to Mom’s old house to pick up more necessities. May peace and grace leaped up and grab you in a bear hug and hold on tight. Cheers
Six AM Thirstda was approaching. We were flying north.
I told my wife, “I’m closing my eyes for a minute.” The Neurons piggybacked into the morning mental music stream with “Dream Weaver” but it didn’t keep.
Neither did keeping my eyes closed. I read for a while, drank coffee, ate the cookies the airline provided.
Funny, getting those cookies. Hundreds of dollars were paid for these seats. This attendant comes along and bends down with a tray and asks, like we’re children, “Would you like a cookie?”
Oh, yes, please!
Descent into SeaTac was been announced. The eastern sky faced me. Molten orange was knifing through the space between a dark stiletto of clouds and the horizon. Then, left – north – a white slice hooked my vision.
Shooting star!
I probably felt the same excitement distant forerunners felt when they looked into a dark sky and saw that quick slash of silvery light. Euphoria jumped me. I felt, yeah, that’s a good sign. A good omen.
Frida in Monroeville, PA, a Pittsburgh suburb arrives as a near duplicate of our Ashlandia weather. 49 F now, we expect a mid 50s high.
We had successful and straightforward travel. All went as if designed with us in mind. Cool. But, the hotel, Courtyard by Marriott, is another matter. That’s for another post, I think.
Inflation picked up. Not as much as expected. An Economist article included the idea put forward by many economists that companies are sucking up tariffs for the short term. Their reasoning was that Trump was inconsistent, rolling out tariffs, then pulling them back. Also, companies and countries had found some temporary workarounds. The workarounds are ending as the tariff picture sharpens in focus. They expect it to get worse.
Alongside that, Trump announced he’s no longer negotiating with Canada over tariffs. As befits a person of little understanding of negotiating, tariffs, and history, Trump is whining about ads which Canada had in which Saint Ronnie badmouthed tariffs. Trump, of course, cried, “Fake new!” Naturally, he offers no evidence, instead just screaming in infantile all caps in his trage.
“The ad was for $75,000. They only did this to interfere with the decision of the U.S. Supreme Court, and other courts,” Trump wrote on his social media site. “TARIFFS ARE VERY IMPORTANT TO THE NATIONAL SECURITY, AND ECONOMY, OF THE U.S.A. Based on their egregious behavior, ALL TRADE NEGOTIATIONS WITH CANADA ARE HEREBY TERMINATED.”
Of course, for some reason, the US national deficit shot up a record rate to a record number. Doesn’t have anything to do with PINO Taco, of course. yes, snark.
After a solid day of traveling, a good night of sleep, and some weirdly interesting dreams, The Neurons rewarded me with Pat Benatar singing “Heartbreaker” in the morning mental music stream.
Off to see Mom shortly. First, food somewhere, I think. I’m waiting for my wife to finish dressing before we go about it. Hope peace and grace finishes its break and finds you, me, the nation, and the world in general. Till then, cheers.
Cold and dark outside on this Thirstda morning. We’re in the airport, listening for the call to board, packed close to others in the same situation. Conversations rock and roll, mostly one end of cell calls. I’m ready for more sleep. My wife sits tight against me, watching like a bird, observing with sharp eyes. It’s October 23, 2025. 40 F outside. Our trip home has begun.
Today’s music came out of nowhere. I don’t understand what The Neurons had in mind when the entrance to the morning mental music stream and “Champagne Supernova” by Oasis was allowed to flow in. I think about the words, and that refrain, “Where were you while we were getting high?” I think too, of the exultation that, “But you and I, we live and die, the world’s still spinnin’ round, we don’t know why, why, why, why, why.” I like the song’s flows. It’s soft, reflective gentleness at the beginning, like lapping the waves. The hammering, conflicting guitars challenging one another, escalating with the vocals later. Then the gentle fall at the end as the last line repeats over and over with different inflections, “We were getting high.” It’s all about life and courses, and changes to me, how some things lift us up and other matters dump us, and how we sometimes feel different and alien from others. But almost all of us play with those ideas about ourselves, I think, as we slip and slide on the spectrum of being, of what we are, where we’ve been, and where we’re going.
Goodness, that’s a lot of thinking and typing before having any coffee. Done worn me out.
Thinking about my travel packing this morning. Long ago, I developed a habit of packing my toilet bag a few days before I leave. Then I use my toiletries from it as though I’m in a hotel room. In that way, I sometimes realize something was overlooked, and I’m not rushing through packing it at a later time. This is all my own in that I’ve never read about it, subject to memory limitations. I’ve never mentioned it to others till now, either. Wouldn’t surprise me to learn that others do the same.
Follow me for more tips about drinking beer and coffee.
Cold and shiny Twozda Morning in October. This is 10/23/2025. 46 F in Ashland, the temperature will frolic into the low 70s with the sun’s herding. Fall’s grasp is as firm as ever, with leaves decomposing and dropping while others hang, shimmering in reds and golds.
Sis has moved Mom into her house because of Mom’s repeated falls and inability to care for herself. No one is there to help her at her house, etc. Sis meets with a real estate agent next Tuesday to pull the levers to sell Mom’s house. An estate sale is being established to sell Mom’s furniture and belongings. Not excited to return to this state, and you know what I mean. This is life. But I’m looking forward to seeing family and being in the area of my youth.
In one of Trump’s continuing rampages to show how much he hates the United States, he’s now having the physical building called the White House destroyed. As it was put in a comment on another site, I am volcanically pissed. Breathtaking arrogance. If anything proves that Trump has no sense of history and gives not a jot of shit about anything except himself, this is it. Destroying the house of We the People and replacing it with his own gaudy, cheap imitation of grandeur is disgusting and infuriating. Project 2025 is certainly well pleased and gleeful. Roberts Court is probably shrugging. They let him trample the Constitution with his overweight ego and obese body, why not allow this effrontery? Sure hope all those MAGA are happy too. Isn’t this how love for your nation is shown, by tearing down its heritage?
Approval for him falls. Disapproval for him rises. Strength to stand against him and his regime increases.
A Daily Kos post by Michael Taylor offers solid insights into the Trump Regime’s war against the United States.
Let’s talk about a magic trick. Not the kind with rabbits and hats, but the political kind, where a complex idea is made to vanish, only to be replaced by a simple, monstrous caricature. The latest magicians? Pam Bondi, U.S. Attorney General, and the broader Trump administration, who are attempting to pull off the dangerous illusion of criminalising ANTIFA.
The premise of their act is that ANTIFA is a unified, hierarchical terrorist organisation– a domestic version of ISIS – that can be neatly listed, proscribed, and its members prosecuted. This is a profound and likely deliberate misunderstanding. ANTIFA, short for “anti-fascist,” is not an organisation; it is a political belief and a movement, no more a single entity than “conservatism” or “environmentalism.”
Under cover of criminalizing a concept and calling it an organization, the Trump Regime can attempt to use all of the government’s military and police forces against United States citizens, weakly rationalizing it as part of their fight against ‘antifa’. As Taylor closes:
The real danger isn’t a black-clad protester breaking a window; it’s a government that seeks to break the foundational principle that in America, people are free to believe, and to protest, what they see fit.
Meanwhile, the Epstein Shutdown has moved into its third week, earning Trump’sthird government shutdown in five years of ‘leadership’ as the third longest U.S. government shutdown in history.
Without too much surprise, Trump’s Gaza ceasefire is as successful as Trump University, Trump Steaks, various Trump casinos and hotels, and Trump Air. Trump is a magical enshittifier.
I have The Moody Blues performing “The Story in your Eyes” in the morning mental music stream. Between conversations with Papi as I explain we’ll be going away but his favorite house sitter will be here, and thoughts of Trump’s destruction, and, well, changes in life in general, Les Neurons responded with lines out of the song.
Listen to the tide slowly turning. Wash all our heartaches away. We’re part of the fire that is burning, and from the ashes we can build another day.
May grace and peace get up and going and come around to see how we’re doing. Coffee is making itself familiar to the various body functions. Time to rock it. Time to roll it. Until the next, cheers from Trump and his smirking BFF, Jeffrey Epstein.
My wife and I are traveling east in October to attend Mom’s 90th birthday celebration. I bought my airline tickets this morning. I have twenty-four hours to cancel them without punishment.
Wasn’t a pleasant process. I’ll put it out up front is that part of this is that we do fly first class. It is elitest, I guess, because we can afford it. Not really our choice, though, I’m gonna claim. My wife and I are naturally frugalish. That comes from parents who were tight with pennies, people who emerged from rural areas where the depression lingered a while. They taught us not to waste money. Then, in the military, enlisted in the 1970s through 1990s, we were solid lower middle-class earners. We’re not wealthy but we’re comfortable, yet my wife and I remain ‘natural savers’.
So saying, “Let’s fly first class,” goes against our grain. But, my wife suffers medical conditions. That’s one. Stack the airline propensity to squeeze us into tinier and tinier spaces to minimize their costs and maximize profits and executive bonuses, and you can understand why we spend the cash on first class.
Going first class automatically limits a lot of options. They aren’t many first-class seats. Usually just a few rows. On many aircraft, the last row of first-class seats do not recline or recline only a little. That severely limits the comfort level, in our experience, so that last row is out. Well, usually. That gets complicated. It’s like that on some aircraft and some airlines.
Then there’s the matter of the first row. They typically lack storage. If you’ve flown, you know that the standard storage for people is under the seat in front of them. Guess what the first row lacks? That’s right, a seat in front of you. That means your belongings must be stored elsewhere. Typically, that’s in the overhead bin, but that requires you to get up to get it. Yet if you have bad weather, you can’t just get up and get things at will.
I know, it’s a lot of complaining, isn’t it.
I’m not done.
We live in southern Oregon. Our airport is Medford. It’s a small airport. We’re flying across the nation to Pittsburgh, PA. That means we must go through hubs. San Francisco, Seattle, Salt Lake City, Denver, and Portland are the main hubs for us out of Medford. So, what time do we want to leave?
We’ve learned from nasty past flights that going early is the best option. That’s because so many friggin’ flights get canceled or delayed. Going early gives us more options when things go awry.
Then, though, there are the layover time gaps. One fight offers five hours in an airport. Another offers six minutes between flights. Six minutes. How the hell are you expected to raise from gate to gate in that time? It’s bullshit, innit?
So, those are the basic parameters for trying to cope with cost, times, space, distance, health, comfort, etc. Whatever we do, a long day is guaranteed. The best we can do is try to make it as easy as possible.
Even though the airlines seem to be actively against that sometimes. Label this as first-world blues.
I was traveling on a large boat. It almost seemed like an enormous barge. Rusted and worn with use, it was safe but old, tired, and without comfort. It was also packed with fellow travelers. Most were women. I knew some, and my wife was among them.
The barge sailed on a rippling brown river so wide that the banks couldn’t be seen. We’d been traveling for days and getting close to the end. While many rode along as gossiping, resting passengers, I had a role of keeping things as organized as possible. This had me racing around. I was often on metal walks above the rest, and would look down and see what was going on as I rushed from task to task.
At one point, I was forced to go down among them. I’d stripped off clothing because I was hot. Wearing only my boxer shorts, I couldn’t find my clothes.
I didn’t care. It was important that I go down and do what was needed. My arrival in my underwear drew attention and comments. I shrugged them off. I overhead my wife undertaking explanations about ‘who I was’, but that didn’t matter to me.
Abruptly, we arrived and disembarked in a chaotic surge. I found myself driving a powerful white sedan filled with people. Racing away from the docks on surface streets, I saw a speed limit sign, 80 MPH. Stepping on the accelerator, I merged with traffic onto a huge white cement Interstate. We were going down a short hill through a curve. Ahead was an enormous hill and multiple exits listed. I called out to my wife, who was in the back seat, for instructions about where to go, demanding, “Which exit do I need to take?”
She replied, “I don’t know, I haven’t been paying attention.”
That infuriated me. I wanted to verbally berate her but then thought, why wasn’t I paying attention?
I was with two others. We were on a black and white train. Very long but familiar, I never knew the train’s entirety but understood that it was a bullet train.
Coming into a station, I covertly leaped from the train. My goal was door 503. Reaching it, I slipped in, grabbed a syringe, and hurried back out. Outside, I looked around for authorities. With none seen, I tossed the syringe to my compatriot. With the syringe caught, he went into a train compartment. I knew he was administering something from the syringe. Impatiently, I urged him, hurry, worrying about being discovered, concerned about the train leaving the station.
My other companion came out with the syringe. He threw it back to me. I caught it and returned it to room 503, then managed to jump onto the train as it began moving. I thought I saw a soldier or police agent watching me. When I turned for a better look, they were gone.
Back in the train, my companions and I found each other and went to a private place to speak. Ensuring we were alone, one companion, younger, but white like me, with like dark, curly hair, gave an update. The shot had helped. More is still needed. I related that I thought I saw someone spying on me, and that worried me. After discussing risks, we concluded that we’d still need to get more for our friend. We’d need to be more careful, more watchful.
The train pulled into the next stop. One of my friends and I stepped off the train. The police presence was immense. We gave one another furtive, questioning looks. With time ticking, I decided to risk getting the syringe with the realization that we might not be able to get it back into the room. If that happened, the loss could be discovered. That would probably result in greater vigilance and security. All that troubled me.
I hurried away, looking for room 503. Just as I found it, I spotted a police officer following. Pretending to go elsewhere, I stole away to watch and wait for an opening. When the officer turned away, I hustled to 503. Breaking in, I grabbed a syringe and ran back out.
My companion was not in sight. Police were. I hid the syringe and fretted. At last I saw one of the others. With a glance around, I tossed the syringe to him.
He fumbled the catch. I gasped in horror, worries skyrocketing through me. He managed to find and pick up the syringe and then scurried away. The train issued a warning sound that it was time to go.
And the sky is a hazy shade of summer. Good morning from Yachats on the Oregon coast, where it’s 56 F with a marine layer blending blues and grays with the sky and the Pacific. Sunshine has roared over the eastern mountains. We don’t know where today’s battle between weather elements will take us. Yesterday was sharply clear all day long with a sunset unfettered by a marine layer. Forecasts yesterday were teasing us with suggestions that today’s high would find 70 F. Now they’re saying that it isn’t going past 65 F…again.
Ocean splash booms are a familiar these days, but a coverlet of fresh silence stays on us. I’ve not heard a train, siren, helicopter, or aircraft in many sleeps. All are usual sidekicks to every mundane venture outside the house door where we live in semi-rural, semi-urban southern Oregon. Serenity now.
News was shut out like a bad smell yesterday. Too much sunshine and good vibes distracting us, at least for one fortunate day. I did see that a judge ruled that Abina Habba is not lawfully serving as a judge. His ruling is not being enforced to allow the usual appeals. Wouldn’t be surprised to hear later that the judge’s observations about procedures being flouted and requirements ignored is waved away like a gnat annoying a MAGA ear.
Today’s song is “White Wedding” by Billy Idol. It’s our friends’ 34th anniversary. He and she recounted courtship tales and followed up with wedding day memories. She related that they kicked off their fancy wedding duds and played volleyball in the sand. That was an appropriate homage to how they hooked up, by noticing one another on the volleyball court. Anyway, The Neurons, being the jerks they are, heard all this and summoned “White Wedding”. This is a fascinating acoustic version.
May grace and peace hold and keep you. I’m depending on coffee once again. Onward and upward, here we go. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 