Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
It seems like the Internet was more fun when I was younger, and it was too. I’ve become jaded and cynical, and the net has become commercialized and polarized. Back in those days, I worked in a place where my team were all in cubicles. This parody, based on James Blunt’s hit song, “You’re Beautiful”, put it all in perspective.
Walking through sun and shadow latticed cold air, stepping through my plumes of condensation, splashing through puddles, and looking for rainbows as drizzles and sprinkles come and go.
Snow blankets the ridges and peaks across the valley, our first of the season. The snow level seems to be about thirty-five hundred feet. As always, its stark contrast against the sky is a rugged beauty, like a natural metaphor for change.
My mood is high. I hesitate to say it aloud, so I write it instead, but I feel a shift in my energy. I didn’t think the date would make a difference, and maybe it doesn’t. Perhaps I’m feeling a temporary shift and it’s at a personal level, but I hope it’s a broader and longer lasting shift in the world’s energy one that brings the world more peace, justice, and happiness.
I would blame it on my peppermint mocha, but I already felt it before I reached the coffee shop or tasted my drink. Time to write and edit like crazy, at least, you know, one more time.
Getting ready for Friendsgiving, I selected my attire. I would wear a green vee-neck Tommy Bahama sweater.
I’d bought that sweater the year I moved from Half Moon Bay, California, to Ashland, Oregon, which was 2005. Funny, though, I bought it while on a visit Half Moon Bay to spend Thanksgiving with friends. I bought that sweater a few days before the holiday, and wore it that Thanksgiving. Here I was, thirteen years later, putting it on for another Thanksgiving.
I’d been thinking about my clothes for several previous days before that. The shirt I’d worn earlier that day had been bought in 1998. The one worn the day before was also bought in the late nineties. My shirts, sweaters, and underwear seem to last a while. My jeans and shoes don’t.
I was thinking all of this because I was thinking about cats. I’d moved up with two in 2005, Pogo and Scheckter. Pogo died the following year, killed by a car. His ashes are in our bedroom.
We moved to this new house in 2006, now with just Scheckter. Within three months, we also had Lady and Quinn.
Lady was a rescue. A man I knew through the coffee shop had rescued her. I used to buy him coffee and bagels, and donate cat food to him. Lady had been living behind the movie theater. He started feeding her but it took a year to earn her trust. Now his health was falling and he had to move. Moving meant giving up five of his six cats. He could take one. He had homes for four more. Only Lady, skittish and shy, didn’t have a home.
Then, on a cold, windy midnight, I’d gone out to call Scheckter in. Quinn instead turned up. Since it was a nasty night, we gave him food and shelter. We hunted down his owners and returned him to them, but he kept coming back to us. They moved, leaving him behind.
So, for seven years, it was Scheckter, Lady, and Quinn, three wonderful cats who got along well. 2013 found us losing Scheckter, and then Lady, leaving just Quinn.
Not to worry, though. Three more cats, Tucker, Boo Radley, and Papi (a.k.a. Meep), found us. We were a four-cat family for a while, even though Tucker, Boo, and Papi often fought. As Scheckter and Lady were dying, Tucker showed up and begged for food and help. We tried to find his people but no one claimed him. He had medical issues which took a few years and some money to resolve. Then came Boo, also begging for food, and also unclaimed. Next was Papi.
Quinn remained the sweet lord of the house. He was diagnosed with lymphoma in this past September and died two days before Thanksgiving. He had a strong will until his last four days. I tried keeping him comfortable and helping him, but he finally told me, I’m done. I didn’t want to accept it, but you can’t argue with some things. I cried and let him go.
We’re back down to three cats. They get along better, although there are daily hissing encounters. I couldn’t help but thinking as I dressed on Thanksgiving, I wish my cats would last as long as my clothes.
I’ve been suspicious lately. It’s just the things that’ve been happening. I feel like I’m being set up.
All this in less than two weeks. It’s more than I can take. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, if you know what I mean.
Rounding the corner, pushing himself to walk hard and fast, he almost ran into another person. The other guy seemed to be doing the same thing as him. As both jerked back in reaction, they looked at one another in the face.
Blue eyes rested a in tanned and lean, craggy face under short, sandy-blonde hair.
He almost gasped aloud. He almost said, “Steve McQueen.”
Quickly, the other man turned and strode away. As he gaped at the man’s receding back, he thought, that can’t be Steve McQueen. Steve McQueen died a long time ago, like decades ago, or something, from a heart attack. He remembered it because McQueen and his father had been born in the same age. McQueen’s death, when he was just fifty, scared his father.
He wished he could call his father and talk about it, but his father had died the year before. As he mused on that, wondering if it was McQueen’s doppelganger or maybe a son, he almost ran into another man.
“Excuse me,” the other man said with a smile.
He jerked back in shock. “Johnny Carson?”
The man put a finger to his lips with a furtive grin. “Shh. Mum’s the word.” Then he turned and hurried away into the brightening day.
He’d known Taylor for a while and knew he had a son. Now he was meeting him for the first time.
Son was taller than father, but much more slender and quieter. Son was also about half of Dad’s sixty-five years. The years count for a lot.
Observing the son, he wondered and asked him, “Are you like your mother?”
Son replied, “God, I hope not.”
Conversations erupted, and the questions that erupted from that answer couldn’t raised.
I don’t know what was up with the gingerbun this morning, a.k.a., the orange feline floof known as Papi, but also called Meep (in appreciation of the meeping sound he uses for a meow).
I’d fed him and let him out of the house. An hour later, I checked on him to see if he wanted in. He wasn’t around the back door. As I headed for the front door, I thought I heard a thump – perhaps the sound of a cat whacking the door with his paw – at the back door, so I reversed course. Yes, there he sat, waiting for the door to open.
So, you know, I did.
Phlooommm, a bright orange streak galloped past me. In wonder, I turned and watched him make a circuit of the living room, dining room, and kitchen, come back to me, and stop, looking up at me with his tail standing tall. I swear he was grinning. As I closed the door, I said, “Aren’t you in high spirits?”
Phlooommm, Papi bolted away, leaping up onto dining room chairs and off, sprinting past Tucker, the house lord, spinning on the hardwood floor, and then racing back to me to slam to a grinning halt in front of me again.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
Yes, he replied, tail up, rubbing against my leg. Then, phlooommm, he flashed away.
I love dipping. Not snuff. No. Tried it once, didn’t like it. I like dipping cookies, doughnuts, and toast into tea, hot chocolate, or chocolate milk, and coffee. I also dip buffalo wings into sauces, and chips and crackers into dips. I’ve dipped things in beer, like pretzels, but I’ve not been impressed with the results. That’s life. And of course, I’ve skinny-dipped. I really liked doing that, especially the time I did it in the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Sicily.
Some materials are better for dipping into coffee or tea than others. Doughnuts make for damn fine dipping, IMO. Today’s cookie, a gluten-free, vegan, GMO-free, locally baked chocolate ship affair, is a little dry. Not ideal, because that dryness contributes to the dipping drawback. Dipping a cookie into my coffee, I’m aware that some is crumbling into the coffee. This produces a bottom situation called dipping dredge. That’s the soaked stuff that remains when the beverage is almost gone.
I’m not a fan of the dipping dredge. However, I’m not one to leave coffee behind. Thus, all I can do is suck it up.
Literally.
What sensational dreams last night. I dreamed I was playing games, just a flow of games – video, pinball, baseball, volleyball, football. None of this was organized. Although an adult male, I ran from game to game with childish enthusiasm, played and won. And as I played and won, I realized a big board, like an arena scoreboard, showed my growing point totals. My points were rising so quickly and to such levels, everyone else was getting excited. Then, others started coming by and telling me, “Your big payout is coming. You’re going to win a big price.” My wife joined me, and was so happy and expectant. As for me? I was all grin as I played and won again, again and again, never losing.
Such a buoyant dream, full of positive energy. It was awesome.
Brace yourself. It’s time for another first world rant. This time it’s about my car.
It’s a lovely SUV, a Mazda CX-5 that I’ve had three plus years. One of its many features is that it reminds me when maintenance is required. This vehicle requires more maintenance than any car I’ve ever owned, which includes Porsches, BMWs, Audis, Mercedes, Chevys, Nissan, other Mazdas, and Fords. Although the car is comfortable and reliable, this constant maintenance thing pisses me off.
So that’s number one. But here comes the reminder. Once it decides that maintenance is required, the message in orange is displayed whenever the car is started.
Here is what pisses me off. That thing is so inaccurate. The good Mazda people put a little sticker on the windshield, too, so I know exactly when it’s supposed to be returned for maintenance. According to it, my car should go back for maintenance by January 10, 2019, or by 33,000 miles, whichever is comes first.
My car has 30,000 miles. According to MY calendar, it’s not yet December, let alone January of 2019.
Yeah, it’s a nice feature. Too bad it doesn’t work. Makes you wonder about the rest, doesn’t it?
Michael Seidel, writer 