Early morning’s bruised sky promised rain in Ashlandia. Within an hour, that threat evaporated. With sunshine, we were still buried in the 60s F. At that point we were packing the car. Papi brought his floof skills to the scene, silently inspecting every movement and bag. The floofsitter arrived on scheduled at 10 AM. Watching her come in the house, Papi watched her from the living room’s far end. After we exchanged greetings, she said with happiness, “There he is. There’s Papi.” Papi stood, stretched, and left the house. We left a few minutes later.
About four hours of driving had us at last on the Oregon coast, cruising into Florence in the mid-afternoon. Traffic was light although an aggro driver had us exchanging commentary and watching this tailgating driver diving in and out, cutting people off to get one vehicle ahead in a parade of vehicles. Stupid stacked on stupid. Once to Florence, we enjoyed hot sunshine and warm, cloudy day.
Other than discussions about Trump meeting Putin and more signs that the economy was heading downhill with increasing speed, it was a news free day. Now we sit in our room, watching the tide come in, waiting for sunset. What time will sunset be? One source pegs it at 8:02 while another says 8:18 and a third declares sunset will be at 8:30, all in PM. They do agree that high tide is coming in at 8:02 PM. We sit and watch and wait, me with a beer in hand.
Today song comes from discussing the tide time. Once The Neurons heard me think ‘tide’, they summoned Blondie’s 1980 new-wave cover of “The Tide Is High” to the mental music stream. I’m not familiar with the original offering.
Beer has breached my body and I’m turning to the mellow side. May the mellowness find and hold us all. Cheers
Hard to think of this as Twosda. The news cycle overflows the norms like flood waters rushing across the plains.
It’s another hazy shade of winter in Ashlandia. Our temperature is hovering at a more springish 48 F, bestowing us with a feel of winring. Will the sun heed the Doors and break on through? Is rain on its way? The betting windows are still open.
This is Twosda, Feb. 18 2025. I own a lot start after some night hours were investing in comforting and helping a sick floof. Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah) has been under the weather. He’s resting well now but with uncertainty about his condition, who knows? Fingers and toes crossed and everything.
The Great 2025 American Shitstorm rages on as the Trusk Regime continues wreaking havoc, doing everything to make it all over in PINO Trump’s shallow, broken image. They’re cunning bastards and morally corrupt, basically confirming the worse of what we’ve come to see in the right wing and oligarchs. They want it all and fuck the people. The GOTP’s compass is all about getting re-elected and staying in office, so they’ll only cowardly resist with micey squeaks if their constituents complain. I’d say it’s gonna be a long four years but this has the taste of something more ugly and sinister, a poison pill to remake the United States for the rich and white, with a token nod to Christianity.
Today’s music is a product of serendipity. I’ve been encountering the Scottish synthpop trio CHVRCHΞS in multiple settings over the last week. They were on my car radio last week. Paul Krugman used them a few times as his Coda, I spotted them on SNL, heard them online through another’s post, and encountered them again on the car radio coming home yesterday. On a surprise scale that goes to seven as the strongest indicator for surprise, it was a one when Der Neurons began a CHVRCHΞS song in the morning mental music stream today. I always liked the song “Leave A Trace” from 2015.
Lauren Mayberry sings,
And you had best believe That you cannot build what I don’t need And I know I need to feel relief And I know you’ll never fold But I believe nothing that I’m told And I know I need to feel relief
I enjoy her voice. In some songs, she reminds me of Deborah Harry. Other times, it seems like she’s echoing Dolores O’Riordan of The Cranberries. Sinead O’Connor’s similarities also sneak through.
And yes, there are shadows of 2025 politics spilling through those lyrics for me. The GOTP is tryhing to build what I don’t need, what the world doesn’t need. And yep, some relief from their shitshow would be welcomed in my psyche. But they ain’t gonna fold and go away. Their efforts to create a nation mocking the founders’ ideas keeps on with no relief.
Coffee has breached my defenses despite my efforts. I admit, I was complicit in coffee’s invasion. Put the water in the machine, added coffe, turned it on, poured it into a mug, put the mug to my lips, tipped up the mug, let the dark goodness cover my tongue and swirled down my gullet. Hope you have a strong, positive day. Here we go. Cheers
Sprummer still thrives in Ashlandia in southern Oregon. Clouds have departed again, leaving our June 12, 2024, coated with blue. Temperatures sitting a 65 F, they’re getting ready to stand and take us into the low to mid 80s. Windows are open and a winterish zephyr is snaking through our Wednesday, depositing chill pockets. It’s fresh, invigorating, and pleasant.
I’m hanging about the house with a bum ankle. RICE is the recipe – rest, ice, compress, and elevate — so I’m nixing my coffee shop routine. Writing at home as much as possible around interruptions. No beer with friends tonight, either.
I enjoy music and read several posts each day where they incorporate music. ‘Classic rock’ tops my list but I enjoy other sounds beyond that. I’m always surprised by how often people will say that a song isn’t to their liking.
Then I get reflective about what I mean about that. Many songs exist that I enjoyed at one point which know doesn’t work for me. Part of that I suppose is because my tastes have changed, or it could be that at some point I was overexposed to the song and became sick of it. “My Sharona” is one of these songs which now make me change the station. Several other syrupy songs are on my perpetual do-not-play-change-channel-list, like “Sugar Sugar.” Woof. But the whole process led me down a road where I wondered, am I just not discriminating about music?
Today’s song was called up by The Neurons because I was waiting for several phone calls. I’d earlier decided to slow down and take it easy, encouraging The Neurons to plug up the morning mental music stream (Trademark lazing) with everything from Frank Sinatra (“Nice & Easy Does It”) to The Eagles (“Taking It Easy”), Foreigner (“Walking Slow”), and “Slow Ride” (Foghat). But then, checking the time and wondering about the calls had The Neurons bring Blondie and “Call Me” from 1982 storming in. So that’s le music du jour.
Looking for a video to share, I found Deborah Harry performing with an orchestra at something called “Night of the Proms” (Rotterdam, Netherlands, 1997). It was fun and energetic performance. Hope you find it as fascinating as moi.
Meanwhile, looking up “Night of the Proms”, I discovered holy smoke, this is a pretty big, serious dealio in Europe. It even happens here in the U.S. Color me embarassed by my ignorance. After that, I watched a half dozen more “Night of the Proms” videos.
Stay positive and test negative (COVID is rising again) and Vote Bleu in 2024. Coffee has been swallowed, calls have been received. Time to make like a banana and slip away. Here’s the music. Cheers
It’s a nice day for a white sky. Trees still demonstrate a belly-dance shimmy to the wind’s energetic music. Temperatures have climbed to 41 F. Sunshine sneaks in, lays a flash on us, and darts back away. A high of 46 F is on the way, they say.
Today is Tuesday, Jan. 3, 2023. I find myself surprised. Tuesday, already? Three days into the new year. Well, that was fast. It’s like the year is racing in to claim it as its own. Sunrise was at the same time as the last two days, 7:40 AM, but sunset has moved another minute back, to 4:51 PM. I cherish the extra light.
News has me delayed from the posting the theme music. First there was news that another friend died last year. Nobody knew what had happened to her. We kept asking others. Yesterday, we learned that she died the Tuesday night before Thanksgiving. Processing that used some emotional currency. Then, watching that NFL game last night, and witnessing what happened to the Bills Safety, Damar Hamlin. I instantly thought, cardiac arrest from how he dropped. When they mentioned he was hit in the chest during the play and I saw the impact, I was absolutely certain, and waited to hear what happened to him. Yes, it’s a violent game. The world is a violent place and yet we play these games. It’s another part of my socialization, playing it as a child, through my teenage years, and then watching it. I admire and appreciate the athleticism and experience vicarious joy when my team wins or the players do well. Hamlin’s injury is a terrible shock and highlights my frustrations with myself and my choices. Regardless, I despise those who try to blame Hamlin’s collapse on COVID-19 vaccinations. They offer no proof. They disgust me.
Then there was the House Speaker drama. Kevin McCarthy did not win. Not surprising to anyone following the buildup. What’s terrible is the impact to House business. None can be done until a Speaker is voted in. The question before us is, will compromise among the GOP factions be achieved so that we can move forward? The last time this happened, I read, was in 1923. Nine votes were required to elect a Speaker that year.
I’ve been swimming in dreams for the last two weeks. Reviewing today’s dreams, I thought, it’s a good thing that I’m not being charged for my dreams. Wouldn’t that be an interesting world? No dreams allowed until you pay the dream tax. That’s the law.
Anyway, as part of that cogitation, The Neurons burst into the morning mental music stream with a Blondie song from 1979, “Dreaming”. Seems to fit. Besides the nocturnal brain action, the energetic music affirms plans, hopes, and efforts — you know, the elements of the real-world dreams which I pursue through writing, plotting, and murder. Oops, not the last. Nobody has been harmed in my RW dreams except my ass and various organs.
Stay pos and test neg. I’m about to murder another cup o’ coffee. Hope good fortune has kick-started your 2023 and you can ride that fortune all year long. Cheers
Today’s song is actually the cats’ theme music. As I’m reduced to staying at home (see: novel coronavirus news), the cats have employed a shadowing technique. Wherever I’m at, here they come. That brought to my mind (and I’m sure it’s already in the cats’ minds), Blondie’s song – “One Way Or Another” (1979) – about stalking.
Today’s song comes courtesy of an overheard conversation at the coffee shop. One person said, “Call me,” with the classic hang gesture to indicate a phone.
“Okay,” the other said, with a wave and a laugh. A rushed, “Bye,” followed, and then zipped across the cafe.
By then, my brain had started streaming Blondie’s “Call Me” from American Gigolo (1980). Sometimes soft, gentle, and persuasive, other times assertive, masculine, and urgent to the edge of being frenetic, with a slight sense of desperation, I thought the song was perfect for the movie.
Michael Seidel, writer 