Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
My wife does a lot of scrolling. Not just doom scrolling, but also watching animal, political, and humor videos. She also reads a lot and constantly prowls for more books for her TBR list.
Today she was listening to Kristen Key talking about Buffalo Wings and other matters in Buffalo, NY. I found it funny and interesting and thought, let’s share this with the world. Socialize Kristen Key’s humor. Let us all laugh a bit. Hope you enjoy it as much as me.
Cheers
September is into its second day, and it’s Twozda. Word on the wireless wind is that we’ll see from 95 to 97 F in Ashlandia today. Depends on where you’re sitting. It’s 77 F now, sunny over a blue late summer sky.
Trump’s grant cuts have slammed into southern Oregon. Funny in a sad manner. Ashlandia is blue but Medford and other places lean hard red. Now, thanks to their MAGA hero, the Rogue Valley Transportation District has slashed bus services. That happened because Trump, working through DOGE, ripped away the grants the service depended on as part of their flawed war on ‘fraud, waste, and abuse’. Ten routes were cut, reducing us from 16 to 6, almost 63%. Saturday bus service is eliminated. Mon-Fri service hours have been cut back. So, there will be less drivers. Less employment. The poor, under-employed, and elderly needed transportation to and from work, social services, and visits to doctors and hospitals are said to be most affected. Just Trump taking care of his voters once again but coldly and callously cutting services they needed, after previous administrations and Congress worked together with local state, city, and county governments to make it happen.
Speaking of Trump, Earlthepearl suggested that today’s song could be “Legs” by ZZ Top. Thepearl cited the floating rumor that doctors might need to remove one of Trump’s legs. I like the idea, but The Neurons had other plans. After TACO’s mewling about ‘getting into heaven’, I have “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” playing in the morning mental music stream. Trouble is, said Neurons can’t decide on which version to play. Weirdly, I now have Guns N’ Roses performing it, along with the song’s composer, Bob Dylan. Every now and again, a little bit of “Legs” by ZZ Top is snuck in. The brain is a chaotic place this morning. Anywho, I believe we’ll go with both versions of “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”. One is honor of a young guy who served with me. Hearing GNR do “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” when it came out in 1987, he came to me and a few other established rockers and exclaimed, “Come on, you got to admit, this is a great song.” We replied, “You do know that this is a cover, don’t you?” Ya should’ve seen his jaw drop.
But then, an audible was called at the line. Playing for Change’s cover replaced GNR.
Coffee has been ordered into my body to establish order. Hope peace and grace take hold of you and lead you through the messes and deliver you safely to the other end. Cheers
Maurice was the new man. Looked like his birth gender might have been different. Or maybe he was just a beautiful man with some exquisite feminine elements. Either way stirred me into intrigue.
He glided us through the identification protocols. I played nice. The others punish you if you don’t play nice. Outside of this establishment, they’ll pound you until death gives you a smile unless you play nice. Death and I played tonguesies a few times before that lesson found a way through my paywall.
Now to business, Maurice orchestrated a beautiful smile my way. Wonder if all those beaming white chicklets were real and natural. Such aquamarine eyes, too. Wars nicely with the glass-smooth mocha skin. Ah, to be wrinkle free. Like that matters to such as me.
“You have two outstanding attributes which might be available to you, Mickey,” Maurice purred. My mind surfed a mental register of attributes and awaited further info. “Invisibility and timetravel are both possible for you, but only one or the other.”
My mind jumped, flipped, and twirled like Simone Biles. Invisibility is the second-least attribute found in people. Time travel is queen of the rarest. No wonder pretty Maurice was here chatting me up. “Wow,” I said like a hayseed blown in on the wind. “I’d like being them.”
A professionally contrite expression landed on Maurice’s beauty. “I’m afraid that you can only be one or the other.”
“Oh.” I poured sadness into my gaze. “That’s a bummer. I thought it’d be so great to be an invisible timetraveller. Just think of the fun.”
“Yes, the opportunities which present do boggle the mind.”
LOL. Only salespeople talk like that.
Maurice ran me the drawbacks and bennies the program provides with those attributes. I made noises and expressions like I paid extreme attention and contained excited interest. I knew from farm skuttle that every attribute has drawbacks. As Maurice delicately phrased it, “Time travel unfortunately damages the cerebral cortex, amygdala, and hippocampi. Being invisible shreds muscle mass and does nerve damage.” He went on with greater clinical details without graphic explanation about how long it generally takes to do these things to people with those attributes.
My mind had already harvested those details and was racing through previously exercised pros and cons in the two choices, searching for the answer, which attribute will be the Amazon Prime delivering my freedom? My shackled co-inhabitants in the farm all punched in with seasoned reasoning about the attributes and freedom. We did it with all the attributes. Nightly ritual. No matter, as Daisychain always said as the bottom line, “You might think you’ll get out, but they will bring you back.”
Someone always put in the addendum, “Or kill you.”
We always laughed with deathly glee. Like being killed was terrible.
Yes, we were ignorant about how terrible things could be in the Farm. We didn’t know that they protected us from knowing.
So, like others, thinking myself more cunning than our masters, I answered Maurice’s ultimate query with suitably guarded hope, kidding myself that they didn’t see right through it.
“I’ll go for timetravel.”
Because I didn’t know that, yes, there are people who can both timetravel and be invisible.
They were the ones who began the program.
I was soon to meet them.
I brought a few books with me to read on vacation. One was recommended by my wife. She picked the recommendation up from Ann Patchett via Ann’s regular video post, New to You. My wife heard what Ann Patchett said about reading while writing a novel, and then what she said about this book, and told me, “I think you want to read this book.”
The book is a memoir, Running in the Family, by Michael Ondaatje. Ann says something like, “It’s beautifully written and writers will love it.” I picked it up to begin reading today. Tucking it under my arm, a glass of wine in my other hand, I climbed the spiral staircase to the third-floor loft. Out on the balcony where the sunshine sparked with Pacific blue, I sat down and began to read.
After a few pages, I knew that I could not read it now. The book was an immediate serum inducing me, go write. But my writing needs separation from friends. Space to let the writing neurons take over. And I get cranky when I’m interrupted while writing. I talked to my wife and friends about the book and put it away, to be read when I get home. This is a library copy. I think I might need to buy my own copy.
And then I’ll write like crazy, at least one more time.
Hey, jewels and gems, it’s Munda, August 11, 2025. Today features clear skies and heat. Didn’t cool much last night after we pegged 104 F at my house. Only dropped to 71 in the nocturnal hours. Now it’s in the upper 70s and rushing toward 103 F. Fire warnings abound.
While not too cool, the moon was full and bright. Papi and I enjoyed the moment together. Only sound heard were crickets and the rush of machinery up the asphalt river called I-5, several miles away.
Reading today’s headlines, I’m furious with Trump and the GOP. Ignoring laws and truth, that gold-plated Offal Office buffoon ordered troops into D.C. to restore law and order, a law and order that had no problem, except one of his DOGE boy toys was victimized by crime. It’s brought on a full-throated whole-body GRRRRRRRRRRRRRR out of me. Can’t imagine this going over well with anyone but the Project 2025 Christian white supremacy gang and the most deeply immersed of the MAGAts. For me, it shows Trump’s deep desperation to play king and distract from the growing pile of things going wrong and matters worsening in the United States. He’s also trying so damn hard to keep his MAGAts and everyone else from thinking about him and his relationship with Epstein and the many crimes which may be exposed when that file is released.
Today’s music is credited to thinking about Trump. Precisely: how Jeffrey Epstein introduced Trump to his third wife at one of Epstein’s debauched affairs, the ones with the details in the Epstein File.
Trump partying with sex offenders Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell and his third wife, Ivanka.
Donald Trump, with his new girlfriend and future third wife, and several convicted sex offenders.
As I was thinking about that meeting, Der Neurons rewarded those thoughts with an Eddie Money beat as “Shakin'” from 1982 opened into the morning mental music stream.
She was shakin’ (oh-oh-oh-oh)
Snappin’ her fingers (oh-oh-oh-oh)
She was movin’ round and round (oh-oh-oh-oh)
That girl was shakin’ (oh-oh-oh-oh)
So, this Mundaz theme song is owed to those BFFs, Donald Trump and the late Jeffrey Epstein.
Had some coffee. Off to deliver Food & Friends. Hope your day is awash in peace and grace. Cheers
Stealthy clouds crowd the sky over Ashlandia, dropping high and low temperatures by ten degrees plus. After an overnight low of 61 F, today’s high is expected to be just 78 F today. Air quality is good at 22, although wildfire smoke smells linger like a memory of a flirtatious kiss. This is Munda, July 21, 2025.
We had an active shooter incident the other day on I5 just outside of Ashland. The shooter was on an overpass and the Interstate was shut down for a few hours. A man was eventually arrested. No injuries were reported. We don’t know about his motivations yet.
Just finished reading The King of Ashes by S.A. Cosby. Terrific page turner with marvelous and fresh, inventive writing, tight plotting, and strong characters. On to The Ministry of Time by Kaliane Bradley. My wife just finished it. I’ve been eyeing it and she recommended it to me.
My morning reading included several Trump-voter FAFO tales. One, by Red Painter via Crooks & Liars, was about Arkansas farmers filing for Chapter 12 bankruptcy. Painter writes, “Only 45 farms filed in the entirety of 2024, which seems about average. Well, 2025 has been exponentially worse for farmers – a shocking 88 had filed for bankrupcy by the end of Q1 2025!” Arkansas Senator John Boozman blames previous POTUS Biden, of course; that’s the GOP playbook answer, blame Democrats, avoid voters, or pretend it’s not happening. But never, never take responsibility for bad news.
The other FAFO tale was out of Nevada. Broadacres Market closed down in June after the national wave of prominent ICE raids where brown people were snatched up by masked individuals. A large open-market venue that serves about 15,000 people every weekend, Broadacres Marketplace vendors particularly cater to the Latino population. They don’t know when they’ll reopen. Read full story here.
“We don’t want any of our customers, vendors, or employees to be detained at our business or for us to be a beacon of shopping and entertainment while our federal government is raiding businesses and detaining its people,” the Broadacres Marketplace Management team wrote on social media. Read full story here.
Like Arkansas, Nevada went for Trump, partly supported by an increase in Latino support. Said one Latino voter back in 2024 after Trump’s victory: “Initially, I will say I did not agree with him,” said Mario Jr., 29. “Then I started seeing that he was not afraid to speak his mind and I noticed that he was not scared to say what he felt, regardless of what people would say. I think I respect that about him.” No word on what he thinks now. Read full story here.
Meanwhile, Trump, still operating that he’s under the King of All, is trying to force the Washington Commanders, NFL team, to revive the racial slur they’d previously used. Naturally, the bully’s tool of choice is to withhold funding for the team’s new D.C. stadium.
After that and other reading, The Neurons seeded “The King of Wishful Thinking” in the morning mental music stream. This is a 1990 song from Go West. Heard it a bunch on radio during the last century’s last decade. It’s an easy sing along. I think news about Epstein, Trump, and the MAGAts being upset about Epstein file’s handling by the Trump Regime inspired The Neurons with this song choice.
Got my coffee running its route through my systems. Hope this Munda and the week it commences finds you in good spirits and good health, and that you have the best week you can. Cheers
I like to write everyday. I enjoy writing fiction novels. It’s not just a goal for me; writing fiction every day is my center pole.
Sometimes I can’t do it, and the start of July was one of those times when life sabotage my efforts. First were dental appointments on July 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and a day of baking on July 3rd in preparation for July 4th, and then the holiday itself. July 5th was my birthday, so my writing was limited. A medical emergency stole my time and attention on July 6th. I swore to get back to it all on July 7th.
But when I say that I wasn’t writing, I mean that I wasn’t comfortably settling in a chair at a keyboard with a jug of coffee at hand. I kept writing in my head during the hours of driving, baking, sitting at the dentist, being social when I was supposed to be conversing with others, watching parades, attempting to sleep, or hanging around the ER waiting for test results.
Writing in my head was so magical and fast. When it came time to find the words and put it together with my coffee fuel, man, that was a different cat. Although I poured through two thousand words a day plus, a lot for me, stringing words together and revisiting and fixing my previous day’s work, I told my wife that it’s only now that I feel like I am finally catching up.
As I once blogged, I dream of a device that can take the scenes and spin into the needed words for me. Although, honestly, I don’t know if that would be nearly as much fun.
I guess, really, what it’s about for me is exploring the idea, seeing the story and hearing it, and then finding the words for others. May it always be so.
Twosda, July 8, 2025, has squatted down on us. It’s a cool morning after a quiet night. 75 F now, 95 F later, part of a ‘cooling trend’. We saw 99 at our Ashlandia house yesterday. My wife and I were at to get a few items at its hottest, about 4 PM. Checking the eastern sky, I said, “I think we’re going to get thunderstorms.”
My wife scanned the sky. “No, that doesn’t look like thunderstorms to me.”
A few hours later, the sky darkened. Thunder washed across the sky like an old man clearing his throat and coughing. A few raindrops applauded on the ground. At 7:46 PM, the power went out. An alert telling us about that came at 7:57 PM. They said the power would be back in one and a half hours. They were wrong.
Meanwhile, another emergency text arrived: fire off Pompadour Road. Bottom line of all this, fire crews worked through the night to line and contain the Pompadour Fire, and the electricity came back on a little after 2 AM. I know because things beeped and chirped back to life.
The good part of this is that we updated our power outage equipment last winter and it all proved to work. One purchase was a pair of inexpensive rechargeable light bulbs. Installed over the breakfast bar between the kitchen and dining room, they work great as regular bulbs, giving soft daylight illumination. When the power went out, they were charged and ready to go, giving us needed light at the throw of a switch. Now, with power returned, they’re recharging for the next time they’re needed.
Augmenting those were two simple round little lights. Working off three AA batteries, they’re extremely lightweight but powerful, and were perfect for using to read books. As we both had library books at hand, we picked up our books and lights and read till bed.
BTW, my book was “Hollow Kingdom” by Kira Jane Buxton. Released in 2019, I found this science fiction book about an unfolding human apocalypse, as told by a crow and other birds and animals to be engaging, warm, clever, and moving. I wholly recommend it.
Meantime, we’re talking about the Trump Regime’s heavy-handed military presence at MacAuthur Park in LA.
Los Angeles Mayor Karen Bass is condemning federal agents and National Guard troops for descending on a city park on Monday, July 7.
Armored vehicles, mounted officers and armed troops briefly swarmed the city’s MacArthur Park Monday morning before leaving. Bass said 20 children were playing at the park before the troops surged through and shared footage of federal officers running through the park.
According to an X post from the Department of Defense, troops were present at the park to “ensure the safety of federal agents.”
Sorry, I know, writing ‘heavy-handed’ while addressing Trump Regime actions is redundant; everything done by that loathsome, hate-fueled regime is heavy handed. This is especially true when it’s Dog-killer Noem calling the shots. ICE and the military showed up at park, disrupting a children’s day care outing. Now what did that accomplish other than a show of force to intimidate others and blow another wad of Federal funding? Bet some part of the MAGA crowd let out a full-throated cheer but the rest of us simply lowered our expectations of TACO and his chips yet again, just, as they say, you didn’t think they could go lower.
During the power outage, The Neurons plugged a 1983 song by Dio, “Holy Diver”, into the morning mental music stream. “What’s that about?” I inquired of the little gray dude. Shrugging in unison, they chorus-muttered, “I don’t know.” Now tell me, how am I supposed to know why things happen in my mind when The Neurons in charge keep presenting themselves as clueless? And people wonder why I act strange. Well, it’s The Neurons, isn’t it? Anyway, that’s the theme music for Twosda, just to get it out of my friggin’ head.
Right now, I’m fasting. No coffee, water, food, etc., until after my 12:15 ultrasound on my gall bladder. Have the best day you can, okay? I’ll do the same. Cheers
I told myself again yesterday, get out of the way and write. Write, I did. And when I reviewed what I wrote, I laughed to myself and whispered, “This is fucking crazy.”
By far the craziest of what I’ve ever written, I sat down with a specific purpose and some simple ideas about where I was going. Well, The Writing Neurons quickly queued up, redecorating, rearranging, reordering, taking me into completely foreign waters. “But how will this match up with what I had planned and previously wrote?” I complained.
Well, after the cat barked me awake at 5:58 AM today, The Writing Neurons pounced on my poor brain. They began weaving story webs like caffeine-fueled spiders in a web-building competition. I laughed at a lot of the shit they conjured. Then, when I put eyes to screen and hands to keys, I hustled to duplicate The Writing Neurons’ input.
It’s a wild frigging ride so far and I’m nervous about where I’m going. But you know, write on.
That’s what it’s all about.
***
So…I finished a novel last month. Felt damn good about it. Began firing up the querying mechanism.
Meanwhile, I handed it off to friends for feedback. But, without telling them, I capped it at part 1. I figured, if they finish part 1, I’ll give them parts 2 and 3. I did this knowing that the manner the novel unfolds will be confusing by the end of part 1. You need part 2 to see where it’s going, and part 3 for full illumination. But I still thought it would be a fast read for them. Instead, I’m hearing that they had to reread parts; they were creating notes. They want to sit down and talk about what’s what. All of that’s pushing my hopes and confidence toward the writer’s abyss of despair. I just need to hang on. Wait for their feedback. See where it goes.
That, too, is part of the writing process.
I loved aircraft when I was a kid. I was specially enamored with the sleek, fast fighter jets. I built models of them as soon as I was old enough. I soon had the entire ‘century series’ of jet aircraft the U.S. was fielding. The stubby little centerline jet F86 Sabre Jet was my favorite aircraft. For that, I don’t know why. I do know that I discovered a book about it at our school library. We were in there to read a book and write a book report about it. The book was called, Sabre Jet Ace.
I don’t remember anything about the book except that title.
Spring forward to the mid 1970s. I’m now in the Air Force, working command and control. This was at an ATC training base named Randolph Air Force Base. We weren’t involved in the flying in that command post, and the shifts were slow, long, and boring. Into it came our new director: Major Gross. With so much time on our hands, Major Gross would wander around, looking for conversation. I politely indulged in, asking questions about his career.
A Nebraska farm boy, he’d ended up in the Air National Guard, where he became a pilot. In the early days, he flew P51 Mustangs in Korea during that conflict. “Beautiful aircraft,” he said. “I loved flying them.” But the Air Force was modernizing. He was forced into jets. “Much easier to fly.” The jet he flew was the F86 Sabre Jet.
His story became one of hardship. He was sent home, became a civilian, and started a business. When that failed, he joined the Air Force as an enlisted person. Then, as an enlisted man, his reserve unit was called up. Through bizarre machinations, he became an officer and a fighter pilot again. This time he ended up flying in Vietnam in a century series jet, the F105 Thunderchief, but Major Gross’s aircraft was in an unarmed configuration, conducting Wild Weasel missions. I so enjoyed hearing his stories, and he was willing to share.
As it happens, I ended up working with three other pilots with F86 Sabre Jet experiences. None were aces. One was a vice wing commander when I met him. He started jets on the F84 Sabre Jet, then was moved to F4s, which he didn’t like flying nearly as much. He survived combat missions in Vietnam, but then had a dual engine flame out while taking off from a base in England. Although he safely ejected, his seat malfunctioned. Both legs and his spine were severely damaged. He was told he’d never walk again, but he’d overcome that prognosis and was now a regular runner.
The second officer, another major, went from flying the F84 to A37s in Vietnam in a close air support role. The third office, a captain, converted from F86s to F4s. He flew them in Vietnam, too. Shot down by a SAM while flying a combat mission, he was a prisoner of war for several years. He never spoke about those stories.
I appreciated what men endured, serving our country, even if, like many — including several of them — I didn’t agree with the Vietnam War. The book which originally titillated me probably romanticized the war.
These pilots never did. As for me, I didn’t become a pilot. My eyesight wasn’t good enough back then. I always wonder, would I have been any good?
In a final aside, I was sent to Kunsan Air Base in Korea sometime in the early 1980s. The US Air Force was primarily flying F16 Fighting Falcons at Kunsan, but they shared facilities with a squadron of Korean F86 Sabre Jets.
They still struck me as a pretty plane, although they seemed so small compared to the F4s, F15s, and F16s frequenting the base. I was able to meet and chat with several Korean F86 pilots. Fun aircraft to fly, they told me. Light and nimble.
I could only imagine.
Michael Seidel, writer 