- The kale started growing again. We’d grown and harvested it. Well, my wife, really. I helped buy supplies. Provided extra hands as needed. The kale took off initially, then wilted under a combined attack – heat, insects, sun. Wife battled on, then clipped it back. Per her orders, I moved its planter off the patio. I put them in the bush’s shade. Matter of convenience. Surprise: the kale is back. Hasn’t been watered since harvest two plus weeks ago, so she began watering it. It seems to like that shady spot.
- Tomatoes are doing well. Great to go out and pluck tomatoes as required. Ditto, the squash. Romaine is all gone, though. Sad face.
- Did some wardrobe culling. My wife’s simplify switch suddenly turned on. Ergo, I am expected to participate. Out went five bags of clothing between her and me. Two bags of books. Book sellers aren’t buying. Those like Powell’s who buy wouldn’t accept these books. The books are too worn. A bag of shoes. Old blender.
- Culling is a serious matter. Embarrassing, too. How much do I need? Well, I’m sixty-five. Things have been acquired for different eras and their needs. Much of it is from my suit and marketing days. Yes, wore suits. Did trade shows. Visited customer sites. Also required for when I returned to company headquarters. That was my U.S. Surgical Days. I worked in California. Headquarters was in Connecticut. Tyco acquired us. Talk about a crazy time. Yeah, time to get rid of those shirts. The ties were already gone. I left Tyco in 1999. Still did marketing work after that for a period for another startup involved with coping with peripheral and coronary chronic total occlusions. It was going under so I went on to Network ICE in 2000, where suits were no longer required.
- Also departing my wardrobe were my jockstraps, sweat bands, and racquetball gloves. Haven’t played in two decades. There it all was, buried at the drawer’s bottom, waiting for daylight.
- Purged underwear, too. I had enough underwear, I found, to go without washing them for fifty days. Why so many? Well, a large number was undies which no longer fit. Good-bye, I told them. Blew them a kiss. Now I have enough for twenty days. Don’t judge me. I judge myself enough for all of us.
- Ten belts were surrendered. All leather. Browns, tans, blacks, burgundy. Tested first. I could see where I wore them. What holes were utilized. Usually the third or fourth. The test today was that the belt must reach at least the second hole. The results amazed me. I generally couldn’t get the tip to the buckle. I had no idea that leather would shrink so much. Only four belts now remain. Black, brown, fancy, and plain.
- Catching up on the wildfire news in the U.S. west. Bootleg Fire still burns. Sixty percent contained. 420,000 acres. Drought is spreading. Deepening. Lightning strikes are causing more fires. I turn to other world news. Move beyond the Olympics. Past the spiking — again — COVID-19 numbers. Past the tales of regretful vaccine hesitant folks who are woke after suffering themselves or losing someone close. On to Europe, where Italy, Greece, and Turkey are evacuating tourists due to wildfires. It’s a hot, hot, hot world, and it’s getting hotter.
- Absorbing how much floofitude is on exhibit by a cat’s encounter with a spider or cob web. We have loads of them. Webs, that is, not cats. Just have three cats. Probably have so many webs because we have a strict no-kill spider policy. It’s an unending chore cleaning webs out of corners and from ceilings, walls, patio, porch, and garage. Spiders love throwing up webs. I opened the living room patio door this morning. Stepped out. Breathed in. Considered the browning landscape. Then turned to return inside. Walked straight into a web. Some spider must have seen the door open and hurried a dragline across there.
- The cats have different reactions to webs. Papi, aka Youngblood, the Ginger Blade, and Meep, is the youngest and most graceful. When he encounters a web, he immediately backs away and goes around it. Boo, our large-size bedroom panther with the small velvet paws, hurries through the web while shaking his head. Tucker, the big black and white alpha cat, stops, shakes his head, washes, and then shoulders on. I’ve witnessed this several times over the months — seriously, the number of webs and how quickly they emerge staggers me — spiders are productive little critters — and I’m certain about my assessment on the cats’ behavior.
- Writing has been entertaining. Yes, that’s the term I’ll employ. Absorbing will work as well. I’ve gone surprising places with the story. Then pause as I think, oh, WTF, and ponder the direction. I keep telling myself, just get out of your own way, fool. Don’t overthink anything. Just write. That works. Just need to hurdle myself. An interesting noir style has emerged. So I have a science fiction mystery thriller noir going.
- Got my coffee. The day’s second cup. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time. Then I’ll go clean off spider webs. Cheers
A Dad Dream
Dad called me in my dream. Told me that he wanted me to be more like I used to be. “How was that?” I asked. “Silly. Goofy. Fun-loving,” he answered.
I didn’t know I’d changed. A lot was happening in dream world, so I ended the call. Part of what was happening were politicians making speeches. One was a woman. POC. Married to a white male with silver hair. Hubby was pretty much an idiot. He marched up and down the street making ludicrous announcements. I kept thinking, no, that’s not right. I heard the pol state, “I think I’m just about done with him.”
Meanwhile, I was going around my compound. Showing it off. Explaining that I had plenty of room for a number of people to love. I had seventeen homes. Most were new. Brick. Two stories. Large yards. All set off asphalt streets.
So I’m involved, walking around, telling people about the houses, showing them what is what, talking to the pols, when Dad calls again. In the middle of doing multiple things, I answered the phone in a silly way, like, “Hello, this is Michael, unsecure line, U.S. Air Force.” As I’m speaking, I thinking, that’s wrong, what am I saying?
It was Dad. He was laughing. “That’s more like it. That’s how you used to be.”
We discuss that for a few. Then he says, “You should get military veterans to help you.”
I reply, “I have some.”
Then, like that, Dad and I are walking toward one another, hanging up our phones, as I point out veterans and tell him, “I have all kinds of veteran helping me take care of people and the houses. They’re all volunteers.”
Dad replies, “Well, that’s good. It looks like you have it all taken care of.”
Dream end.
Tuesday’s Theme Music
The sun also ‘rises’ and then it ‘sets’. That’s our perspective. From this perspective on Tuesday, July 20, 2021, that happens at 5:52 AM and 8:41 PM.
Wildfires continue. Heat continues. Drought. COVID-19. Politics. Climate change. Battles for social justice. Equality. Equal opportunity. Efforts to deny those continue unabated, too, usually under the flimsiest of logic.
I was up after midnight last night — not unusual. With the wife in bed and the cats usually hanging on the front porch or back patio, after midnight is when I get my alone time. Midnight is featured in many songs. Bunch traveled through my head. One took it by storm, though: “Living After Midnight” by Judas Priest, from waaayyy back in 1980. FORTY-ONE YEARS AGO. An OMG moment that made me laugh.
Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the vax. Here’s the music. Cheers
Monday’s Theme Music
Soft as the air, sunrise’s slow grace came upon our valley at 5:51 AM. Today is Monday, July 19, 2021. Heat is expected, but not too terrible. Seventy now, at nine AM, looking for 95 F before the sunset’s mellow withdrawal at 8:43 PM. More fires are burning in the Pacific Northwest. None too close to us, knock on wood. Bootleg continues burning, 300,000 acres, over a quarter contained. Tamarack down south has exploded. Favorable winds are keeping our air clean. Several small fires started locally but quick responses by people and fire departments contained them.
Walking yesterday, I channeled Flo Rida, “Good Feeling” (2011). I got those good feelings yesterday when I was walking. Often afraid to speak of them or write about them, lest I scare them away. I was high on a hill in the town’s southern end. Great view of some of the valley. Wineries. Brown hills. Mountain peaks. Air dirty yellow on the horizon, wildfire smoke.
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, sometimes I get a good feeling, yeah
I get a feeling that I never never never never had before, no no
I get a good feeling, yeah
Oh oh, sometimes I get a good feeling, yeah
I get a feeling that I never never never never had before, no no
I get a good feeling, yeah
h/t AZLyrics.com
And I got that feeling. Wonder, how now? Why? What drives these feelings, a sense of optimism, almost invicibility? A sense that change is coming. Where does it originate? Is it an amygdala gone mad?
Maybe, yeah. Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the vax. Here’s the music. Cheers
Under Where?
My Great Underwear change is not progressing with the dreamed-of joy conjured when the great change began.
Setting the scene, I’ve been a boxer wearer for decades, migrating from other styles while I was younger. Recently, while shopping, I spied other underwear on the shelves. Why, the materials were different. And the shapes! Perhaps I will try these newfangled garments.
I bought two styles. One was purchased at Costco. Kirkland. The second, Body Glove, was purchased at Kohl’s. Both are elasticized cotton or something. Boxer shorts. That’s where their overlapping identities end.
The Kirklands went on first. Wow, comfy. Very nice. Useful and expected, it had that vent up front that negates the need to drop trou and sit to pee. I know females are shrugging, “So you have to pull down your underwear, sit and pee instead of standing? Welcome to my world. Is standing to pee really so special? Got any other tricks?”
No, that’s my one trick.
Standing to urinate isn’t the world’s most amazing feat but I’m used to it. I’m in my mid-sixties. Learning new information is challenging. Especially when it comes to the body. The body is already rewriting its rules on its activities, sending out new advisories without warning whenever it feels like it.
“Hey, don’t move like that!”
I was in the process of sitting down. “But I’ve always moved like that.”
“Well, stop it.”
“Why?”
“Don’t question me! I don’t like it. And put that doughnut down. What’s wrong with you? Now go pee.”
“Again? But I just peed two — “
“Don’t talk back! Pee! Now!”
“Okay, okay, okay…” Grumble, grumble, grumble.
That’s why I still stand to pee: because I can. I almost feel young again, you know?
So the Kirkland shorts work. The Body Glove? Umm, no.
They were comfy. At first. But, they didn’t have that useful front vent.
I was surprised. I thought the vent was a requirement. I speculated, maybe men are all starting to sit down to pee, so the vent isn’t required.
It is possible. I’m not always up on the latest happenings. Take, if you will, ball deodorants. I saw a post on Trouserdog while I was flipping through the net: “How to Stop Smelly and Sweaty Balls — Defunk Your Junk”.
Yes, it is an arresting title.
I’ve never considered a need for ball deodorant. Sure, my hairy sack sometimes sweats. Smells can ensue. That’s why I wash. A quick wash and they smell fresh as rain. A sweaty/stinky testicular area didn’t seem to be a problem. Maybe it’s been one and others are too polite to mention it. Perhaps, after walking away, people turn to one another and whisper, “Did you smell him?” My wife has never said anything. Neither have my cats, who are some of the most critical creatures I know.
The second offense against the Body Glove undies is a classic: they shrank. A lot. The comfortable tight fit now felt like a girdle or leather pants encasing my skin like a sausage, i.e., tight as hell. Now, it could be that I’d gained weight. I’ll give you that. But to have gained that weight, my other clothes would also need to no longer fit or fit differently. That wasn’t happening.
I gave the BGs two additional tries after that first washing. You know, more data. They became worse and worse. Waist bands flipped over. Legs rolled up. No, I told myself. I’m too old to endure this crap. Off you go. I banished them to the giveaway pile.
Yet, the experiments have intrigued me. I saw undies that have a cool sack to keep my Johnson more comfy on these hot days. They might even keep my junk from getting sweaty and funky. I’m willing to try them as long as they’re vented and I can stand and deliver.
If my body says it’s okay. It always has the last say.
Memory Fuel
Heat fed memories click on. Summertime in Pittsburgh, PA. The Good Humor truck. A race to get money for ice cream. The weight of decisions. Buying for little sisters.
Outside all day. Popping bubbles that rise in the asphalt. Riding bikes. Pedaling as fast as childishly possible to get the wind running your hair back. Playing with Matchbox cars in someone’s shady side yard. Trekking to the creek. Attempting to construct dams. Baseball, softball. Sometimes swimming at a public pool. Chlorine up your nostrils. Red eyes and wrinkled fingers. Walking around. Sweating. Fanning ourselves. Seeking Popsicles. Grinning as we drip with watermelon juice running down our chins. Sunscreen? Suntan lotion was used — at the beach or pool. Never anywhere else.
But…don’t ever recall a hundred degree heat. When ninety was encountered, oh my gosh, is it hot. I’m melting. Ninety now…give me ninety all day. We’re talking 113. 118. Sitting inside by the ‘puter. Or reading. Watching the cats melt.
Same planet. Different world.
Monday Messes
- Well, the stories circulating the net about me are true: I changed my underwear. Like many, I started as a tighty whitey in the sixties. Bikini briefs burst on the scene and I went over to those in my early twenties. Eventually, I found my way to boxers in my late twenties, and rested on that preference for several decades. In fact, I’d not bought underwear since the end of the last century. My boxer collection fit. They worked. They were wearing thin, become more like see through lingerie. I reacted, whatever. Mom used to warn me about having clean underwear without holes in them when I was a youth, in the event of an accident. We’ve all heard about that trope, haven’t we? I was rebelling agin’ it. If people could wear jeans with holes cut in them as a fashion statement, I could wear underwear with holes in them.
- The new undies are boxer briefs. They have a little sack for my sack. It’s a sack sack. They’re also made of stretchy cotton. They cradle my butt and hold it up. Sexy, yes? Well, we’ll see about that, but they are comfy. Now I must go out with the old.
- Thinking with out with the old, I looked up something on the net yesterday. Algorithms behind searches and advertising thought that I should be reminded that Harrison Ford and Tommy Lee Jones starred in The Fugtitive in 1993. That’s a good marker for change. I was in the military at what became my final duty assignment at Onizuka in California. A few families decided to go to the ‘Drive-in Movies’ because the last one in the San Jose-Mountain View-Santa Clara-etc. area was closing in a few weeks. We bought pizzas and watched The Fugitive. It was my final drive-in movie experience.
- I loved going to the drive-in movies with my family as a child. Mom did it right. Made fudge. A big roaster of salted, buttered popcorn. Iced lemonade to drink. We took pillows and blankets. Arriving early for a good spot was a must. That meant getting there before dusks. The movies began at dusk. To kill the time until then, we spent time on a playground up in the front by the big screen. Then darkness fell. The speaker was attached to the window. Commercials played. Cartoons followed. Then the movies.
- Although, one year, at the drive-in, I was on the see-saw (or teeter totter) as a young one (five?). Dad was supervising us. He was holding me up while helping my sister off on the other end. I decided to get off. Just as the see-saw came down. Landed on my ankles. Didn’t break them but did serious damage. I was restricted to bed rest for weeks.
- Painting yesterday required me to empty the home entertainment center. To move it and paint the wall behind it. Although infrequently used, I’m loaded with CD. Hundreds. The CD player has space for 200. Bought that thing waaayyy back in Germany in 1990. Amazing it still works as designed. My wife wondered if I could part with some CDs. I declined. I’m saving them for the apocalypse. I’ll crank up a generator and my music. Meanwhile, I was listening to classic rock through Alexa as I painted, because the stereo was dismantled to move the entertainment center.
- The bee tree is humming today! Don’t know what kind of tree it is but it’s tall and fragrant. Bees love it. Early last week, I walked past it. Hearing silence, seeing no bees brought on a touch of weary depression. Then, two days later, I noticed bees had arrived and were singing as they worked. Today they had a huge chorus going. I can sit in the office and watch them flying to and from the tree and around the branches. Go, bees!
- We’ve been trying (again) to simplify. (I know, I should start with the CDs (or old underwear), but I’m not.) We usually buy used books and then sell them to book stores. If we can’t do that, we give them to Goodwill and/or swap them at tiny libraries. But circumstances (COVID-19) has prevented us from selling or donating books. We have boxes and books full of hardbacks, trade backs, paperbacks. Seeking a new way, we looked at selling them back to book stores online. We’re fans of Powell’s City of Books, so we started with them. Twenty books were selected that met their condition guidelines. I put the ISBNs in; eleven books were selected. We printed out the UPS label. Packed up the box. Took it to UPS. Powell’s received it the next day. That was over two weeks ago. Silence since then. We’re disappointed. We’re talking about trying other places.
- It’s wildfire season again here in the U.S. Pacific Northwest. Heat is rising, the drought is spreading and deepening. Vegetation is going brown. Ashand Firewise Program urges homeowners, land owners, and businesses to clean up their area. It’s an ‘or-else’ situation. They will fine you. Cut your weeds and grass to less than four inches because otherwise, it’s fire fuel. Clean up your dead leaves, or it’s fire fuel. Ditto, fallen branches. Yet, walking home along a main road in Ashland, the city’s property is covered with leaves and the debris that they urge us to clean up, or-else. Another case as do as I say, not as I do.
- I’ve made a resolution for 2022: don’t go to the emergency room. Been to the ER three years running. 2019 was for an enlarged prostate/blocked urethra. 2020 saw me break two bones in my left arm. 2021 had me in being treated for a kidney stone. That’s enough, okay?
The New Clothing Dream
A friend and I were staying with a gay couple. I seemed to be in my early twenties. The couple lived in a city apartment a few floors up. A big city, the place was busy and noisy. I was there to get rid of my old clothing, and then I was taking a trip to get new clothing. We were flying out for that purpose the next day. Meanwhile, my buddy wanted us to go out on the town before leaving. Parallel to this, our hosts were throwing a party (unrelated to our visit). They’d also received a new table and were putting it together.
As I’d chosen to get rid of my old clothes except what I was wearing and what I was traveling in the next day, I decided to find something to wear from the clothes I was getting rid of to wear out on the town. It should be something festive. I found an old pale yellow shirt with a red parrot embroidered on the left chest, a shirt I haven’t owned in over thirty years.
I paused while dressing to watch them trying to put the new table together. It wasn’t going well. They thought parts were missing and were calling the manufacturer for help. I thought that I would be doing it differently, as they seemed disorganized, but I believed part of the issue was that they already had too many people involved, so I remained uninvolved.
My friend was urging me to hurry up. It was night, and the night was calling him. He was wearing jeans and a maroon puffy jacket. I was only in a shirt. “Is it cold out? Do I need a jacket?” Without awaiting an answer, I went into my old clothes for a jacket. I pulled it on, but then decided it was too heavy and replaced with a lighter jacket, an old black “Members Only” jacket I used to have. I then worried, maybe I should change shirts because the parrot was no longer seen. But I left it at that. He and I scampered down the steps and into the brightly-lit night to have fun.
Friday’s Theme Music
Sunshine crept through the valley at 5:34 AM, illuminating crags and ravines, dips and hills, shadows growing in its wake. Summer, the area whispered. Not yet, the area replied.
Today is Friday, June 18, 2021. Our area temperatures will flirt with the nineties until the world’s rotation pulls sunset to us at 8:50 PM. The cooling will commence, bottoming in the mid-fifties. The planet will continue its rotation and we’ll do it all okay.
Well, the planet and sun will do its routines, as will the moon and clouds, winds and tides, waters, lands, and animals. Humans will go, “Oh, wait, what day is this? Have I paid this bill? It’s so-and-so’s birthday. Did you see the news? How ’bout that funny new video. Did you hear what Allen Carson Letterman Leno Arsenio Stewart Conan said about Kennedy Johnson Nixon Ford Carter Reagan Bush Clinton Dubya Obama Trump Biden last night?” Outrage, mocking, and laughing will ensue. First kisses will take place. First steps. More deaths. More births. Billionaires and millionaires will line their pockets and others will starve and die, homeless.
And we’ll click. Smile for the phone. Stream some entertainment. Edge along memories and dance with hope.
Think I’ll listen to “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger & the Silver Bullet Band from 1980. “Seems like yesterday, but it was long ago.” Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask when needed. Get the vax. Here’s the music.
Michael Seidel, writer 