The markers of familiarity intrigue me. I like to walk and friends and strangers comment on seeing me walking around town. People often mention they know me by my hat and its flair. My flair reveals my interests in writing, coffee, beer, the Steelers, and being retired military and living in Oregon.
On my end, I know several dogs who come into the coffee shop by name but I don’t know their owners’s names. People socialize differently with animals. The baristas and other customers often talk to the dogs by name. But even when people talk to the owners, names are rarely used, a facet of behavior which intrigues me.
Things are changing, though. This week, I learned that sweet Lenny’s owner is a retired sociology professor. Happy and social Sugar’s people are Thomas and Alice. Bear — who lives up to his name with his size but is a friendly, relaxed pup — belongs to Norm and Sarah. In this way, gaps are closing, and we’re all becoming friendlier and more open.
Today, Jessica didn’t know my name or regular coffee order. She did remember my Co-op number and knew that I was Brenda on that account. She and I enjoyed a good laugh about it.
Little interactions like all of these help enliven the coffee shop writing life for me.
I’m working through tendrils of a new day, a new month, and a new year. Not much of it taxes me yet, but we’re only nine hours into it in Ashland.
Winter continues its weather games. Today, Thirstda, January 1, 2026, brings rain and a leaden, swollen sky. Winds whisper, howl, and moan. Temperatures around town reportedly range of 46 degrees F to 53. My house says it’s 51. Today’s high will be…51.
I posted news of Dad’s passing on Facebook and heard from many, including military peers, corporation co-workers, fellow writers-in-struggling, and friends on other continents. Comfort and thankfulness rose in me for so many taking the time from their lives to comment.
I’ve accepted Dad’s death on at least the surface. Flashes of not being able to speak or visit with him slide like gentle waves through my thoughts. Some tears fell yesterday. Today, I’m remembering him with fondness, chuckling and laughing at memories of how he smiled, laughed, and spoke.
As for the new year and month, I’m uncertain of what to expect. Last year was a ride on a cantankerous bear. Too many Trump and GOP actions dismayed my core. That core holds beliefs that We the People are supposed to have a voice in our government; that laws will be followed and enforced; that everyone is equal and deserves freedom and respect. Actions such as Trump’s rants about hoaxes, fake news, Democratic scum, and ICE rounding up people without due process all undermine my hopes.
I’ll continue voting, protesting, and writing about how Trump is conducting business. And I’ll keep trying to nurture hope and optimism that we’ll see a shift toward my hopeful vision of progress and democracy.
Here’s today’s music: “God Gave Rock and Roll to You”. The 1973 song was written by Russ Ballard. Ballard was in Argent at the time, so Argent performed and released it.
I suspect The Neurons planted the song in the morning mental music stream because I was thinking about working hard on the novel-in-progress, and the need to keep editing it. The song reflects those sentiments on one stanza:
Lyrics (h/t to Genius.com)
If you wanna be a singer or play guitar Man, you’ve gotta sweat, or you won’t get far ‘Cause it’s never too late to work nine to five And if you’re young, then you’ll never be old Music can make your dreams unfold How good it feels to be alive
Coffee is served again. May peace and grace find you and guide you along a hopeful path in the new year. Cheers
Promises Compromises Dreams And schemes Guidance And directions Beginnings And endings Are the things we seek and give Looking and feeling Stumbling toward our best To be And live Falling down Getting up Sipping coffee And drinks Sleeping Waking Trying it all again
I park the car and head up the street towards the coffee house. As it happens on other days, four more people are making the same trek. We all share an urgency and focus to our movement. I think again, we’re like ants going toward a piece of food, and amuse myself again, thinking, coffee ants. I can almost picture the others with waving antennae…
Time to crank up another Wenzda. December 10, 2025 in Ashlandia began with sunshine and blue skies. I blinked and suddenly fog is smashing its gray face against the window panes. 45 F now, a jump the high fifties has been projected.
Today’s music is torn straight from the headlines. Not really. It’s more of a reflection on the many people experiencing cruelty and heartlessness under the Trump Regime. When this song was released in 1973, it was a protest against police violence and a police murder of a young Black boy in NYC. Now, “Doo Doo Doo Doo (Heartbreaker)” by the Rolling Stones was brought up by Der Neurons to the morning mental music stream in response to general news as ICE heartlessly chases and attacks people on behalf of Trump’s growing intention to make the United States whiter.
I’d like to tear that Trump world apart. I think there’s growing number of people with that same sentiment.
Alright, coffee jumpstarted the brain and various other organs. Hope peace and grace come give you a big hug. Here we go, world, another rotation. Cheers
Gray, wet, cold. We haven’t even officially started winter and I’m already getting tired of it. One wag said, “Of course, we’ve started winter. It’s December.” I responded with words about the equinox. They rolled their eyes. How dare they.
It’s Sunda, December 7, 2025. 35 degrees F. Gonna be 50 F, the masters of weather tell us through Alexa. I have a problem with that. Last night, I asked Alexa about the weather. She told me the low would be 40. That didn’t strike me as believable so I asked her what the temperature would be at 6 AM. “Forty degrees,” Alexa asserted.
Imagine my reaction when it was below 40 degrees at eight AM. I said, “Alexa, what’s the weather for today?”
“Right now in Ashland it’s thirty-five degrees. Today’s low will be forty degrees with intermittent clouds. The high will be fifty degrees.”
Blatantly lying to me, just like the Trump Regime. “Alexa,” I said, “How can the low for today be forty degrees when it’s five degrees colder than that right now?” Alexa mumbled on about how she didn’t know what I was talking about and then mocked the way I asked the question.
Today’s song is “Your Love Is Driving Me Crazy”. It’s a rocker by the red rocker, Sammy Hagar. Came about when my wife asked me if she could interrupt what I was doing to share something with me. “Go ahead,” I replied. “I don’t mind.” That was even though I did mind because I was reading something and deep into thinking about it and would probably need to start reading it all over again because I haven’t had coffee yet and The Neurons were mumbling, “What are those black things on the screen? What are they? I think I’ve…does anyone have a doughnut?”
Then The Neurons hooked up on the words, “I don’t mind,” and click, “Your Love Is Driving Me Crazy” was playing in the morning mental music stream. Song came out in 1983. Consulting The Neurons, that’s like over forty years ago. I had a friend back then who thought this was the only good Sammy Hagar song he’d put out. He’d turn this one up but change the channel on any other SH offering. When SH joined Van Halen, he declared with deep gloom, “This is the end of them.” He could be so chipper!
Read something about some inane thing Trump said. The press shook their heads. Other liberals grrrrrowled and mocked and raged, etc. At this point, I feel like Heritage Foundation and soulless GOP zombies have taken over the Trump Regime. He’s just a mouthpiece. Way Trump speaks in public these days, it doesn’t seem like much mind remains. Sad in its way, as it’s probably dementia. I don’t want that for anyone but especially someone with control over nukes, someone who others let wander around without oversight and supervision. Seems like the regime lets Trump out to talk and walk in the way that people use toys to entertain their pets or plop their children down in front of a television with a movie to keep them quiet and preoccupied while everything the nation built since the start is torn down. Except the military and police. Yes, I’m a cynic and pessimist at this point. Gimme coffee, stat!
Gonna go make my coffee so I can shut The Neurons up. Hope peace and grace, etc. Here we go. Cheers
They spent capital convincing us that Starbucks cared about the community. More, they cared about people. They opened their doors to homeless folks. Come in and rest. Be safe, comfortable, warm, dry, cool. Charge your phones here! Use our restrooms! We care! They put out announcements telling us that they want people to come and stay, make it a place to meet, a place to be. And we believed them. We did.
As did the homeless. I’d see them trickle in each day, a regular group I came to know by name. I learned their preferred seating locations, treated them to food and/or drink from time to time, said hello, chatted about the hot dry days, the freezing fog, the traffic, dogs, etc. Chatted about life.
Then Starbucks swiveled. That campaign wasn’t reaping the benefits they’d hoped to get. Within days, the restroom doors were locked and coded. Had to ask for the number at the counter. The homeless were politely shooed out, police called if they resisted.
Then, though, oh, look at the numbers. Starbucks decided they needed to close the place they’d encouraged us to make a home away from home, a community center for everyone and anyone. It just wasn’t making enough money.
It feels like it’s a betrayal. It’s not. Just business as usual. And that’s the thing about corporations. It’s all about making money. Profits and losses.
It’s not about humanity. That’s just strategy. Don’t let them fool you into thinking otherwise.
Hello World. We’ve stepped into another Wenzda. This is November 26, 2025. Sunshine is warming Ashlandia. The clouds have stepped out. Fog has eased off. It’s 48 F with pretentions of reaching the mid 60s. The winter edge has filed away, and it feels like a pleasant autumn day out there.
The Neurons are offering a melody by The Offspring in the morning mental music stream. “The Kids Aren’t Alright” entered the stream as I scanned news, shook my head, and wondered, “What the hell is going on?” That plays right into the song’s lyrics.
What the hell is going on? The cruelest dream, reality
The song was written in response to one of the band members seeing first hand how the ‘American Dream’ failed his home town. From Wikipedia.org:
Dexter Holland wrote the song after visiting his home town, Garden Grove, California, and discovering many of his old acquaintances had faced serious problems. Holland stated: “The neighborhood looks like Happy Days, but it’s really Twin Peaks,” while guitarist Noodles said that the song subverted the idea that “you grow up hoping you and your friends have a bright future.”
How many of us have seen something like this transpire? You meet these little nephews, nieces, neighbor kids, etc., and think, “Gosh, what a bright and talented young person. So intelligent and precocious.” Parents rave about how great the child is. Then, a few years later, you hear about the child’s growing problems. Some of the problems are derived from school, some from family, even parents. And you think, “What happened?” in wistful wondering tones. Kind of like many do with this country, particularly under the Trump Regime. What happened? WTF is happening? Especially to the cratering of norms, institutions, and structures under Dizzy Donny’s guidance, and the twisted priorities he pursues to glorify and enrich himself. Dozy Donny is such a broken toy.
Call out and reminder, We Ain’t Buying It this weekend. Annie presents a solid reminder of the whereins and whyfors for us. It’s about money, power, responsibility, and living with choices. Check out Annie’s post, if you will.
Big Business is a substantial target as we enter a Big Business Weekend. The coalition behind “We Ain’t Buying It” began with Black organizations that started boycotting Target when it dropped its DEI policy to appease Trump’s White Nationalist agenda. That boycott continues.
The opposition now includes many other supportive groups. As explained below, the emphasis is on Target, Home Depot, and Amazon,and the boycott is for the weekend that begins on Thanksgiving Day, moves to Black Friday, and concludes with CyberMonday.
You can read all the details in Indivisible’s description. As they say, it’s simple. It’s also a building block for the economic measures that will be necessary in the near future.
~snip~
On to coffee! The first sip is with the nose. Since grace and peace haven’t deigned to be here, I’ll just carry on widout ’em. Onward, into the world. Cheers
I’m in RoCo. It’s my new favorite coffee place, an old house converted to a business on the corner of 8th Avenue and East Main Street.
Every table is in use. Many regulars are in attendance. Like me, at a table, computer open. My eyes and ears are open even as I read, think, and type. Wonderful community and social energies swirl through the room like a strong, happy breeze. I love the noise and action, enjoy looking up at the faces, glancing at the fashion.
Most clients are, ahem, ‘my age’. They look like, ahem, boomers, like me. I’ll be seventy next year. I think I’m in the middle of the age spectrum here. Sure, there are so younger outliers. Teenagers who look like they’re wearing colorful fleece pajamas come in as pairs, order, take their stuff and leave. A few twenty-somethings, thirtyish, and fortyish folks are partaking of drink and food, chatting with others, reading, so forth. Hoka shoes are spotted on many, the shoes of my people. Columbia sportwear and Patagonia dominates. They’re the clothes of my tribe, but this is Oregon, where some of that stuff is produced, and where Columbia is headquartered, up north, west of Portland. Two children, about ten, are also present with an older woman. The children are on ice cream on this chilly, foggy, autumn day. The weather doesn’t daunt them from enjoying a cold but sweet treat.
The baristas take orders, prepare, and serve, all laughing and chatting as they do. Regulars come in and get greeted by name, including Sugar the dog, who waves their tail in happiness and await their standard treat.
Sunshine has burst through outside. Cold air storms me as the doors open and close. This is the United States, Oregon, Ashlandia, in 2025.
“My name is Brenda,” I said, with a touch of happy humor.
My current coffee haunt is RoCo. The local Food Co-Op owns RoCo. Members of the co-op, we get a dividend back from the co-op at the year’s end. And guess what? All you need to do is give the RoCo barista your name and number. That’s what I was doing.
“Is Brenda your wife, Michael?” Kat asked.
“Yes.” I released a small scoff. “The funny thing is, she doesn’t go by Brenda. She uses a name that she made up a long time ago, so it always makes us laugh when we reveal our account name.”
Kat grinned through the entire tale. “I like that.”
It’s the small things which give us spirit, innit?
Michael Seidel, writer 