Brace yourself for another first world rant. Technology oriented. Well, Microsoft.
Bought a new computer this past summer because I was using Windows 10 and it was aging out. In other words, Microsoft was sunsetting support for Windows 10.
Yeah, I complained and contemplated shifting operating systems again. I’ve done it numerous times. The other piece of that is apps and programs. I’ve been through multiple iterations of those things over the years, too. At this point, I wanted stability and continuity without me needing to think about problems and pursue answers. Yes, shorter answer: I’m lazy.
I did investigate and discover that my laptop of that period, then ten years old, suffered from an old architecture. Hardware differences would challenge any notion of easily shifting browsers and apps. I contemplated adding more RAM and doing other things, but I wasn’t into that sport.
So I sucked it in and bought a new laptop with Windows 11.
Here’s the crux of this rant: Microsoft 11 is buggy. Unstable. Tabs crash. The browser window crashes. Word crashes.
Like, WTF?
As I experienced this, I looked for answers on the web. Why is this happening? What is the fix? Searches found the usual suggestions to clear out caches, etc., exercises which point to them not knowing what’s going on and offering suggestions which they hope might fix it.
What bullshit.
Finally saw an article today that Microsoft agrees, there might be a problem.
Greetings from Yachats (which is pronounced just as it appears, with a silent ‘c’: ya-hots — which isn’t how it appears), where a relaxed but busy Pacific studies the land and plots their moves under a light marine layer. Presently 56 F, it’s gonna be 66 F and sunny.
I have the dining room to myself so I’m typing away while I can. Everyone else is asleep, save my wife, who is down in our room doing her dressing and hair thing. That takes some time. Three couples are sharing a huge place. I think two more couples could stay here and barely be noticed. But while the house is big, with three floors, bordering on fancy and luxurious, it needs some updating and repair routines. That big fancy stainless steel frig doesn’t deploy ice and water as it should. The heating controls are hit and miss. The oven and stove top are ancient and wonky. We have an ensuite arrangement but the tub can’t hold water. Then there’s the dealio of utensils and cookware; there’s barely enough to prep and serve one meal. Like, WTF? Serious feedback is being compiled. It is all first-world whining, of course.
Read, of course, about Trump’s continuing overreach, sending in more troops to DC as he and the GOP make like strongarm dictators. I think the jackasses are overreaching, myself. I’m sure Trump hopes to cut off the voting apparatus so he can ignore the midterms, but we the economy trashing, the Epstein Files hanging over his head, his increasing grift and lawlessness, that ridiculous dog and pony show with Putin, his whining to the Nobel committee, and his dictator moves, I think the majority of U.S. citizens are already ready to cancel the season on this mango clown.
Haven’t heard much about Trump and Epstein today but haven’t been deep into the news. I can’t believe that Trump has already forgotten his BFC (best fucking criminal). I’ll post a photo to remind everyone.
Today’s music comes from vintage shopping. My wife loves going into used good places. St. Vincent’s, consignment store, Goodwills, etc. She can cruise those aisles, eyeing those things all day. I’m ready to depart the door in seven point five seconds. Anyway, as I walked around, trying to be patient in one of those places, up comes the Marshall Tucker Band with “Heard It In A Love Song” from 1977. The Neurons excitedly shouted, “We know this song!” So did everyone else in the store. Amazing how many folks were humming along or softly singing that chorus. The Neurons were so taken with the display that they kept the tune playing in my head for many more hours, and refreshed it in the morning mental music stream. Recognizing the situation, I know the only way to get The Neurons to release it from their grubby little hold is to put it out to the world and infect others. Once I, the carrier, do that, then the song leaves my head. I don’t know why; that’s just how it works.
Coffee is applying its black magic to my bod. Time to drift out toward the ocean. May peace and grace find you today and on all days. Cheers
It’s Wenzda, July 9, 2025. It’s a difficult day for people like me, who like to complain. I have so much to complain about. I’ll start with weather, although it’s not bad now, 77 F, soon to be 88 F. No, it’s the thunderstorms from the other day, which torched multitudes of fires. The storm was like Jesus making more out of nothing. Smoke now tints the blue sky and white clouds with ugly shades of dirty, old concrete. You smell the burning wood; it’s inescapable. The air quality isn’t bad now, 67, enough jab your eyes into itchiness, tease your nose into irritation, stuff your sinuses into running, and bully your throat into scratchiness.
Neil Creek is the closest fire, right off I5 at mile marker 10. Ashlandia’s first northbound exit is 11. One southbound lane of I5 is closed for two miles.
Neil Creek fire, southern Oregon, July 9, 2025.
We’re also trending up in our temperatures. TV weather guy gleefully told us we’re going into the low 100s this week, well over the historic average, but not as bad as last year, when we were running 108 plus. It’s the prototypical 2020s Ashlandia summer. I’ll have a lot to complain about.
Over in politics, it’s a complaint smorgasbord. A complaintasbord.
Like, Trump promised 200 trade and tariff deals by now. He has 3. He’s batting .015. If he was a major leaguer — no, if he was batting that on any time, he’d be pulled from the field and find himself fast out of the game as a never was, never will be. That abysmal performance doesn’t keep the MAGAts and GOP that fill his Greedy Ol’ Trump Party, known in its shorthand as the GOTP, from declaring his Donnie the greater player ever, even greater than Babe Ruth. They don’t mention people like Hank Aaron, because, their heroes are only white.
So easy to complain about Trump. Donnie boy makes ridiculous speeches. He sends ridiculous letters. Transmit absurd texts. Like his latest embarassment he sent out to other countries regarding tariffs. If he was a businessman, people would trash it or post socially about it, mocking it. Oh, yeah, they did.
Another complaint about Trump is the promise of how little he cares, how little he pays attention. Texas was struggling with death and destruction from flash floods. He went off to golf. Said he’ll visit there Friday, a week after it all unfolded. FEMA finally got there. It surprised me that the Trump Regime FEMA bothered to show at all. But it is gerrymandered red MAGALand.
I simply must laugh and complain about Trump being nominated for the Nobel Peace prize. International war criminal Netanyahu nominated the convicted felon and genuine idiot for the prize. If Trump is awareded that prize, the Nobel Committee might as well close up shop and slink away in disgrace. The black mark against them won’t wash off for generations.
The Neurons called up a dedication for Epstein and Trump. Trump wants us to forget about his relationship with Epstein and the parties they attended together. Says he barely knows the guy. With his weaponized DOJ loaded with MAGAts to defend him, the Epstein List suddenly vanished. What a Trumpian way to handle things. Why didn’t he just say the dog ate it. Oh, probably because dogs don’t want to have anything to do with him. They’re too smart.
Thanks to janewiedlin on Instagram.
So, this song is dedicated to Trump, Epstein, Maxwell, and their shared past. Fresh out of 1997, here is Marcy’s Playground with “Sex and Candy”, from my morning mental music stream to yours.
Coffee is being consumed and the writing position is being assumed. May your day give you all you need. Cheers
I was ravenous. I carry sufficient emergency energy stores (fat) on my body that starvation didn’t come up as a serious concern except for my stomach’s urgency to refill. It bellowed complaints like an irritated wooky. Much of this is diet limitations. I’m on low salt for hyper tension, and still remained constrained by my oral surgery. It’s healing well but missing molars and recovering surgical sites disrupt the biting, and chewing, and swallowing routine. It’ll be over in four to six months, so that’s just a temp thing.
I’ll be pleased to see June 2025 finish. Frustrating, disappointing, wearying, and just plain sad, that month holed my energy during its 30-day reign, and my soul is despondent. Personally, June of 2025 will remain a strong memory because it was memorably messed up. I’m putting high hopes on July and the rest of 2025. July’s first week features two dental appointments, my annual physical, and natal day #69, so the beginning is loaded with potential.
For the record, I think Natal Day #69 could be good song title, with the right music behind it.
Time for some first world blues. I’m in the coffee shop. Music is playing. Business is booming and the baristas are scrambling, shouting out order details, clarifications, comments. Machines grind, hiss, and whirl with energy. Other customers are set up to chat, read, type. Conversations rise and fall.
Above it all is a man with a baritone theater voice. He’s on his cell phone. Although he’s across the room from me, his voice echos above all other sounds. Maybe it’s a matter of acoustics. He’s calling to different businesses to make purchases and complaints. He’s pedantic but polite. His first three calls are flavored with a condescending attitude toward the people on the other end.
“Do you have my email address?” he asks again and again.
“You have a screen in front of you, don’t you?” he asks. “Look at the screen. Does it have an email address? What is that email address for me? And my phone number. No, this is what you should have. 541111111.” This is repeated. “Yes, it’s seven ones in a row after the area code.”
I respect that it could be worse. I could be at home, typing on my computer, responding to my wife and cat, becoming annoyed with them. I could be trapped in an airport, waiting for a delayed flight, or in traffic somewhere, wondering why traffic isn’t moving. I could be sweating it out with an injury or disease, or fretting over a loved one’s health. I could be poor and homeless, hunting for a meal and a little relief from the elements.
I’m normally effective at filtering sounds out of my awareness. His voice and conversations are just one of those things annoying me today. That’s my problem, though.
I visited Ashlandia’s Rite Aid. I haven’t been there in months. My Neurons go on an Easter egg hunt to remember when I was last there. “Before Christmas,” they suggest. They’re not sure.
The Rite Aid feels like a perfect metaphor for Ashlandia. It was doing well. Then they decided to modernize it. They enlarged the space. Stock was added. Alcohol and frozen food sections tripled in size. The store is adjacent to an Albertson’s, and across the street from two other stores which provide these offerings at low prices. Apparently, Rite Aid, with its consistently higher prices, thought they could grab some impulse buys from their pharmacy business. It’s only one of two pharmacies in town.
I think Rite Aid guessed wrong. A graveyard silence greets me when I enter. I seriously wonder if there’s anyone else in the store. Ideas of finding a pile of dead bodies come up. I finally see another person. They don’t look like a killer. Neither did Ted Bundy, I hear.
Many Rite Aid shelves are empty, same as my last visit. A solid offering of wines is available. Decent prices, too. I don’t have any wine needs. I move on.
I’m not here to shop. Our household has a continuing need to get rid of used things. Batteries, light bulbs, paints, and outdated prescriptions are part of that list. We have meds that haven’t been used since Obama’s first administration. Containers holding them line several shelves in a hall cupboard. Getting rid of these things is another first world blues matter for us.
My wife initiated this visit. “They have new drug disposal drop off locations. Blue boxes. There’s supposed to be one in Rite Aid. We should take a look.”
I volunteer to do it while I’m out. Missions like these are milk runs.
Using store layout knowledge, I find the blue box without problem. Instructions are provided. Open door. Drop in meds. Close door. Easy peasy.
The door won’t open. I look for releases and additional instructions. Try again. And again. Three tries are a charm, I hear.
A pharmacist comes over. “The box is locked,” he says. “You need to see a store employee to drop something off.”
Very convenient. Not. “That’s not what the instructions say,” I say. I point to the sign.
“Each store is given discretion to handle it as they want.”
“Shouldn’t some instructions be put up that you need to have an employee unlock and open it?”
“Probably. We had to do it. People were putting trash in.”
No probably about it to me. That would be good customer service. I look around the empty store and thank the pharmacist. He returns to his fortress.
I think I’m starting to see why Rite Aid has so many empty shelves.
Not a good night of sleep to end March of 2025 for me. Twosda, April 1, 2025, has begun with overnight lows in the bottom of the 30s F. 38 F now. Highs will hit the 40s. Squirmy grey clouds shoulder down onto the mountains and separate into misty tendrils. Rain falls. Blue sky is off limits. A skittish sun reassures us it’s daytime.
Papi disliked the rain. He was in and out a billion and seven times between 6 and 8 AM. Fed up by the stale routine, I lectured him. “You’re the cat who cried in and out too many times. If you go out this time, you’re staying out there.” He was mute in response but went out. Thereafte, he beat to come in every ten minutes. I finally let him in after an hour. He reproached me with a look. Nothing has been learned here.
Dreams then contributed to my sluggish state. I had a dream in three parts. The cat kept disrupting it but I kept returning to it. Now I’m on my cup of coffee, looking to it to prompt more blood flow through me.
“We could get a tushy,” my wife says. “It’s very popular.”
She’s referring to a bidet seat. She’s been off and on about this for six months. First on. She wanted one with warm water. Than off because we don’t have an electric outlet by the toilet. I suggested having one installed. She thought about that for a few weeks and then turned that down.
“Do you want a cold water one then?” I asked. That was the natural follow up.
“Let me think about it.”
So she’s back on it today. “We need to measure the toilet,” I tell her. “To ensure it fits.”
“It fits ninety percent of all toilets,” she says.
I’ve heard that before. “We need to measure and confirm it fits our toilet seat’s shape and size. What’s a skirted toilet?” I will do these things later, I tell myself. I don’t want to disturb my morning routine. It already feels wrecked.
Part of my wrecked sensation came from a foot episode. The one which has recovered from surgery. When I arose to partake of Papi’s ingress/egress routine, the foot was painful and stiff. I’d not had any issues with it. So I responded to self, “WTF?” Thoughts of what I did with the foot the previous day were pursued. Nothing meaningful was found. It feels fine now. I register it in my permanent record as another life mystery.
Tame Impala is performing “Let It Happen” in the morning mental music stream. Maybe it’s associated with the dreams. Could also be from thinking about ordering and installing the bidet seat or from pondering the crumbling United States and the GOTP and MAGA response is to it. Although The Neurons have been with me for a few years, I’m still trying to understand how they work.
“Let It Happen” came out in 2015. I didn’t remember that. Looked it up on the net. Wiki thingy’s summary says, “Let It Happen” is about “finding yourself always in this world of chaos and all this stuff going on around you and always shutting it out because you don’t want to be part of it. But at some point, you realize it takes more energy to shut it out than it does to let it happen and be a part of ‘it’.” That’s according to Kevin Parker. Parker is the Australian who wrote the song and performs it.
I think I’m seeing some glimmering of why The Neurons have it racing around my morning mental music stream.
Coffee is not helping much this morning. My bed is singing me a lullaby. But it’s April 1. No foolin’. We’re washing the bed linens. And I want to get on to things. Writing, um, showering and dressing. I also have a bidet to order.
The helicopter — there’s just one, despite the traveling, echoing sound — continues its cleanup action. Good news: it isn’t black. No one rappels down from it.
Other than the chapter, Wednesday, April 24, 2024 in Ashlandia, offers up a mild and attractive spring day. 55 F, hunting for a 68 F high. Scanty clouds are mixing it up with the blue sky and sunshine.
Depressing news on the Mom front. She returned home but is suffering a lot of pain. I’m flummoxed. After days of being mostly upbeat, she’s in pain, angry, snapping at everyone.
Why is she in pain again? What’s the source? It seems to be a culmination of issues. She’s eighty-eight. Systems, muscles, joints fail. Pain ensues.
I try mounting context around her situation. She wasn’t allowed to go to my nephew’s eighteenth birthday party. Arrangements were made so she could join via Facetime to sing happy birthday. She was a no-show. When contacted, she said she saw how she looked on the screen and didn’t want anyone to see her like that.
Meanwhile, there were miscommunications and misunderstandings when she returned home. The facility offered her a wheelchair. Mom said, no, because she has one at home. The sister with her didn’t say anything but the rest of us responding, “What wheelchair? She doesn’t have a wheelchair.” So that opportunity was missed.
Her home stairlift quit functioning. Turns out that it needs a new battery. There are claims that it’s been beeping for weeks. Why didn’t someone notice that and do something about it? That would make sense, wouldn’t it?
Mom’s live-in boyfriend and my two sisters who live near Mom are emotionally exhausted. They’re struggling with their health and life matters. Mom calls for them to come help her but their balance is broken. It’s become harder for them to rise to the moment. They’ve been doing so for about five years.
A third sister leaves near Mom. Her husband has just been diagnosed with prostate cancer. No other details are being leaked. They’re a secretive couple.
My fourth sister, the oldest sibling, now 70, lives in Georgia. She works, but her finances are tight. Going to help Mom would be a huge financial challenge for her from what I know.
And I, I sit across the country in my world, frustrated, guilt-ridden because I’m not there to help. I feel selfish. I want to go to help them.
I am selfish. I’m trying to pursue my long-delayed writing dreams. And I have my wife, house, and cats to take care of, along with a bunch of other issues. If I go back to help Mom and the rest, that puts a lot on my wife. She’s dealing with her own matters.
I feel like I know what I must do. Sacrifice and go. But also load it on my wife. And that causes more stress, more guilt, more depression.
Bit of a rant, wasn’t that? I know so many others have gone through like situations. I watched and helped as my wife went through this with her mother for several years. Other friends and relatives have gone through it or are going through it. This is part of modern American life.
On to music, okay? The Neurons have loaded ELO’s 1977 song, “Turn to Stone”, into the morning mental music stream (Trademark overdue). I get that. I feel paralyzed by demands, choices, and the need for decisions. Yeah, I’m turned to stone. Need to suck it up and move.
One other matter on my morning agenda. A toast to Voyager 1. NASA has restored contact with it. Launched back in 1977, a friend of mine was involved with its mission planning with NASA. He passed away from a brain tumor a few years ago. He said that he was only involved in a small degree. His expertise was measuring plasma composition in different regions of space. But even a little involvement is something. So, to Voyager, NASA, and Ed.
Be positive and keep strong. I know it can be a struggle. I’ve already launched some coffee into my body but I’ll probably add another round. Here’s the video. Cheers
The husband and wife were complaining about cutbacks. The city had removed the drop boxes for utility bills from ‘their’ end of town, necessitating a two mile walk or drive to drop the bill off. “Hardly a drop off,” he huffed.
She said, “They keep cutting services back but we keep paying more.”
He began laughing. “We sound just like our parents.” Standing, he said in a raised voice, “I remember when they delivered the mail twice a day and stamps were three cents.”
It was funny, even if it was all true. Someday, Gen Z will complain and say that they sound just like the Boomers.
Time for a rant. It’s been a while, right? I like to think of myself as Old Faithful, bursting forth with new complaints on a predictable schedule.
I studied my to-do list this morning.
Call Dad.
Schedule Mazda for service.
File income taxes.
Get coronavirus vaccine.
Buy condolence card.
I’d filed the income taxes so I marked that off. The condolence card needed to wait until I went out later.
Dad was back in the hospital. I decided to put that off to do other things that required less exertion.
I haven’t had our Mazda serviced in a year. Putting it in context, though, in the period between March 2020 and March 2021, we put about twelve hundred miles on the odometer. No warning lights are illuminated. I figured that as long as the car had oil and was functioning, I wasn’t going to rest taking it to a dealership or service station for routine stuff. This is also my philosophy for my body.
Then an email arrived from Mazda.
MICHAEL SEIDEL, LET US TREAT YOUR MAZDA.We warmly invite you to enjoy complimentary Mazda service. Our factory-trained technicians are looking forward to providing the Full Circle Service and unmatched experience you deserve.Take advantage of this special, limited-time offer, available until April 30th, 2021. Contact us for details about this exclusive offer and schedule your appointment today.
THIS COMPLIMENTARY MAZDA SERVICE OFFER1 INCLUDES:•Oil change & tire rotation•Enhanced vehicle cleaning service*•Take the wheel of a complimentary loaner Mazda while we perform maintenance on your vehicle•Full Circle Inspection and vehicle health report card1 Service up to a $75 value. Offer valid for redemption by qualifying VINs at participating Dealers. Not transferable. Limit one (1) complimentary service offer. No cash value. Offer period is March 1, 2021 – April 30, 2021. Contact participating dealer for complete details.
That’s a pretty good deal. As I had things on the schedule (or so I told myself), I tagged the email for later action.
Right now, I felt the COVID-19 vaccination was a higher priority. I’m 64 and lack the underlying conditions that render me a higher priority. That means I’m not eligible for the vaccination yet. I’m retired military member, sometimes called ‘a vet’. The Military Times just had an article informing us that all vets could get the vaccine at local VA facilities. Cool beans, right? That was followed up by a local television channel with a story telling us the same thing. Okay, I would call and request an appointment at my local VA facility in White City.
I’d bookmarked the news article and brought it up now.
“Even veterans who are not currently enrolled, we want you to call that number and we will do our best to get you enrolled so you can have access to the vaccine.” Christina Cellura who is the Chief of Staff for White City SORCC said.
To make an appointment, call 541-826-2111 extension 4440.’
I called the number and waited for the moment they told me to enter an extension. It didn’t come.
After listening to a laborious list of options, I selected 6 for COVID-19 information. Thus began a long, breathless recording about what I can and could do and how the VA would help. About two thirds of the way through, it said, ‘To make an appointment for a COVID-19 vaccination, call 541-826-2111 extension 4440.’
I looked at the number I’d dialed, confirming, that’s the number I dialed. Hanging up, I repeated the entire process, verifying that the number I’d dialed was telling me to call the number I’d dialed to make an appointment.
It seemed like either a cruel joke or terrible, circular logic.
Disppointed with that, I went to the Mazda email. I clicked on the link provided, as directed. I have an account there — I always take my car there, like a good soldier — so all my information was populated. I kept waiting for them to tell me about the deal, or to inform me that I wasn’t eligible.
They didn’t mention the deal.
Dismayed, I confirmed the appointment. Maybe they’d mention the deal in the confirming email.
Nope.
I sighed.
Next on the list would be to call Dad.
The way things were going, I wasn’t ready to take the chance.
Michael Seidel, writer 