Sitting here reading a food review. It’s a food gift basket for Mom. Reviewer says that the food in their gift basket was “delicious and tasty”.
My Neurons sat up straight. Aren’t those the same?
No. I always thought of them as being closely related but displaying a difference of degrees. Tasty is a less enthusiastic embrace of something.
“How was the chicken?”
“It was tasty.”
That’s a thin endorsement to me. I’m hedging. Something was wrong with it but I’m trying to put a positive tag on it.
Delicious, however, is an unreserved endorsement.
“How was the chicken?”
“It was delicious.”
To me, if it’s delicious, I’m unabashedly pleased.
So they’re not literally the same to me but in this world, they probably could be said to be literally the same. But in no way I would ever describe something as tasty and delicious. It’s one or the other.
Gray clouds have returned to win the sky. Really, it seems like one big light-gray cloud. Low relative to the upper elevations, it cuts off the view after two hundred yards, giving an impression that the world ends there.
The wind is sedated to an infrequent breeze. Chillier air has shifted back in. We navigate 39 F with a high of 50 proferred, and more rain sometime.
This is Saturday, November 23, 2024.
My song today is “Good Life” by OneRepublic. I’d been reading news and opinions online late last night. One thing after another led me to new insights and angles. I ended up reflecting on the MAGA GOP’s narrow minded views. Their hypocrisy and lack of principles always flavor my opinion, as well. I’m sure they rationalize everything as the ends justify the means. Such cliches allow them to declare they’re for freedom, equality, and ‘protecting women’ even as they curtail equality and people’s freedom. They’re all about conforming. Two sexes and genders, traditional missionary position, trad wife, that’s them, at least in public. We suspect many dark things happening in private, based on what periodically crawls into the light. See, for example, Donald Trump’s “grab ’em by the pussy” philosophy and his affairs, Matt Gaetz, Jeffrey Epstein, et al.
And, it’s their religion and their God to which we must all bow. That’s how they interpret religious freedom in their ‘Merica. Their pasteurized, homogenized history that must be taught. Anything bad that happened is pushed aside so they can pretend it didn’t happen. Mass shootings are all because of people with mental health problems who are troubled by the liberals’ DEI and woke agenda. All is good in the MAGA world, as long as the wealthy can avoid being taxed, the stock market is going up, and everyone is working, even if it’s at menial jobs for slave wages, even if it’s children working, even if the skies and waters are polluted. That’s their version of a ‘good life’.
As for Democrats, liberals, and progressives, they must be ignored, expunged, or re-educated to accept the MAGA way.
It’s so far from my idea of a good life that I’m nauseated when I contemplate the gulf.
Anyway, after I shifted through these strands of thoughts, The Neurons inserted “Good Life” into the morning mental music stream (Trademark rising) where it shared some time with “It’s My Life” by the Animals and “It’s My Life” by No Doubt. “Good Life”, released in 2010, feels like another of those songs people know mostly through movies and television shows. It’s been used in a few of them.
When songs are in my head, my mind often focuses on specific sections. In this case, the specific section is a set of lines:
Listen, to my friends in New York, I say hello My friends in L.A., they don’t know Where I’ve been for the past few years or so Paris to China to Colorado Sometimes there’s airplanes you can’t jump out Sometimes bullshit that don’t work now We all got our stories, but please tell me What’s there to complain about?
Well, excuse me, but I have a lot to complain about. Some of it is about aging. Much of my gripping is first world blues, but there’s also a substantial political section to my complaints.
Coffee and I have been re-introduced. We plan to make green chili stew in a little while. The rain has begun dripping down again, clouds have dramatically darkened the day, and the temperature has leveled off at 42 F. Feels like something lower. That stew will go well with this day.
Friday morning, November 22, 2024, and my first thought comes: it’s quiet.
Different around 11:30 last night. Sounded like B-52 formations taking off on full throttle out of Guam over our house as relentless wind bore down on us. Rain shattered the night with a Buddy Rich drum solo for a while afterward. Flash memories of being with Dad when tornadoes were roaring around us came up. Then came recall of being in typhoons with my wife in Japan.
Morning recon showed only the water barrell out of place. Glances up and down the street were given; trees and utility poles are intact and upright. Telephone and utility lines looped as expected. Cars remain parked, and roofs still grace houses. Looks like disaster was dodged. I hope other places are faring well but suspect tales of power outages, injuries, and death will come. Typically do when a bomb cyclone drops.
With the storm came warm temps. 49 F now, gray clouds and blue sky approach and retreat. Sunshine gives an uneven performance. We expect a 52 F high today.
This weather experience cajoled The Neurons into thinking of weather songs. “Oh, stormy, bring back the sunny days.” And, “It’s flooding down in Texas. All of the telephone lines are down.” And, “Here I am. Rock me like a hurricane.” Or, “Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind.”
The Neurons eschew all that. The Pixies instead enter the morning mental music stream (Trademark buffeted) with “Stormy Weather”.
Having decided that my foot and ankle swelling was due in major part to my edema issues, I went on a green smoothie fast yesterday. Sodium intolerance and veinous insufficiency seem to be the bad actors behind my edema so I wanted to knock the sodium down a bit. I’m also wearing open-toe compression socks on both legs. Overall, the one-day treatment seems helpful. I was swollen by the day’s end but it didn’t seem like it was as bad as previous days. Slept with my legs up. The swelling dissipated, as it always does. It’s fluid moving from one place to another for me. Back on my normal diet today, although I’ll eat less and minimize my sodium intake. Sodium is everywhere, though, and difficult to escape.
As far as the actual surgery location and affected tendons, they seem to be doing well. Tenderness and sensitivity around the suture site is reduced. I hope to put a shoe on within a few more days.
Hope all of you out there are doing well. Coffee is being swallowed, working its magic through my cells. Here is the music. Cheers
If I were religious or ascribed to a diety, I’d say that they might be pissed after Trump’s Micky D Sunday stunt. First there was an E. Coli Outbreak, forcing them to pull quarter pounders. Next came some crashing stock.
All started with Trump’s appearance there. Just sayin’. Also, as others noted, while Trump wore an apron, he didn’t have the rest of the required gear, like hairnets. Just sayin’.
I’d been working. In the military, it seemed like from clues, but it was never clearly presented. Staying in some manner of mixed work, play, sleep compound. Very modern. Enormously wide hallways. Well lit.
I’d been going to and fro, doing work and receiving instructions, sometimes passing guidance along, when suddenly, I was asleep. Yep, asleep in my dream. And I couldn’t wake up. And I knew this. I new that I wanted and needed to wake up. But my head was heavy with exhaustion and my eyes felt glued shut.
Someone came by and spoke with me. Don’t know what they said. I replied, “I need to wake up but I can’t. I must get up.”
Somehow, I did manage to get up. “Water,” I told myself. “Drink some water. That will help.”
Feeling my way about, I came to a sink and turned on the water. Using my hand to catch water, I guzzled a bit.
It wasn’t working. “Put water on your face,” I told myself. “Splash your eyes.”
Right; yes. That worked enough that at last I could open my eyes. “Food and coffee will help,” I said to myself. “Go find some.”
Dream end. Early sunlight was petering in around the closed blinds. The dream felt so real that I went into the kitchen and drank a glass of water and then went to a mirror to see if my eyes were open. Very strange.
October 1, 2024. Tuesday. Officially time for pumpkins in the U.S. Or so it was when I was an effen grasshopper. Didn’t have all those fancy pumpkin drinks and confections bursting onto the scene. We had pumpkin patches and pumpkin pies. Simpler sales and marketing era.
I remember tasting my first pumpkin spice latte at Starbucks. Living in Califonia, retired from the military. Family visiting circa 2003. Oddly chilly Saturday afternoon. Drove ‘over the hill’ as it was called from Half Moon Bay to visit the San Jose Institute of Technology. Afterward, we were flagging. Coffee and some sitting was needed. Hey, a Starbucks. Hey, I heard about those pumpkin spiced latte. Let’s try those. Sugar, whipped cream, coffee, pumpkin? Why not.
It was okay. Didn’t convert me or anything but rejuvenated my spring for a few hours.
Autumn is hanging all over us this morning. Long morning shadows from the rising sun spill across the land, highlighting golden and yellow leaves blazing in sunlight. We lack trees with oranges, reds, and scarlets in our immediate. Kind of a bummer. Soon as you descend the short hill to the boulevard, they’re abundant. Just not up here. I’m tryin’ not to be personally insulted over it.
55 F now and sunny, expect a high of 86 F. Fire warning is in effect. Dry conditions and warm air deliver the chance that any fire starting can spread fast. Take heed. It’s due to end later this morning.
Tough watching and reading news coverage of Hurricane Helene’s destruction. Flash floods and sudden floods and storm surges, heavy winds and rains. Death and catastrophe mark the spots. Sickening and disheartening for the people of all those states and areas struck. Individual stories arise of bravery, hopelessness, and tragedy. Hope your friends and family are okay, wherever they are. The strength of a nation and a people is that we will respond to help them recover and rebuild however we can.
With weather on my mind, it’s little wonder that The Neurons responded by songs about hurricanes, lightning and storms. While they played in the morning mental music stream (Trademark underwater), I sought they out on my usual, Youtube. Lo’, the expired licensing deal between YouTube and SESAC makes some songs unavailable. Hope that resolves soon. Fortunately for my Neurons, there’s a plethora of storm songs in mind to look for. I ended up with AC/DC and “Thunderstruck” from 1990.
Keep on being strong, register, and vote blue. Coffee and I have begun our daily agreement. I talk nice about it and it helps me adult. Here’s the music. Cheers
Thinking about my coffee evolution today in honor of National Coffee Day.
I began drinking coffee when I was around twelve. Maxwell House. *shudder*. Only drank a cup at a friend’s house once in a while, loaded with sugar and cream. I stopped doing that before I was fifteen and didn’t resume drinking coffee until after I was twenty. Leaving the military after my first enlistment was up, I bought a restaurant and ran it while going to college, so I drank coffee, but not much. I remained indifferent to it.
I re-entered the military. Working night shifts, I would nuke the leftover cold coffee from the huge office urn and doctor it with sugar. Nasty stuff.
Wasn’t until my NCOIC, Bob Totten, and my buddy, Jeff, at Kadena AB, Okinawa, Japan, that I really became a coffee drinker. I was working as a back-office warrior by then as the Command Post training NCO. Bob would invite Jeff and me to informal staff meetings at the Base Exchange cafeteria upstairs. Even then, I didn’t think much of coffee. But I was going to school and evolved into drinking it at home as I geared up for evening classes.
Then I discovered ‘good’ coffee. I found that I like French and Italian roasts best. I didn’t like cream or sugar in my coffee. I bought my beans and ground them myself. I only made sufficient coffee for my needs and only drink fresh coffee.
Of course, by then, I couldn’t stand our military office coffee. Too weak and American for me.
At subsequent assignments, I would take over our office ‘coffee fund’. Darker roasts, better coffee markers, and better brands were my requirements. I levied that on the rest. My offices in Germany and California became known as a good place to get decent coffee.
Field conditions were horrible for coffee, of course. Weren’t no good brands out there. Gird my loins and quaff the evil brews available to fight the cold off or endure the heat. Bad coffee, bad food, bad sleeping arrangements, and nasty latrines – holes in plywood in tents.
Retiring from the Air Force, it was the same sort of thing as I went to work for civilians. Except I ended up working with an engineer, Janet, who liked yet stronger coffee. She used to complain that my coffee was too weak! I was appalled. By then, I was in the SF Bay Area, purchasing Peet’s coffee and bringing it in, making my own pot. Of course, people other than Janet liked my coffee, so there were often several brews going besides decaf.
Eventually, I was working for IBM, but remote, working from home. My wife and I saw a Keurig at Costco and purchased it. For a while, I continued making my coffee using beans, a grinder, and a drip style coffee maker as I didn’t like any of the pods that I tried. But then I tried the Costco SF Bay French roast pod.
That worked, and that’s where I’m at now, drinking that at home in the morning. When I was going out to write at The Beanery for several years, it was a different story. I drank a nonfat double Mexican mocha for my writing. Alas, The Beanery went away. Now, I order Americanos wherever I go. I like espressos but they’re consumed too fast. The Americano works.
And that’s my coffee tale. It’s been a grind. Happy Coffee Day.
A long and greatly involved dream in three parts entertained me last night. It seemed like it was about hopes, expectations, and relationships.
Part 1: the Catholic family.
In this, Mom had to go away. Although I was an adult, she worried about where I was going to stay and what I was going to do, standard concerned Mom reactions to change. I ended up with an offer to stay with a childhood friend’s family. Neighbors. Haven’t seen the guy in almost fifty years, but here he was, in my dream, along with his parents. His parents have passed away some time ago, BTW.
In this dream, they had a huge home. I wouldn’t deem it luxurious but enormous with a byzantine layout. Some rooms were like huge cement auditoriums or gymnasiums; others were small but with multiple levels.
My friend’s mother told me, “Do whatever you want here. Just act like it’s your house. We’re happy to have you here.”
While I appreciated the sentiments, I was leery of making myself an unwanted guest, so I tried being circumspect. Weirdly I wore off-white pajamas with narrow blue pinstripes the entire time. I thanked her, of course. After casual exploring, I found a large room with a small student desk, the kind seen in elementary school, where I set up my computer and sat down to write.
After I set up, she came by with her family. Only she spoke, though, telling me, “We’re going out. We’re going to be gone a while, so the house is all yours.” It felt like a huge responsibility, almost a burden, but I thanked her for her trust and hospitality. They left; I kept writing.
At some point, I grew aware that it was pouring rain and the onset of dusk outside. I decided to leave.
Part 2: the Porsche rally and restaurant.
I went into my hosts’ garage and found a car. A small and older sports car of some kind, I knew it as mine.
I drove out into the rain and down a driveway to a busy, winding multi-laned urban street. Small sports cars were passing, dropping revs and downshifting, and sometimes sliding, drivers catching spins as the car’s back end swung out on the slick asphalt.
I recalled then, that’s right, the town was hosting a Porsche Rally, with special emphasis on older Porsches and the Porsche Spyder.
Well, that explained it! I also saw a circa 1970 Lotus Elan go by. I wondered if they’d allowed it to participate in the Porsche event, or if serendipity had brought it to this time and place.
Pulling out into the driving rain, I drove carefully, wishing I had a Porsche like the stylish little cars I saw. As I came up one hill, I needed to slow substantially because a Bugatti Veyron had spun across the middle of the road. I wondered, what is an expensive exotic like that doing here? I then saw three more going by in the rain.
Bugatti Veyron from the net — not my car.
It was almost dark and I reached my destination, a crowded old restaurant where I was meeting friends. The menu was American-Immigrant fusion. I began with pasta with tomato sauce and meatballs, and then switched to chicken fried rice. We stood as we ate, and my food tasted sensational.
As I ate, a tall, thin man walked by. “Guess what,” he loudly said, “I saw jars of Ragu in the kitchen. You’ve been tricked! This sauce is not made here.”
My friends and I shrugged it off. Wherever the food was from, it was awesome.
Part 3: the Revolution
I piled into a car with four other men. One of them was driving. One was armed with a gun which was part of his head. I could see that it was loaded with one round bullet, like something you’d fire from a musket. I was pondering the intricacies of how you’d aim a gun like that, especially if the target is moving.
We parked and entered a small, dim theater. A small stage was set up on the far end in front of rows of padded metal folding chairs. About twenty people, mostly men, were present. All were early middle-aged or older, and all were white. I milled with a few people, chatting for several seconds, and then one man began talking. They were there to overthrow the government.
Well, hold on, I thought, uneasy. I’d been invited to this gathering, and it’s not what I thought it was going to be. Something about the way they were addressed struck me as a religious group. I eased myself to one side, thinking, how am I going to get out of here?
At that point, the man with the gun head fired. He pointed it somewhere else and not at me. I watched the round ball leave its barrel with a plume of white smoke.
Two more puzzles were finished this week. We finished a Wysocki last Wednesday. I shot a photo of it with my phone. Then my phone’s software updated and suddenly my phone wasn’t sharing photos with my ‘puter. Gotta investigate settings and figure out what went wrong.
Anyway, couldn’t share a photo of the completed puzzle so here is a photo of the puzzle box. We’re taking it back to the library tomorrow.
Meanwhile, friends had a visitor and she brought them a puzzle. They didn’t put it together but loaned it to us to complete.
Well, we started it Friday night and finished it Saturday night. One thousand pieces. As you see from the photo, it’s candy. Mostly candy bars.
I wasn’t keen on doing it. I like a puzzle with a couple big focal points. This one looks like it has a hundred tiny focal points. Beside that, it has some irregular shapes. Bah.
But it turned out to be challenging but very engaging and a lot of fun. My wife took to it with a lot of zeal. She really seemed to like all those little foci. Details about the candy being offered and their prices and the small details on the packaging was delightful. I enjoyed seeing Sugar Babies, Junior Mints, Clark Bars, and Milk Duds. These were my childhood favorites although as an adult I gravitated toward Payday. But I didn’t put my nose up at a 3Musketeers Bar (my sister’s favorite), a 5thAvenue, or a box of Good & Plenty.
I wondered, though, about the missing candy bars. Nestle Crunch. Milky Way. And what about Twizzlers? Didn’t they deserve to be included?
If you get a chance to try it, I recommend it. But you can’t have this one. We’re taking it apart and returning it to our friends.
Michael Seidel, writer 