My spouse is a fignatic, a figinista, a fan of high magnitude of figs. She loves figs. Through her, I’ve come to enjoy them. Knowing this, a friend has been supplying us with figs. I snapped this photo Wenzda; we have three bowls of figs like this. Or had, as we’ve eaten a few.
This is the second go round from this fig supplier. These are huge beauties. So delicious, so nutritious, and a good source for calcium, potassium, vitamins C, A, K, and B6. We just eat them rare, although I’m cautious, as they’re high in oxalates, and can cause kidney stones. I already have that issue.
Figs been hard to come by at the stores and have become expensive. The last pint we purchased was $11 and had five small figs. None were in good shape, so my friend’s largesse is happily accepted.
Dreamland hasn’t been a happy place recently. Dreams featured me being lost and struggling. Maggots coming out of my skin. Being a broken robot. Etc. Different nights. Each brought a new horror of who I was. I disliked those dreams.
The Neurons flipped the script last night. In this one, a young and vigorous me was starting a new job. In medical device manufacturing, as I did for a few years. I was a mid-level manager. Working alone, as, again, I often did. But I had a great cast of supportive, friendly co-workers. They checked in on me. Helped me set up an office. Joked with me and came to me for my opinion, advice, and insights.
There were some messy moments. Like, my clothes became filthy from an office accident that didn’t otherwise involve me. I felt that I had to get out of those clothes but what was I going to wear? Co-workers came through with clothes they had available. Stuff planned to work after work for the gym, golfing, and dating. They willingly gave me those clothes.
I received a phone call. There was a family emergency. I needed to get somewhere that night. But my car was in the garage. A real-life friend from now, Ron, showed up. Turned out he was a co-worker. He asked me about my problem. “I’m going that way,” he said. “I can give you a ride.” We cemented arrangements.
I was so pleased. Then, chaos broke out at work. Problem after problem. While I worked to solve them, co-workers consistently came through with tools, insights, and helping hands.
The message I took away was, yes, life is messy and chaotic. But don’t worry. Others are there to help.
It was a message I really felt like I needed to hear.
It’s days of sunshine for us here on the coast. That’s our river view from our room in Old Town Florence. Only 58 F, a sea breeze keeps the heat load down. But the view was almost forever. S’posed to be better tomorrow, as clear and sunny as today but with a high of 66 F.
Reminder: this is Wenzda, April 30, 2025. A new month lands on us tomorrow.
Today’s morning mental music stream is technically an afternoon offering. I was out somewhere today. ‘Up’ in Yachats because it’s north of here. At a park, looking out at the sunny Pacific. I heard a woman tell her child, “Stay in the middle.” That triggered a collision among The Neurons. From the pileup came a song by Ambrosia, “How Much I Feel”, from 1978. That’s all because there’s a line from the song: “So you try, try to stay in the middle.” The Neurons just stacked from there. Not really my style of song. I was surprised when my rocker buddy, Randy, used to go into that thinking and singing to self zone whenever this song came on. He enjoyed Boston and Van Halen. This song, however, had been part of his life with his wife before their divorced. It always forced another time on his present when it played.
Randy passed away two decades ago. Before Trump’s arrival on the political thing. Randy never liked Democrats. Despised Bill Clinton. Watched a lot of Fox News. I’m afraid he would have been a MAGA. So, in reflection, it’s probably best he passed away before this political era got its hooks into him.
Coffee has been consumed. And pastries. Lunch, etc. Hope your day is a great new page in another chapter of your existence. Here we go. Cheers
Cold spring night ended with sunshine breaking apart the clouds like Jesus taking on the money changers. Blue sky smile down on us. Sunshine is tasked with warming us to 68 F, up from 46.
Papi likes having the pet door back on. He’s resumed his unique style. A paw is inserted into the space betwixt the flap and its flame. He pulls the flap toward him to enlarge a space. Then he sticks his head through. Creeps on in. Seeing me watching, he pauses. Confirms who I am. Greetings are exchanged. He comes on for some pets, treats, and cat nip. A little later, he reverses course. Heads for the sunny backyard.
But. A but always crops up. In this but, Papi still beats on the back door. Even though the pet door is open. I have applied some erratic noodling to it. I believe that the beating is his communication system. Like drums or smoke signals.
Papi sending smoke signals. Alarm inducing idea.
Papi was telling me that he wanted his water dish refilled and outside. I’ve pulled it in at night. Don’t want to encourage other wildlife to hang around. I’ve set up a water bowl for them in another area of the yard, around in the front, away from the doors. Papi detests drinking water in the house. Likes drinking it outside. We all have our foibles.
On to politics. Ugh. No. Full coffee saturation is required before I go there today.
All kinds of music occupy the morning mental music stream. Like rock concert going on in there. First up in heavy rotation was the Animals with “House of the Rising Sun.” Brought on by seeing the sunshine rising, brightening, filing the world, including our house. Then there was Chris Isaak. “Baby Did A Bad Bad Thing”. That was in response to some news article I read. Next came Aerosmith. “Walk This Way.” That came after my wife returned from her exercise class. I was reading, thinking, gaming. Wasting away the hours that make up a slow day. I finally said, “I got to get moving but my get up and go seems to have got up and went.”
So here is my morning mental music stream. Brought to you by The Neurons. The Neurons: when you don’t know what to think.
I enjoyed watching and listening to this video of The Animals. It brought back elements of another time and delivered smiles to me. Hope you find it the same, seeing those young individuals and the more primitive conditions of television and pop culture.
Listening to Chris Isaak has been tarnished by a “Friends” episode that featured Isaak as a guy dating Phoebe. He sings a few high notes. She starts laughing.
Coffee is at hand. Time to coffee up and go be me. You go be you. Let’s do the best we can. Come on, let’s walk this way. Cheers
My body and mind were unanimous. More sleep was wanted. Yesterday was busy with an Easter Brunch. We’d been preparing all week. 10:15, we set off to go help with setup. By 11:30, all were there. A smorgasbord awaited. Mexican quiche, salmon with asparagus, salmon and cream cheese rolls. Dutch babies and lemon cake for dessert. Salads. Juices and libation to make it chippier. Easter egg hunt and korn hole. A half dozen present shared their latest stories about demonstrating against Trump in Ashland and Medford. 2 PM, it was all over.
Over to a friend’s house for his 93rd birthday. Just family and my wife and I. He has health issues and didn’t want a gathering. After singing the birthday song, witnessing the candle blowout, and visiting for two hours, we headed home to unpack and wash everything.
Blue skies were the day’s order. Light wind kept it from becoming too warm. 69 F was the tops. Today seems like it looked over yesterday’s shoulder and copied the weather.
I reminded my body and mind that sleeping in wasn’t an option. Today is Food & Friends deliveries. Crank up the car, pick up the food, and roll through the streets on route 3 to knock on doors and ring bells and drop off a small meal in southeastern Ashlandia. I’m the driver; my wife makes the deliveries.
Then, finally, it’ll be back to writing at the coffee shop for a few hours, and then home to wash clothes and attend yard work. The grass and weeds are gladded by the sunshine. It’s all shooting up fast.
Papi is beside himself with happiness by the time the air warms. It’s rolled up to 49 F now. He heads outside and sniffs out the sunshine. Then wind sniffs him out and he’s back in. It’s a never-ending game of ‘In & Out’!
The mountain air loads the night with temperatures that dribble down into the mid thirties. That temp feels colder. But we’re on the regular Ashlandia spring track. Only troubling thing is we’re not seeing any bees. They’re normally all over the place with their buzzing presence. Their absence disturbs.
Yesterday’s Easter Trump dump again illuminated his pathetic ways. That vitriol and lie-filled text mess is a sign of an insecure, demented, ignorant person. Trump’s dark forces again rose to show what a sinister and ugly place the United States is becoming under his hand as two young and wholly innocent German tourists were detained and deported, all for the crime of not having accommodations already reserved. Such fools are now in charge. Then there’s Trump’s undocumented bullshit broadside against Abrego Garcia. WTF, United States. Is this truly your vision?
With those thoughts spinning through my groovy organic thought machine, The Neurons spun up Aerosmith in the morning mental music stream: “Same Old Song and Dance”. Last time I used this ditty was in 2019. Trump occupied the White House then. I wrote back on that day,
Reading the news yesterday and today, I was shaking my head, partially laughing while crying. You know, it was the same old story.
That led to me streaming Aerosmith.
It’s the same old story Same old song and dance, my friend It’s the same old story Same old story Same old song and dance
It was an easy song to identify with when I was a teenager and the song was released. When you asked questions, you often heard, “That’s just how it is. That’s how it goes.” It was always the same old song and dance, no matter what you were asked.
So here we go. Trump is attacking and bullying whatever he can — law, courts, common sense, history, morality, it’s all open to a Trump attack. He’s like a puppy gnawing on clothes, shoes, and furniture. Nothing is safe from his brainless chewing. A puppy does far less damage, though. A puppy will grow out of it. Trump, with his deteriorating and aging mental capacity, will get worse.
Same ol’ story, same ol’ song and dance.
Have the best day you can, my friend. Fueled with coffee, I’ll rock on for another day, it seems. Cheers
It was a long and involved dream. Here are some dreamlights.
I was a young middle-aged man and head of a small business unit. We were located in a semi-tropical, warm, high humidity area. It was not the United States. Outside of my co-workers, the people I knew had all lived in the same huge brick apartment building. All Americans lived there for at least the first four months after their arrival in counrty.
A black 1968 Camaro Z/28 with silver stripes seen three times. A young man was driving it. In real life, I owned a Camaro but not a Z. Mine was not black and silver. Black and silver were Bruce McLaren’s original colors before he changed the team to Kiwi orange or Gulf orange. McLaren was a New Zealand driver and car constructor I idolized as a boy. I had an HO scale racing car of his black and silver McLaren Elva in my car line up.
Musical groups were offered, including the Suzy Qs. That CCR song, “Suzie Q”, was played. Sam Smith was offered, too. His hit, “I’m Not the Only One” was played. In conversation, I was told that not all offerings were available. A weird and arbitrary fashion was invoked to decreed who could be seen, and who could see them. After listening to that, I rejected that method. Said that I wasn’t going to follow or enforce it because it was stupid, and then left. That ended that.
The weekly entertainment was offered on a waxy red poster on a brick wall outside among some foliage. 80 pounds was listed as the admission price for one of them. Hearing that, I opted not to go. A friend was sunbathing nearby. I lied and told her I wasn’t going because there was a baby shower for a woman living in the building the same night as the concert.
Saw two therapists, both women. The therapists were seen three times total. I walked with one of them, talking to her about some of my career frustrations and disappointments. When I saw the other therapist a second time, she couldn’t find my records. I then told her that I’d spoken to the other therapist about that therapist, and then told that therapits what I’d told the other therapist.
Planning for Easter Brunch is underway. I am fortunately a passive participant. My wife keeps me apprised of developments. She was searching for some Easter-themed drinks. I found some for her. She rejected them. I did find Chocolate Bunny Coffee. She laughed at that.
“Prude wants to have a Prosecco bar,” my wife says. Prude and her hubby, Carl, are hosting the Easter brunch for the third consecutive year.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I’ll chat with her. The brunch is getting big. Twenty-seven people are going to be there.”
“Twenty-seven.”
My wife nods in confirmation.
I do the math. “That’s almost twice as usual.”
“I know.”
My wife gives details of new invitees. Many are people I don’t know. I’ve heard about some of them via my wife’s recounting of ‘Tales from the Y.’ The main characters are all members of the Y, like my wife, and they bring a guest, like me. Most participate in Mary’s exercise class. Mary is celebrating her 50th anniversary of her class next year. The Y wants my wife to organize something for them. Mary’s exercise group has given birth to multiple friendships and activities, including a book club, New Year’s Eve gatherings, and nights out to go dancing.
“Deborah is in charge of the coffee,” my wife says. She’s talking about the brunch. “I mentioned the Chocolate Bunny Coffee. She laughed but said she is not buying that.”
I’m not surprised. Deborah takes her coffee as seriously as I do.
“Mary told me that she has champagne left from a party at her house last year that she’ll donate,” my wife says. “I told her it’s supposed to be Prosecco. Mary said that Prude told her that you and I are going to be there at 10:30 to help set up.”
“We are?” I helped with that last year. Everybody prepares and brings food. A buffet is set up in the kitchen and dining room. The drinks and coffee and dining tables are outside.
“I don’t know,” my wife says. “I’ll talk to Prude.”
I have to decide what to make. Last year I made a potato casserole. It seemed pretty popular. I don’t know what I’ll make this year. I was thinking about a French toast casserole.
Dream fade in. I’m a young adult. I’m with a real-life friend who passed away a few years ago. He’s charging me to take care of his care for him. “Drive it over to the condo and put it in the parking garage,” he tells me.
The car is a silver 1956 Studebaker Golden Hawk in pristine condition. I agree to do as he asks. He and I are on vacation together, along with our extended families. I drive the Studebaker over and park it in the garage. I can see it from the rented, shared condo. The condo is enormous. The living room/dining room/kitchen combo’s entire western side is open to the sun and surf. Yes, surf, because it’s located right above a long, flat beach. Wonderful sunshine and blue sky are visible outside.
The condo is busy with people coming and going, talking, making plans. All of the people are familiar t me. Many are real life friends and relatives.
I’m part of the conversations and activities about our plans. But I’m also distracted, concerned about the Studebaker. Word comes to me that it needs to be moved to let some big truck by. I don’t want to go over there to move it. But somehow I have a black, wireless remote control. Using it, I start the car, back it up, let the truck by, and then park the car again. I end up doing this same maneuver three more times. In parallel, I discover that the remote works on other cars as well. I keep moving cars for people using the remote.
Then we’re all dashing around, doing things, collecting groceries, making meals, eating. As that happens, I discover that all of the Studebaker’s windows are shattered. The car is also riddle with dents and scratches. Non-plussed, I wonder aloud, what the hell happened? I’m concerned about what my friend will say about his car’s condition.
While I’m still fretting, we all go outside to enjoy the sunny beach and ocean. It’s wonderful out there. Then, shallow, long waves enter. News reaches us that there’s a storm far offshore driving these waves. Sunshine glitters along the waves. We talk about what a powerful storm that must be.
I return to the condo for something. When I’m in there, I hear shouting from outside. Turning, I see a long, flat, white wave race up the beach. It’s not deep or thunderous but it was wholly unexpected by everyone. Watching, I see that no one is hurt. Fast moving, the water only reaches most people’s knees.
Although the condo is above the beach, the wave rushes into the condo. It carries me, upright, the condo’s length. I laugh, enjoying the experience. Looking across at the parking garage, I realize that it’s gone, along with all of the cars which were parked in it. I’m amazed but relieved; I can’t be blamed for my friend’s car damage now.
The water swirls around inside the condo. I wish for a towel. Then I realize, damn, I left it on the condo floor. It’s underwater now.
I think, I should have picked up a towel when I saw the wave coming.
Dream end.
A note: the man who passed away shared my first name, Michael. The car in the dream was made the year that I was born, 1956. Coincidence? Who knows?
Later in the same press event, Trump again blamed globalists for the market downturn. “I think it’s globalists that see how rich our country’s going to be, and they don’t like it.“
What an absolute crock. Couldn’t be the old standard of people and institutions who invest in the stock market were protecting their profits and selling stocks, could it? Oh, no, he has to pull up some bullshit bogey man.
Then again, PINO Trusk isn’t a deep thinker. Not a sharp guy. Doesn’t understand the global network of finance, manufacturing, and supply chains at all. Nope. He prefers a stone-age ‘isolationist’ approach. Thinks that will ‘make America great again’.
Meanwhile, treating your friends like shit ends up with them getting pissed at you and treating you like shit.
Ontario Premier Doug Ford said that he would cancel the $100 million deal the Canadian province signed with Starlink in response to Trump’s 25% tariff on Canadian goods. He’s also imposing a 25% tax on electricity exports, with New York, Michigan, and Minnesota being the most affected. CBC also reports that U.S.-based companies are banned from procurement contracts with the province.
Last year, as the U.S. government debated and then followed through on banning TikTok, Republican lawmakers advanced numerous arguments against allowing a hostile foreign power to control a significant medium of public discourse.
They said a social media application owned by someone who is close to an autocratic leader might be used as propaganda.
They said the amount of data harvested by the app from users’ phones could pose enormous security risks, providing information to the security services of a hostile power.
Of course, I might be in the minority in my concerns about PINO Trusk.
One Wall Street executive told me that Mr. Trump remains better than any of the alternatives. Another — citing Elon Musk’s government shake-up — said he likes what he sees so much, he now regrets voting for Ms. Harris.
It wasn’t just that this group resented Mr. Biden’s intrusive regulatory policies. They didn’t like diversity, equity and inclusion policies either — or anything they derisively described to me as “woke stuff.” Now executives and bankers alike (my circles tilt a bit toward Wall Street) are celebrating early signs of a reversal.
I’m not really astonished by claims that business leaders ‘favor’ PINO Trusk’s trash and burn approach. Stories are rising across the political spectrum about people who first cheer the Trusk Regime’s behavior. Then they’re personally affected, and the song they’re singing goes from praises to complaints. So, as PINO Trusk burns supply chains, declares tariffs (and reverses them), and alienates markets and customers outside of the US, we’ll see how they’re feeling in a few months. Sure, they’re wealthier; their wealth cradles their asses as we go through chaos and inflation.
Or, as Paul Krugman stated it, One thing that really struck me from Rattner’s piece — something I’ve heard from other sources — is that big businessmen think Elon Musk is doing a good job. I guess this is one of those cases where power and privilege make you blind to things that are obvious to everyone else.
After all this fucking around, I’m waiting to find out.
The sixth day of February has boarded our minds in the year of 2025 CE, a Thursdaz. Crazy frog — our home’s expression for freezing fog, based on a mondetext — has stolen the sunlight, gifting us twilight colors of, gray, white, and black. No snow falling but ‘they’ are warning us that more is on the way. It’s 32 F and greater warmth isn’t anticipated. Snow might be on the way. Or rain.
The primary roads have been plowed here but get off them and yer on yer own. Sidewalks on not cleared, so people must walk on the streets. Everyone gives pedestrians on the roads wide passage but given the environment, I imagine people walking worry with every step about someone losing control of their vehicle.
Weather caused cancellation of my first two lymphedema massage therapy sessions. Another one is scheduled for tomorrow. Also have an appointment for Papi the ginger blade, aka butter butt, Meep, and butter booger, to see what’s going on about his fur shedding.
The Ban Man is at it. Trump bans with a petulant thump. “Ban transsexuals in women’s sports.” Thump. “If I can’t have fun and play sports, neither can they.” “Ban DEI. I’m a rich white guy, born into a wealthy white household. I don’t understand how that was an advantage over others.” Thump. “Ban it all, everything that isn’t me.” Thump.
Of course, the craziness of the first term is still flowering. ‘The U.S. will take over Gaza. Move the Palestinians out.’ What? Friggin’ nuts. Then his ‘team’ scrambles to make it sound sane, plausible, and supported by everyone, and then Trump realizes how nuts he sounded and tries to change what he said. Brother.
It was a busy morning. Friend called to ask advice about his ailing cat. Another called for help with his recalcitrant computer. And, caught up with Mom drama via texts with Mom and a sis. Mom fell again. She refuses assistance and she’s been at war with her live-in boyfriend for months. She’s 89 and he’s 94. I have never witnessed him be anything but polite and nice to her but she declares him mean. My siblings and I have a lifetime of Mom so her claims draw leeriness as a first response. It’s unfortunate but she’s been married multiple times and has had several boyfriends, and drama is her drug. She makes everything contentious with everyone. It’s a sigh-inducing relationship with her.
With that gray-tinged white world staring back at us, it’s no surprise that The Neurons pulled a Cream song, “White Room”, into the morning mental music stream. It’s a Cream favorite o’ mine. A poet, Pete Brown, was responsible for the lyrics, which strike many as enigmatic. I think iyhat pushes me to look inside myself.
My favorite part is this stanza, followed by the chorus.
I like the way the stanza is belted out, angry, defiant, challenging, before the softly resigned introspection presented by the chorus.
Then, too, there are three phenomenal rock performers demonstrating their craft with bass guitar, lead guitar, and drums. Awesome.
Coffee and I introduced ourselves to one another again and I’m indulging in more caffeine-infused dark goodness. Hope your day offers some escape from the world’s woes and some satisfaction to your plans. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 