Thirstda’s Wandering Thoughts
A hard thwack burst from my hat’s brim as I walked along the sidewalk to the coffee shop.
What was that, was my immediate, natural reaction. I’d seen nothing bounce away so I immediately suspected, bird poop. As if confirming it, a large crow flapped away, cawing as if crowing in victory.
Entering the coffee shop, I removed my lid. Yep, I’d been nailed. I remember that some cultures consider this good luck.
It is said that the lucky bird poop belief has its origins in Russia. According to this superstition, good luck and financial fortune may come your way if a bird poops on you or your vehicle. Perhaps the reason for this myth is that the odds of being pooped on at any given time are so low.
I showed my friend and share what happened. He looked and laughed. “It’s a good thing you had a hat on, or it would have nailed your big forehead.”
He was right. That would have created a vastly different experience.
I guess an optimist could say that the bird poop was good luck, because I was wearing a hat when it hit.
Thirstda’s Theme Music
Disappointment is heavy in Ashlandia. A big storm was forecasted for us. It perversely excited us but then did not arrive. Perversely, people are disappointed. At least three posts on NextDoor and Facebook have people expressing their disapppointment that the storm did not come.
Well, it did a little. “I heard a thunk,” my wife says.
“Was that the rock on the front porch?” I noticed it when I came home.
She nodded. “Yes, I think the wind blew the top two rocks off the cairn. At least, I heard the thunk and locked out and saw the rocks and nothing else.”
Very circumstantial evidence. “I’ll put them back.” I must because she can’t balance them on the cairn. We don’t know why.
I’m disappointed, but not over the storm. I’d planned to weed around our hydrangea. Put it on my to-do list and everything. But she weeded. I’m happy the job is done but displeased that I wasn’t the one to do it. There are many more weeding opportunities. That’s little consolation.
Today is Thirstda, March 27 2025. Spring continues dancing with our expectations. We started out with a dispiriting cloud display. The sky was tiled dark and white. Showers fell. Now, it’s sunny and in the upper 50s F. More rain is expected. So is more sun. And warmer temperatures, along with colder temperatures.
Papi the ginger blade, commonly referenced as Butter Butt, is exhausted. Days of sunshine emboldened him to dash around like a one-year old. Now he’s sleeping like a kitten. Took up his favorite malabar chair seat in mid-morning, washed, and tucked the eyes shut.
He used the litter box for a bowel movement today. That’s unusual for him. He’s enormously fastidious about it. His scratching around was the clue. When he pees in the box, he steps in and then out. No scratching.
I told my wife about it. “This is literally the third time he’s used the litter box like that since Tucker passed,” I noted. “I think it’s because it was raining. He didn’t want to go in the rain and get his fur wet.”
The Neurons have lined up “Liar” by Three Dog Night in the morning mental music stream. Yes, this is a Trusk Regime production. Jonah Goldberg caught them in a security breach. He told them so. They spun it like he was a Democrat and a liar. Also pretended that it was nothing. No classified to see here, no sir. Then The Atlantic posted the transcripts. Hah. The leak was one thing; the attempted cover up is a mess. So, “Liar” it is.
Originally an Argent song — and you can hear their musical fingerprints all over it — Three Dog Night released their cover of “Liar” in 1971 and became another top twenty offering for the group in several nations.
Coffee has perked me up again. (Get it? Sure. You’re not slow.) Time to rock and roll. Cheers
Periflooftetic
Periflooftetic (floofinition) – An animal with a wandering or restless nature. Origins: Flooce, Middle Floof, and Flooftin, 15th century.
In Use: “Quinn was a long-haired and handsome periflooftetic, resting in a window seat one minute, asleep on a chair in the next, and outdoors in the back yard at the next glance.”
In Use: “Sleeping through the day, Braveheart the bulldog was a nocturnal periflooftetic, thumping up and down the stairs, padding along the halls, investigating every sound with a gruff grunt.”
Wenzda’s Wandering Thoughts
I saw a photograph of the blue spiral spotted in the night sky over Europe.
Turned out to be from a SpaceX rocket doing a fuel dump. Meanwhile, The Neurons in my head immediately turned to music, filling my mental music stream with a 1977 rock song by Journey called “Wheel in the Sky”.
Ooh, the wheel in the sky keeps on turnin’
I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow
Wheel in the sky keeps on turnin’
h/t to Genius.com
For tomorrow.
Twosda’s Wandering Thoughts
I popped the final radish into my mouth and crunched away. That was the last of my lunch. Cleaning up, I noticed my coffee cup still had a few swallows in it.
3:15 PM. Probably not too late for a quick swig.
Swig. Tumblers fell together. Memories cracked open.
Dad offered me a cup. “Here, take a swig of this.”
I don’t remember what was in the cup. I was arrested by swig. “What’s a swig?”
“You never heard that before? It’s a sip, a drink.”
I’d heard of them, along with gulp. Mom was always telling me not to gulp while Dad would encourage me to take a gulp.
I took a swig of the coffee and then another before pouring the rest out and cleaning out the cup. One good swig deserves another.
Obfloofrate
Obfloofrate (floofinition) – An animal who obstinately refuses to stop doing ‘wrong doing’. Origins: 15th century Middle Floofish.
In Use: “People who live with cats often find the little felines to be obfloofrate about where they will sit, even if people tell them that the kitchen counter is not place for a cat.”
In Use: “Loveable and goofy, the black Lab was also an obfloofrate squirrel chaser.”
In Use: “Almost perversely obfloofrate, Jade seemed to delight in knocking things off the dresser at around three AM.”
Twosda’s Theme Music
The cat wanted out. 3:20 AM, according to my sleep-blurred vision. Following his victory prance to the door, I gave him the usual admonitions about being safe, smart, staying close, and not letting anything get him. He meowed back with a little defiance, as if to say, “Gosh, I know! You tell me this a million times a day.”
A while later, sun was breaking in through the window. I cowered from it like a vampire. But it wasn’t the sun calling me: the cat wanted back in. 6:32. He came in, rushing to his kibble bowl like a starving maniac. I stumble-walk back to bed.
“Meow,” he said shortly, batting blinds. I want out.
“No,” I answered. “Not gonna happen.”
Of course it happened.
This is Twosda, March 25, 2025. The sun is glowing hard, heating an endless blue sky. Sensing a change in the air, the cat is eager to take advantage of it. “Sure,” I sleep-spoke to him. “You slept all day yesterday. I saw you, curled up in the malabar chair.”
“Meow,” the cat answered. “Out.”
It’s already 54 F. I don’t know what it feels like. I feel like I’d like more sleep. Supposed to get to 78 F today. Huzzah. Yawn. Seriously, I mean, huzzah, but I gotta get some coffee in me before I can give it the enthusiasm it deserves.
I’m suspicious of the weather. This is Oregon. Snow still covers some mountain tops, eyeing us in the valley. I suspect winter is gonna try to slip another storm over us. It’s just like weather to lure us with warm temperatures and friendly skins and then spring out at us like a demented drunk uncle and shout, “Got you.” And then laugh like they’re crazy.
Today’s morning mental music stream Neurons are offering The Friends of Distinction with “Going In Circles”. The gentle soulful 1969 song is in there because The Neurons think it’s funny about how the cat has me getting up to let him in and out over and over again. When it’s warmer, the pet door will be put back into place so he can leave and enter as he wants. But that temperature threshold hasn’t been achieved yet.
In recent news items, Donald Trump was caught lying. Trump said he didn’t sign controversial proclamation. The Federal Register shows one with his signature. Isn’t this rich from the administration which tried to say that President Biden’s pardons weren’t real because, signature. Autosigning thingy. “Did he know what he was signing?” they asked. Think they confused which person doesn’t know what they’re saying. Really, we know that Trump knew what he was signing; he just lied about it because it was giving him negative heat. Trump melts and lies under that kind of heat, sure as the sun’s motion.
Also, measles outbreaks are spreading. It’s mostly among the unvaccinated. You know, intelligent people, learning from what’s happening, would develop and administer vaccines to stop that. But we’re dealing with a new level of denial and irrational thinking with the Trusk Regime and the MAGAts who installed them.
Also, DOGE’s actions don’t seem to be going well with the public. So Republicans are being encouraged to lie about it. Here’s the deets. GOP begs senators to sing DOGE’s praises as support flounders
Gotta go. Cat wants in. Coffee, give me strength. Cheers
Sunda’s Wandering Political Thoughts
I’ve been busy tracking the PINO Trusk administration’s actions. It’s like tracking a hurricane as it roars toward humanity. Oh no, where is it going to hit next? Hope those folks will be okay. Shame about those Trump voters who thought he cared about them. Hope they’re okay despite their vote. Because they’re other humans, right? They are human, right? I have that right, don’t I? I guess it could’ve been bot voters who won the day for Trump. Wouldn’t put it past DOGE and the GOTP at all. But that’s a conspiracy for another day.
Right now, I’m wondering about the tipping point. When will Hurricane Trusk cause enough damage that the majority of American citizens will come together in one voice and finally shout, “Enough, you fuckers! Stop it right now.”
That tipping point moment is predicated on multiple vectors and variables, so it’s a hard prediction. My original call was April of 2025. That’s what I told friends back at the beginning of January. I thought, hey, inflation, high prices, the contempt with which Trump treats history, minorities, and women; emptied shelves caused by trade wars, parks going to crap, and the air and water starting to stink; tourism swiftly cratering, rising unemployment, flopping tax revenues, threats against Medicare and Social Security, and people would be mighty miffed by April.
I don’t know ’bout April any longer. There’s a mass of individuals out there quite willing to endure those things. Mostly, I think, it’s because they don’t want to admit how fucking wrong they were about Trump. That they’ve been tricked, had, conned. Also because some of them are so underwater in the MAGA swamp that they won’t fully get what’s going on. Part of that will be because the right wingosphere will feed the MAGAts what they want, which is GREAT NEWS about HOW GREAT TRUMP IS, regardless of the truth. We’ve seen it before. Lot of them believe that Trump built an impenetrable wall across our southern border. Doesn’t explain why they worry about ‘illegals’ now, but then, that’s their thinking level.
If I had more energy, I’d propose a national betting pool. We could all pick a date and bet that is the tipping day. But that would be a messy thing to figure out, especially with PINO Trusk and his regime dicking with the numbers.
Maybe I’ll do it on another day. After I’d had a few glasses of beer. It seems like a beery thing to do.
Goldilocks
I’ve become a sunshine person. It wasn’t always like this. When I was young, I’d go out in weather that had others questioning my sanity. As I grabbed coats, shoes, whatever was needed, people would eye me with aghast expressions. “You’re going out in that?”
“Sure,” I’d answer, “it’s just a little rain.” Even if was a monsoon. Rain, snow, sleet, wind, nothing kept me in. Not even thunder and lightning. “Just going for a walk.”
I loved pitting myself against the elements. Felt like a hero out of a 19th century novel, just a rugged individual surviving against the elements. I thought myself quite heroic. Especially when I knew there was somewhere safe, warm, and secure to retreat to when I had my fill of being heroic.
Different these days. “Where’s the sun?” I ask. I search all of the sky, even though I know where it’s supposed to be. I know where east is. I know the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. I know those directions. Still, I sweep the sky in search of the sun, in case it got off its leash.
I don’t usually get an answer to my question about the sun’s location. Others always think it rhetorical. Probably because everyone knows where the sun is going. Not like it’s a wandering cat.
I used to be more indifferent to the sun. Now, I’m very picky. I don’t want it too bright, too hot, or too much. I have become Goldilocks sampling the three bears’ stuff.
I like a good warm sunshine. Not enough for sweat these days. Used to be — but you know. I don’t want to sweat. I want to be warm, with enough sunshine that wearing sunglasses make sense. Not that it really matters to me: I’m almost always wearing sunglasses outside. Sometimes I wear them inside.
“Why don’t you take off your sunglasses?” my wife will say. “You’re inside now.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look ridiculous.”
I shrug. I’m used to that.
Michael Seidel, writer 