I received my new medical compression sock. Yes, just one, for the left leg. The right leg was in worse shape. The sock for it is now ordered and I’m waiting for it to arrive.
Meanwhile, the new ‘medical grade’ compression sock is custom made for my limb from the knee to the the toes. So one, difficult to put on. Two, comfortable. Three, much more difficult to get off.
But what really struck me is that it has a seam down the back that runs over my calf, Achilles tendon, heel, and on down my foot’s center. As I put it on and aligned it, I was reminded of a previous era, when women’s nylon stockings had a seam down the back. I remembered movies where a woman would show her legs and ask, “Are my seams straight?” So I went out to my wife and asked, “Is my seam straight?”
If we’re rockin’ and rollin’, it must be Saturda. Well, according to the calendar, even if you’re not rockin’ and rollin’, it’s still Saturda.
Sunshine flashes some spirit but we’re mostly under cover of long stretched waves of gray-topped white clouds. Will it rain? Wouldn’t you like to know… Temperature is 42 F. We came close to edging into 60 yesterday. Weird experiencing that much warmth and sunshine for such sustained exposure. Dressed in jeans, shirt, and light jacket, sweat peppered me as I walked around on household business. Nice to have, as this is our expected average for the year. But it’s been so sorely absent that we have to re-adjust to it.
This being February 22, 2025, we expect a high today of 55 F. It’ll be partly sunny and partly cloudy. Rain is expected this afternoon. The wind has punched up, reminding me of that expression about March coming in like a lion. Papi the ginger blade (aka Butter Butt) doesn’t like the wind, mewhining, “Let meeee iiiiinnnnnnnn.”
Today The Neurons have offered a musical suggestion on behalf of Trump supporters. “Use Me” by Bill Withers, from 1972, inhabits the morning mental music stream.
But my answer, yeah to all that use me stuff I want to spread the news That if it feels this good getting used You just keep on using me Until you use me up Until you use me up
I approached coffee with an offer that was eagerly accepted. Now the two of us are almost like one. Hope you have a day worth remembering for all the good reasons. Cheers
So we chug into Fridaz, Feb. 21, 2025. Blue sky has it over my views of Ashlandia. Plentiful sunshine pelts the scene with rays. It’s 32 F with mid 50s likely, ‘they’ say.
All that is my perspective. Per habit, I inquire of the weather for us from Alexa. It says it’s 40 degrees. Tells me about the fog. ? Says it’ll be mostly cloudy today.
What we have here is some kind of failure of something. Maybe it’s in a different reality; perhaps I am. Or Alexa landed in a different Ashland. There’s a bunch of ’em in America. Or…since she’s Amazon…and Jeff Bezos…and he’s getting along so well with Trusk…Alexa is trying to gaslight me. Ah, such possibilities to contemplate on a Fridaz morning.
Oatmeal with blueberries are being consumed. A Chicago song is going through my morning mental music stream. “You’re My Inspiration.” You know the words:
You’re the meaning in my life You’re the inspiration You bring feeling to my life You’re the inspiration Wanna have you near me
I figure The Neurons are calculating and channeling emotions about Tucker’s passing. Seems logical, right? But, The Neurons are not always logical. Then again, neither are emotions. Hell, neither is life.
The music certainly didn’t come from my dreams. They were trippy. I’ll almost certainly write a post about one of them later. It’s ‘almost certainly’ because it’s a busy day planned. So, it’s a time permitting thing. Then again, there’s not a general call for more of my dreams, nor is there a time limit. It’s not like someone sent me memo, “Post about a dream by Fridaz.” If they did, I didn’t receive the memo. I guess I should check my spam and junk mail, see if it didn’t get ditched there.
Coffee and I are doing the morning tango. Hope you have a solid day, and things begin looking and getting better for all of us. Here’s the 1984 music, fresh out of a recording made in 1992. Papi the ginger blade (aka Meep, Butter Butt) has arrived for his morning cuddle session. Gotta go. Cheers
This is another of those questions with contingencies circling around a word. Today, it’s ‘gift’. I mean, the gifts of life and good health are often on people’s lists. I’ve experienced enough personal health scares to appreciate those words. A memory seared into my being is of being very sick one year. Bronchitis turned to pneumonia. I awoke to Mom’s high pitched appeals, “Please, Lord, let my son live.” Her efforts worked, as here I am. Pretty good gift, I think.
Then there is the best gift received as a present. That would be a 1/20 scale model of a 1961 Jaguar XK-E. I was around nine or ten years old. Car fever bowled me over. Porsches, Corvettes, Ferraris, name it. But that Jag impressed me as the most stylistic art on four wheels. The roadster was my choice but the model was a coupe. It was fun to build, and I displayed the result with pride.
However, there was a shirt given to me when I was fourteen. A female classmate had a crush on me. I was aware of this because other girls wrote me a note informing me of the fact. Later that week, she bought the shirt, and gave it to me as a gift. Although the shirt wasn’t my style, I was flattered. Astonished, really. In retrospect, I understand how much courage it took her to buy that and give it to me.
I suppose, though, the best gift is that kiss and hug my wife gave me the first time she ever told me she loved me. Unable to speak the words, she wrote them in the steam on a window. We were teenagers and that’s another memory captured in amber. Married a few years later, we’re still married fifty years later.
So, not an easy question to answer. The question does force me to realize how many great gifts I’ve received.
I hope I was able to give a few to others along the way.
Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazydays of winter. Yes, winter has compromised Nat King Cole’s hit about summer. Fact is, the Ashlandia day facing us here in southern Oregon are all of those things he uses to describe summer. A blotted, bloated face of puffy and sullen gray clouds mumble hello. Weak sunshine is acting like a wallflower trying not to get noticed. 44 F now, the temperature is gonna skyrocket to 45 F, they tell us. Betting window is open on rain.
We should all be insulted by Trusk’s moves against DEI. Unity is needed for a strong nation. There was a reason why DEI evolved. PINO Trusk and his disgusting rinions are trying to pretend those things didn’t exist or didn’t matter. Total bullshit. Beyond that, call out to those companies: don’t you realize how much stronger and more successful via DEI? No, you don’t. You’re too weak, craven, and greedy. Shame on you. Kudos to Costco.
Yeah, going with the Bangles’ version of “Hazy Day of Winter” today for the theme music. It’s a Simon & Garfunkel original but the Bangles successfully covered it in a more rock and roll style in 1987. But in the spirit of inclusion, I’m including both versions. The Bangles version has overwhelmed the S&A 1966 original in the morning mental music stream. That’s how it sometimes goes.
Bonus offering: Haim.
As the song says, “Hang onto your hopes, my friend.”
Coffee and I have reached detente again via some kitchen diplomacy. I’m sailing along on a stream of caffeine. Keep it real and have the best one you can. Cheers
Welcome once again. The show is starting, it’s never ending, the days come together and just keep on blending. So we give them numbers and call them names, this one is Saturda, the 15th. It’s still February and it’s still 2025.
An unenthusiastic sky made up of blemished and dull white swaths have been tossed over the sky. Blue is not in the scene today. Sunshine is muffled; only rays weary with effort break out. Piles of melting snow, blackened by dirt and pollutants, sketch reminders of last week.
We’re lookin’ at 36 F but ‘they’ say we’ll see 43 F later. Rain? Maybe. Sunshine? Could be. Fog? Why not?
Around noon Friday, the trio entered multiple offices at City Hall “demanding that employees turn over digital information related to alleged wasteful government spending and fraud,” the sheriff’s office said.
The employees refused the requests and called sheriff’s deputies. The men fled the building before authorities arrived.
Isn’t it a perfect metaphor for the Trusk administration? Lawlessness, ignorance, arrogance, and cowardice, all in one scene. Sums up Trusk for me.
I mean, think about it. These guys walk in and demand files related to wasteful government spending and fraud. What did they think was going to happen? Employees were going to reply, “Oh, yes, we have those files right here. Here ya’ go. Have a nice day.”
Jeezus.
Today, The Neurons have presented me with a classic CCR song. Dug up out of 1968, “Commotion” is playing in the morning mental music stream. It’s a fast-beat song with classic CCR lyrics.
People keep atalkin', they don't say a word Jaw, jaw, jaw, jaw, jaw Talk up in the White House, talk up to your door, So much goin' on I just can't hear
The genesis of the song in the MMMS is from reflecting how much the GOTP say without giving real information. Lies, bullshit, and evasion is their norm. I’d have to walk away from them if I heard them talking at a party. But as the song puts it, ‘so much goin’ on I just can’t hear.’ Which, others note, is part of the Trusk GOTP plan: if you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit. Keep talkin’ and don’t answer questions. Confusion is their friend.
Coffee has made its way into my system again, pushing my buttons and liftin’ my energy. Here we go, into another hazy shade of winter. Have the best day you can. See you on the other side. Cheers
I often think about Mom & Dad at my age of 68 and what they were doing.
Mom, with a couple divorces behind her, was a late bloomer in some ways. She’d given birth to seven children. Five lived. Forfeiting graduating high school to leave her small town of Turin, Iowa and find employment and begin her own life, she eventually acquired her GED. That was long after I’d left home and begun my life. After gaining her GED, she went to college and became an LPN and RN. A twenty-year in that followed; she retired at my current age, devoting herself to being a grandmother.
Dad and Mom had divorced decades before. Dad was in the military, the U.S. Air Force. After retiring at 20 years, when he was thirty-nine years old, he worked in the grocery business as a produce manager and then bought his own restaurant. When he was around 48, twenty years younger than I am now, he moved west to Texas. He worked in different retail businesses while becoming a real estate agent. He always like running stores, though. Eventually, he was running the largest truck stop west of the Mississippi. Along the way, he met another woman; she became his third wife. They’ll be married 33 years on Valentine’s Day of 2025. Meanwhile, he kept managing that truck stop. Every time he told them he was thinking about retiring, they’d offer him more pay, bonuses, and vacation. He did eventually give it up when he was 80. So at my current age, he was fully in the thick of running it.
They’re a surprising couple. From lower class working roots, they married many times. Each had productive careers. Between the two of them, each was parent to seven children but they also buried three children. Five of us siblings shared them as parents. I left Mom’s home when I was 14 to live with Dad and then left his house at 17, joining the military as Dad had done, so much of what I saw of their lives was through a long distance lens. Mom and Dad remain alive. Mom is 89 and Dad is 92. Both endure health issues but because of the era when they worked and the effort they put in, they have excellent health benefits.
Of course, the flip side of it all is, what will I be like at their ages?
I’ve almost lived in my dream home a few times. That whole personal paradigm of what a dream home is changes with time.
Living in Germany off base in a little town called Waldorf, I was quite happy. Up on the fifth floor, we had nice views and were short walks to some sweet cafes, bakeries, and gasthauses. The drive to the base was short. Not much traffic was encountered on a typical day until I reached the gate, so there was no frustrations or irritations associated with driving. Frankfurt itself, with all that it offered was just down the autobahn. The train or the autobahn easily took us other places, not just in Germany, but across Europe. It was wonderful.
But I rotated ‘home’, to the United States. Home was now Onizuka Air Station, previously known as Sunnyvale Air Station, in Sunnyvale, California. After living in an apartment in Sunnyvale, I moved to base housing. Then I retired from the military and lived in a Mountain View duplex on a cul-de-sac. But my wife and I noticed that we often spent time when we weren’t working in Half Moon Bay, California. So we found a place there, a beautiful townhome just a mile from the beach.
Half Moon Bay was a wonderful town. Our place was just a six minute walk from downtown and its plethora of restaurants, shops, cafes, and stores. We were in heaven for a while there.
But it’s Half Moon Bay, a small place. We still worked in San Mateo, Redwood City, Mountain View. Besides work, we needed to venture up Highway 92 and ‘over the hill’ to do shopping. The traffic there was bad and getting worse.
Then our housing association started going crazo. They began more stringent with the rules while increasing the HOA dues. We were soon paying almost a thousand a month for that and climbing.
So we moved here, to Ashland, in southern Oregon. The town initially offered a lot of promise but the promise has faded. We also know that, gosh, we miss that ocean. So, we want to move again.
To where? Well, probably the east coast in the U.S. Maybe to Europe. Perhaps Canada. Or South America. I want a small town with interesting stores and cafes, good food, and a sense of community. It’s a place where I can walk for coffee, food, beer, books. I’d also like to be by the sea and the churning, interesting facets it throws at my mind and senses. Will I find my dream home?
I don’t know. I think I’m still trying to dream it up.
Sunshine rose over the western mountains and trees and waxed into a blazing orb, splashing light and warmth all Ashlandia and the valley where I reside. Blue sky followed like a puppy gamboling on a walk with their human. Temperatures hurried from 25 F to 33 F in fast time. Snow keeps melting. Athough full duvets cover many parts of the land, the thickness on the backyard furniture looks like it’s down to seven inches. A high temperature of 37 F is conceivable, ‘they’ say. They had it right yesterday, so optimism overflows me today. Yesterday was a pleasant winter day.
This is Twozda, February 11, 2025.
Yesterday’s sunshine overjoyed the house floofs. After some geographic jockeying over whether it was better inside or out, they found sunlit places inside and made like melting pools of fur for a few hours. And that is a weirdly rewarding, reassuring sight, to walk in and see floofs deeply relaxed and asleep.
Today’s music was born in a dream, one of three dreams remembered from last night. I won’t go into any dreams here, although I probably will address one of the shorter, sharper ones in another post. The song was written by Laura Nyro and covered by Blood, Sweat, and Tears. Released in 1969, “And When I Die” is circulating my morning mental music stream like music coming in over a grocery store’s loudspeaker system. I always enjoyed the song’s straightforward lyrics and their message. Wasn’t too found of the actual melody, which seemed sort of old fashioned to my young ears. It’s remarkable, though, that she wrote the song when she was seventeen and sold it to Peter, Paul, and Mary. Nyro was such an impressively talented individual.
I popped into the kitchen a little while ago. Coffee was there and said hello. We started chatting and before I knew it, I had a cup in my hand. Hope you have a strong yet restful and satisfying day. It’s not impossible. Hope you enjoy the musical interlude. Cheers
Good mornin’! It’s Sunda, February 9, 2025. Sunshine is crowding the window, pressing its rays up against the glass. We started the AM at 25 F in my locale but the sun soon had us soaring past 33 F. ‘They’ tell us 43 is possible. Don’t know if their fingers were crossed behind their backs.
The sun has been working its magic. Trees and bushes are pushing their heavy lids of snow back and stretching and flexing into their normal postures. Seeing sunshine, both floofs clamored to escape the house. Checking on them later, the two sat, eyes closed, soaking up rays on the patio’s sun-warmed cement. After being sun-doused, they returned to the house. One is now napping on a bed while the other is in a chair in sunshine snoozing.
What a night of dreams. Another military dream was among them. Classic of these dreams, I’m in the military again, and again coping with a uniform malfunction. In other words, I was out of compliance and trying to solve that. It’s my version of being pantless in school. But a twist arrived when an officer accosted me and asked, “What are you doing?” I figured he was going to ladle grief on me for my uniform. I whipped out an explanation and told him I was trying to rectify it. “Why?” he responded, surprising me. Then he added, “You retired.”
Oh, yeah.
That sunshine had me thinking, I hunger for a bouncy, energetic song. Something as an antitdote to PINO Trusk’s destruction. Drifting back into time, The Neurons surfaced with a Who offering from 1972. Although the video is silly with them miming playing their instruments and singing, the infectious blending of instruments stirred the kind of hope I felt when I was sixteen. That — and coffee — is just what my spirit ordered.
Coffee saved me again. Brekkie is done, cats are fed. Time to gen up other activities. Hope your day serves you well. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 