Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
I know it’s written down
It just must be found
I put it here somewhere
But you know it could be anywhere
I go through this everyday
Looking for things in the wrong place
Searching high and low as they say
Different day but the same ol’ thing
If I ever find it, I’ll tell you what I’ll do
Wait, what was I looking for?
I haven’t got a clue.
My Inner Cynic cracked their eyes opened and cackled. “Huh.”
“What?” I asked.
“I just thought of something.”
That wasn’t news. The Inner Cynic thinks of something two, three hundred times a day. Yet, here they are, saying it like it was important news.
Honestly, I was annoyed. I’d gone back to an article pointed out by Nan the other day: The Anger Games: Who Voted for Donald Trump in the 2016 Election, and Why. After reading it lightly once, I was reading it again as The Neurons pondered the articles’ points, such as this one.
Our starting point is the hypothesis that prejudice is fueled more by aggressiveness than by submissiveness, and that it is accompanied by the wish for a domineering leader who will punish the “undeserving.” This wish is clearly authoritarian in the original sense, but we give the notion of authoritarianism a fresh spin. In contrast to most of the established theories, we posit that people with authoritarian tendencies follow domineering leaders less for the pleasure of submission than for the pleasure of forcing moral outsiders to submit. Vicarious participation in the domination and punishment of out-groups is a core part of the authoritarian wish to follow a domineering leader. Hence, to activate this wish, leaders must be punitive and intolerant. Authoritarianism is not the wish to follow any and every authority but, rather, the wish to support a strong and determined authority who will “crush evil and take us back to our true path.” Authorities who reject intolerance are anathema, and must be punished themselves.
Yes, I understood that. Trump obviously and clearly sharply embraced the idea. It’s one of his central policy pillars, sharing space with “Love and obey me,” “Don’t trust Democrats,” “Facts are fake news and don’t trust the media,” “Fuck you, I’m getting mine,” and “Violence is peace.”
The inner cynic said, “Well, what if Trump is blustering and threatening those other countries to provoke them back into attacking us?” As The Neurons stewed on this, the Inner Cynic continued, “You keep thinking that Trump hasn’t learned lessons from the history. But that’s on his own. The Heritage Foundation is propping him up and guiding him. They know history. They know how popular George W. Bush became after terrorists attacked the United States on 9/11. His approval ratings shot up overnight. Then almost everyone rolled over to give him (and Dick Cheney) whatever they wanted in the name of patriotism.”
“Yes, and that culminated in those disastrous wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.”
The Inner Cynic chortled. “Yes, and you remember that. You also remember that you were furious when revelations came out later about how the United States was conned into war. You were mad because you saw it coming and predicted it. Then people responded to the revelations with statements like, ‘they fooled us all.'”
“That’s right. They didn’t fool us all. I wasn’t alone in that. I was following Krugman, Olbermann, and other, even Colin Powell, who was against the war before he was for it. That Bush Administration was using information from the intel source known as curveball because he was always lying, for god’s sake. People were acting like brainless zombies.”
“That’s the point, though. How many Americans will remember that crap? You pointed out that the terrorist attacks were a result of failed American policy where we secretly killed people and manipulated others in secret.”
“Again, that wasn’t me, I just — “
“Tut, tut,” my Inner Cynic interrupted. “Let me finish. The point, to finish, is that you think Trump is doing the same thing without realizing what happened before.”
“Right. Because Trump is pretty damn dim.”
“Yes, but the Heritage Foundation folks aren’t. They’re the ones advising, guiding, and goading him. They’re the ones who put stupid, unprincipled people in charge of various departments, people like Noem, Hegseth, Kennedy, Bessent, Miller, Patel, who will do whatever the fuck Trump orders, regardless of law, logic, and precedence.
“There is a reason why there are no guard rails in 47’s Regime. And there’s a reason for the constant chaos and impulsiveness.
“And there’s a reason for his saber rattling.”
Closing their eyes, the Inner Cynic sat back. “And that’s why Trump doesn’t care about falling approval ratings. That’s why he doesn’t give a shit about the laws, the government shutdown, starvation, or inflation. Why he doesn’t care about accountability. He’s going to keep attacking other groups and nations with limited military force until one of them makes the mistake of attacking us back, giving him a firm reason to unleash the full force of the U.S. Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines. And Congress will approve it because the homeland was attacked, and the MAGAts will roar their approval, and all those other low-informed people who don’t pay attention will roar right along with them.”
“I hope you’re wrong,” I answered.
The Inner Cynic smiled. “We’ll see.”
November 2, 2025, has taken hold. It firmly established that today’s season is autumn. Golden leaves are becoming golden brown leaf drifts. Naked branches shiver with the wind. 45 F now, worry not because today’s high will zoom to 57 F. Must say, yesterday’s 68 felt like a faux offering.
We lit a candle for Steve at 5 PM yesterday, per his widow’s request. That flame called to mind Frank, but also Chuck. Chuck is Bonnie’s hubby. I met him but twice, I think. Now he’s into hospice. Mom, meanwhile, has bounced back in a strong way. Physical therapy is being scheduled. This is Mom’s way, to bounce back, gain confidence and strength, only to be zapped by some new fall, injury, or organ issue. Been going on for a decade. Each time she bottoms out, it’s a little deeper, and the crawl out is slower and more energy consuming. We talked together about an actor dying when they were 100, June Lockhart. Mom said, “I don’t think I’ll get anywhere near that,” with glum introspection.
Today’s music is another gift of The Neurons. “I Wouldn’t Want to Be Like You” is a 1977 Alan Parsons Project creation. The song popped up in the morning mental music stream as I read about Trumpy’s Halloween gala, the one thrown while so many sink deeper into food insecurity.
Here are the lyrics, offered up by Songmeanings.
If I had a mind to
I wouldn’t want to think like you
And if I had time to
I wouldn’t want to talk to you
I don’t care
What you do
I wouldn’t want to be like you
If I was high class
I wouldn’t need a buck to pass
And if I was a fall guy
I wouldn’t need no alibi
I don’t care
What you do
I wouldn’t want to be like you
Back on the bottom line
Diggin’ for a lousy dime
If I hit a mother lode
I’d cover anything that showed
I don’t care
What you do
I wouldn’t want to be like you
I did a glance of the news. Did Trump recall the time he landed on the moon? He was the first one there, took the first steps for man, “Beautiful steps,” he said, “everyone told me they were the most perfect steps. They couldn’t believe how perfect they are.”
I imagine that somewhere in Trump’s altered reality, he’s a great friend to people of color and a champion to the poor. Bet he remembers marching across the bridge and standing for integration at Selma. Bet he recalls a time when he landed at Normandy and fought the Germans, who, he thought, “Were pretty good guys, really, just working hard, doing their jobs.” Trump believes with a glint of teary eyes, he is as persecuted as Jesus, nailed to a cross. Then he wipes the tears away, visits his new cold, black and white, dull, creativity-empty bathroom, beaming at its wonderful hard angles and linear symmetry, and then goes out and golfs, because he deserves a break. MAGAts everywhere breathlessly applaud, then hurry to buy meat before the prices go up, happy they have an extra freezer to store it because it’s gonna get pricy, they’ve heard the fake news, scowling at the homeless, stepping around the poor, reminding themselves to clean the house, because cleanliness is next to godliness.
Meanwhile, is that Epstein in the clouds, smirking at Trump, remembering how they used to run together, shaking his head with a laugh and whispering, “Oh, that Donnie. He never changes. He just gets more Donnie.” Perhaps someday they’ll meet and Trump will regale Epstein with details about how he starved the poor during the Great Epstein Government Shutdown of 2025. “You should’ve seen them, Jeffie,” Trump says, then launches into a mocking imitation of a person begging for food. “Please, we’re starving.” The two bodies shake with merriment.
Hope grace and peace find us today and every day. Even for just a nano. Coffee has found me and is shaking hands with some Neurons, making plans. I’m sure they’ll let me know what’s going on in a little bit. Cheers
My wife and I had a minor disagreement the other day.
I had surgery to repair a ruptured tendon last year, in October, 2024. I’ve had pain of various kinds since then. One source of pain was along toes three to five, which was often stiff with burning pain. I’d mentioned it to my surgeon, as it began during my convalescence from surgery. He said that it sounds like a nerve was damaged. I felt the same. Although I’m not a medical expert or doctor, etc., I broke and dislocated a wrist in my late twenties. Pins casts immobilized that wrist and arm. I suffered from a burning, painful sensation along the pin sites after they were removed. My doc back then told me it was probably nerve damage. It did go away after about twenty years. This foot pain felt just like that pain.
While walking the other day, I felt a sudden sharp and painful snap in my foot where the toe pain resides. After gasping and slowing for a second, I resumed walking. Lo, that foot pain was gone. It hasn’t come back.
I was so elated. I went home and told my wife. She responded, “Why is this the first that I’m hearing about this?”
One, it wasn’t the first she was hearing about it. She’d forgotten me mentioning it, but I spoke about in early January of this year. I don’t blame her for forgetting it. We don’t remember everything we’re told.
Two was a broader philosophical position. Basically, I don’t tell her about every pain I endure. I’m aging, and have pains from time to time. Feet, ankle, hips, neck, shoulder, back, abdomen, eyes, etc. Those pains often go away. Their duration can last anywhere from a few hours to a week. Sometimes they limit movement, and more rarely limit my activities. My point is, pain comes and goes. I prefer to not complain. And then means, to me, not mentioning.
And there’s a little history in that. Number one was Mom. Mom as a mother often told us to stop crying, stop whining, stop complaining. She wanted us to be happy children. If we couldn’t be happy, she wanted us to be quiet.
Then there’s history with my wife about this. Long ago, when I was twenty, I was severely sick for several days. We didn’t see doctors back then for things like that. Basically vomiting, not eating, listless, sweating a lot, lot of pain. That pain resulted in some moaning and groaning.
Yeah, I got over it and lived. But about a year later, my wife was speaking to others and talked about what a baby I was when I was sick and hurt. That insulted and angered me. I told her so when we were alone. It since became a theme for her to talk about how often men complain about being sick or hurt when women are so much hardier, and more willing to endure. I finally mentioned to my wife that I disliked this reductivism about men and pain. She’s done it off and on since, and once, after seeing me give her a look when she made such a statement, apologized and claimed that she wasn’t including me. Since then, she’s slowly drifted out of the habit.
But this is how we evolve. We have our basic attitudes and tendencies, and then we react to our environment. Part of that is how we react to what we hear. What is said about us, especially by those we love, admire, and trust. Maybe I’m being thin-skinned, but words matter. Part of my problem, too, is that I seem to have a very strong memory. I don’t easily forget or forgive.
I guess that’s my bottom line.
“Right now, it’s 71 degrees in Ashland,” Alexa burbles. Yeah, bull. I check my Oregon Scientific home system. 58 F. That feels correct. Wherever Alexa gleans her weather, it’s down in the valley, where the sunshine has cleared the mountains and trees enough to burn off the mountain night chill.
This is Twozda, September 23, 2025. Autumn has grabbed the season. Trees are doing their leafy transformation. Travel ‘n tilt are spinning us toward the cold in the Earth’s uppers. Summer is coming down under. Still, sunshine will unfold and coddle us in Ashlandia until we’re crisping in the mid 90s. That’s F. For Fahrenheit.
Headlines are blushing about one of Trump’s newest EO. Dancing off shards of his alternate reality, TACO declared antifa a terrorist organization. Antifa is neither of those things. But that Donnie’s showing his inferior mind skills. Also blasts open impressions that he’s not the spear tip of a fascist movement. What better says that you’re fascist than to outlaw an antifascist movement? The question to put to Donnie and his ilk: how many terrorists attacks has antifa been behind? But we know Donnie will bluster something like “three hundred million,” without moving a wrinkle. He’ll smoothly lie, “Antifa was burning down D.C. Making it unsafe to walk the streets in Los Angeles, Chicago, Memphis.” His brain and mouth cannot connect with truth, facts, and reality. Like, it’s rightwingers who are the primary source of U.S. violence. Most prevalent among them are white males bleating about how unfair life has been to them. Like Donnie. Look at the gun facts. Men, and white men, are more likely to be a shooter. They’re usually conservative to right-wing. Like Donnie. But in Donnie’s alternate history, he is a hero, and not a feckless bully, fool, and coward. Otherwise he’d come right out and fess up to his relationship with Jeffrey Epstein.
I was thinking about Trump’s sentences. How they tangle. Lines of Christmas lights. Hoary spider webs. Restaurant clink and babble. Some words pop up in a brief burst of sense. “Then he said that he wasn’t going to do that. I got so angry.” Then the tide of indecipherable overwhelms again. Some cheeky Neurons responded with “Blinded by the Light”. Manfred Mann’s Earth Band had a hit out of it. Bruce Springsteen wrote the lyrics. It’s one of those songs that even when you know the words, some troubled region still queries, “But what does it mean?” That’s how I think of much of what Delicate Donnie says: but what does it mean? The gibberish is almost English as spoken by someone not tethered to precepts of logic, history, and sentence structure.
Hope peace and grace get out from under the rock and comes out and gives us some support. Coffee has found a place among my Neurons. Here we go. Cheers
Today’s music was almost “Smoke on the Water”. After a day that peaked at 93 F, clouds swollen with thunder and lightning climbed over the mountains to fill our valley last night. At one point, smoke coiled out from the pass north of us and hustled down the street, congregating in the valley like a well-organized demonstration. After a recce, I came in and told my wife, “It sounds like the drum section of a drum and bugle corps is marching down the street.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand what that means.”
“It means there’s a lot of thunder out there. Sounds like drumming.”
“Oh. I got you.”
The smoke surrendered, though. I never did learn a source.
Today is Wenzda, August 27, 2025. 84 F, a hazy blue sky hosts lurking cumulo thingies. Gonna get to the mid 90s F again. Thunderstorms are on the menu, but they sometimes run out before their time here. We’ll see how it flows.
Papi the ginger master of all he surveys doesn’t appreciate thunderstorms. They’re loud and ominous. He goes into the master bath to outwait them. After their passing, he heads back out to his floofdom. A bit south of midnight, cat singing commences. I go out to see Papi chatting up a black and white tux. The tux is dismissive of Papi. I’ve seen this one before. They weren’t real concerned. I asked, “What’s your name?”
That suggested a song to The Neurons. “What’s Your Name”, a 1977 southern rocker by Lynyrd Skynyrd, was pushed into the morning mental music stream. I protested to Les Neurons that the song refers to a ‘little girl’ who is a groupie. This tux was not anyone’s groupie. Being as obstinate as granite, The Neurons dismissed this objection faster than the Roberts Court rules in favor of the Trump Regime.
I’m encouraged by arguments rising out of Iowa. Democrat Catelin Drey defeated a Republican by 10 points in a state legislative contest. Okay, good news, but it’s too early for me to celebrate its significance too much. Trump still rules MAGALand and can do no wrong in their estimate. Much of what he’s doing, declaring that he’s the president and can do whatever he wants, is gut-wrenching to hear. Checking polls, many GOPers are quite happy with his declaration, continuing to support and cheer him on.
Meanwhile, much of his activities reminds me of the U.S.S.R. under Joe Stalin. Stalin’s means of governing involved one party and a police state. Stalin established purges based on his declarations that those he purged were ‘enemies of the state’ and ethnic cleansing through deportations. Any of this beginning to ring any bells when thinking about Trump’s efforts to control the media, imprison enemies, send the national guard out as a police force, and ICE disappearing people off the streets?
MAGAs and the GOP will never recognize or acknowledge any of this for the most part. They’re firmly in the ‘means justifies the ends’ corner, even if that means disavowing all the principles, tenets, and checks and balances our founders established when the United States became a nation. What is also distressing is listening and watching while so much of the established media downplays events. It seems like they fear Trump’s retribution to the point that they’re making themselves more and more irrelevant.
Well, coffee has arrived in the system. I hope peace and grace gang up and reward you with a beautiful day. Time to go write like crazy, at least one. More. Time. Cheers
Well, it’s toasty out there. Step into the sunshine and toasty shifts to broil.
Yes, Sunda in Ashlandia is a hot space. 92 F now, a 98 F high will crisp us before the thermometer drops back to 65 tonight. Last night had us hanging at 80 F at 10:30 PM, which makes it a push to cool the house before the next heat cycle — I mean, day — begins. We will see some cooling on Wednesday, when the temperature sinks to 86 F.
The heat is expected. This is Jun 8, 2025. This is Ashlandia. Summer is coming.
Thinking about the heat pushed a faraway recollection of my father-in-law once saying to me, “It’s hettin’ up outside,” into my mind’s foreground. I laughed, and he responded, “What?” He passed away the year my wife and I returned from our tour of duty in 1991. And the memory of him saying “hettin’ up” was old by then.
Papi was a rambunctious floof this morning. He slept and chilled all day yesterday so his energy cup was brimming over. He was also apparently bored. Starting a little before 5 AM, he came in, jumped on the bed, and purred loudly at me, often tapping me awake or rubbing his little chin against my head or arm. I kept rising and feeding him. By by count, I fed him six times between 5:30 and 8 AM. And he chowed it all down.
Political heat is rising. Americans are reacting to Trump’s ICE raids. Resistance is rising. Americans don’t care for masked gunmen disappearing other Americans off the streets in snatch and grab ops. Getting particularly het up in Los Angeles. Resistant is rising and protests are planned. Numbers are stacking. So is irritation, as are TACO Regime counter measures. TACO has never been on for restraint and is always eager to rush to violence. It would’ve been more of a surprise if TACO called for restraint, but he rushed in 2,000 National Guard troops in a move that’s sure to escalate tensions and further divide the nation. That’s TACO, the Great Divider, bitchboi for billionaires everywhere.
Today’s song is a 2015 tune. Rachel Platten and David Bassett wrote the song and Rachel Platten performs it. “Fight Song” was written when Rachel Platten was at a low point, and sees the song as a vehicle for empowerment. Some sample lyrics for you:
This time this is my fight song
Take back my life song
Prove I’m alright song
My power’s turned on
Starting right now I’ll be strong
I’ll play my fight song
And I don’t really care
If nobody else believes
‘Cause I’ve still got
A lot of fight left in me
Losing friends and I’m chasing sleep
Everybody’s worried about me
In too deep they say I’m in too deep
And it’s been two years
I miss my home
But there’s a fire burning in my bones
I still believe, yeah I still believe
I wasn’t too surprised that The Neurons offered it to the morning mental music stream as I read news and analysis of the LA protests.
Feel free to raise a fist and sing along.
Coffee is at hand. It’s hot, cuz some, like me, like it hot. Coffee, I mean. Hope your day caps off a good weekend for you. Cheers
Blue skies and sunshine immediately informed me that it was a cold day. “Must be cold out,” I said to the cat. “Ooop,” he replied, rushing for the door.
Papi’s first response to almost all stimuli is to rush for the door. Loud noises like fireworks dictate a course to his hiding spot in the primary bathroom.
Today, though, he was hitting the door, exiting the back, into sunshine. I went with him. The measuring device told me it was 42 F. I felt that even with sunshine bathing me. Back inside, I asked the various digital prophets what the weather be like in Ashlandia on Sunda, April 13, 2025. All agreed it was going to be ‘more of the same’ — sunshine and clear blue sky — with a high of 74 F. As they used to say in another era, I can dig it.
I was thinking about words as I motored from coffee maker to kettle to sink to bowl to cat feeding station, doing the necessaries. The thinking about words came from thinking about news stories. For a while, I had Gloria Estefan and Miami Sound Machine performing their 1986 hit in the morning mental music stream, “Words Get In the Way”.
Then The Neurons abruptly pivoted. I can’t source the pivot’s origins. I only know that I began humming a different beat. A melody began rising, then new lyrics flowed into the morning mental music machine: Jesus Jones” with their 1990 techno-pop offering, “Real Real Real”. My mind seemed to be stuck in that period, 1986 – 1990. As it often happens with The Neurons and their mysterious ways (oh, now we have U2 in the music stream), there’s little explained.
Well, now I’ve slipped back to 1991. I remember when “Mysterious Ways” song was first heard for me. My wife and I were enjoying a Sunday morning on our apartment deck in Sunnyvale, California. We’d only lived there for seven months. The cats, Jade, Crystal, and Rocky, were sunning themselves and washing. We’d just finished a breakfast of fresh croissants, bought at Milk Pail Dairy and baked at home, and fruit, and were talking about what to do that day. It’s strange that this scene is so vivid for me. I have no idea what else we did that day. Memory is a funny thing.
Coffee has lived up to its commitment. Ready to rock another day. Sunlight is guiding my way. There’s a promise of a decent day. Hope you have the same. Cheers
Howdy men and women, boys and girls, and all others regardless of your name, gender, or orientation. Welcome to another installment of Frieda.
Today is March 7, 2025. Blue sky and sunshine are stamping Ashlandia’s scene. Although it’s 38 F now, warming sun will carry us into the upper 50s. I can dig it.
So the Jobs Report came out, and I think I smell a con.
The US economy added 151,000 jobs in February in first full jobs report under Trump’s second term It’s like, what? How? Given all that I’d read about job losses throughout the month of Feburary, suddenly it’s good news? Call me old-fashioned but if I step in a pile of shit and it smells like shit, I call it shit. Additionally, given how the Trusk Regime has infiltrated every Federal computer system, and PINO Trusk’s propensity of lying, cheating, and being generally untrustworthy, I think there’s every reason to believe that we’re being gaslighted. That economists believed 160000 new jobs would be added blew my mind.
This is an interesting piece of the article:
In recent weeks, the Trump administration has made monumental policy shifts — including large-scale federal layoffs, funding cutbacks, a back-and-forth on tariffs and mass deportations — that have spilled into the broader economy, shaking business and consumer confidence, and resulting in several data points flashing warning signals.
However, the Department of Government Efficiency-driven employment cuts weren’t expected to make a big splash in February’s jobs report. That’s partly because of timing of the two surveys that feed in to the monthly employment snapshot and also due to the structure of employment separation agreements.
Still, Friday’s report gave a hint of what could come: The federal government posted a loss of 10,000 jobs for the month, with 3,500 of those losses coming from the US Postal Service.
So, they’re saying this is all timing? I remain incredulous.
This being the anniversary of one of America’s version of Bloody Sunday, reading about it triggered The Neurons to fold U2’s song, “Sunday Bloody Sunday”, into the morning mental music stream. It’s the 60th Anniversary of the violence in Selma, Alabama, in 1965.
The U2 song is about another government killing citizens. “One of U2’s most overtly political songs, its lyrics describe the horror felt by an observer of the Troubles in Northern Ireland, mainly focusing on the 1972 Bloody Sunday incident in Derry where British troops shot and killed unarmed civil rights protesters.” h/t to Wikipedia.org
Little changes, it sometimes feels. Governments kill their protesting citizens. Reminds me of PINO Trusk’s first term. Remember when he wanted to have the military shoot protestors?
Coffee has rescued me again. Hope you have a solid day. Cheers
Today is Twosda, Feb. 4, 2005. It’s 33 F outside in Ashlandia and ‘they’ are suggesting our high temp will be in the upper thirties.
You want snow? We got snow. Wet, heavy snow. Eight to ten inches of it surrounds my house. Far as I can see across the neighborhood, that’s the same for them. It’s like Nature had a to-do list to deliver snow to us in January. Then, realizing that hadn’t crossed off the list, made up for it with one super load. More snow is falling as I write.
Trees and bushes are bending the knee under the snow’s oppressive weight. Trees have gone down, taking power lines. We endured two short power outages. Each lasted just long enough to reset everything. Others were not so lucky and missed power for four or five hours. More disturbing, shelters weren’t open for the homeless. Reasoning for that varies: no volunteers for it said one place while the city shelter said, it’s contracted to an outside organization and is only open at night. Because, it said, other places like the library are open in the day. That’s the kind of irritating thining that has us rubbing our faces and sighing. I remember this discussion and the objections, but what if the library and those other places are forced to close? That was tutted aside. Sure, let’s plan for the best scenarios, and not the worse.
We also have multiple vehicle accident and stuck vehicles. Been a while since we’ve had snow and it shows. While we have four snowtrucks and drivers to plow the roads, little of that seemed to be done yesterday.
Schools are closed and classs are canceled, if you’re wondering. Not even doing it over the net. And I will also stay home. Write here, if I can. Well, I can, but sometimes *ahem* my household’s other occupants are oblivious to the writing process *ahem*. Yes, I’m whining. I’ll endure and get sumpin’ done.
The Neurons have pulled up a 1992 song and slipped into into my morning mental music stream. I played it once before, in 2021, during COVID shutdowns, when we were social distancing. “These Are Days” is by 10,0000 Maniacs. It’s a song about things happening that you’ll remember and look back upon. It’s an upbeat song about having happy times and remembering them.
Ironically, of course, the song came to me as I perused news that sickened me about what’s being done, supposedly to counter ‘woke’ ideology’, by the Trump administration. ‘These are they days.’ Decades of progress, plans, actions, and history are being chewed up and spit out because it’s ‘not aligned’ to Trump’s values and visions. His efforts are about as misguided as the invasion of Iraq over WMDs that didn’t exist, attacking them over Iraq’s part in an attack on the U.S. that they didn’t do, and is as deep in understanding as relabeling French fries as ‘freedom fries’. I remember, too, that George Dubya Bush claimed afterward that they never said there was a link between Saddam Hussein and the 9/11 attacks. Rewriting history. Look at the toll of that war.
And here we go, down another dark, more twisted rabbit hole.
And cue sigh. Here’s the music.
Two last comments before closing. One is about the War in Iraq. I had a friend who commented a few years after the war, they had us all fooled.
That pissed me off. No. They did not. There was a large segment of us who were not fooled. We raged against the war. We marched in the streets, wrote letters, held vigils, and tried to tell the rest of you. You laughed and dismissed us.
The other comment is that many disparaged President Biden’s efforts to address COVID-19. They raged that President Biden was destroying the United States. Yet, we ended up in better shape than most, with fallig unemployment, an improving economy, and a rising stock market (for what that’s worth). But Trump cheerleaders bemoaned the price of eggs and how much it took to fill the gas tank. And they fooled enough people that here we are.
Twenty years from now, I hope I’m here to look back and remember what was said and done, because I think a lot of people will work hard to re-write history. Hell, there is a small chunk of Americans who think that Trump was a great POTUS and did everything he promised in his first term.
So. We’ll see.
Michael Seidel, writer 