Tag: Play

Mundaz Theme Music

57 F was our morning air temp, giving us a comfy chill for an Ashlandia summer morning. Clouds were squirreled into one sky corner, presenting the sun with an open path. A high of just 82 F, below our average, is expected to crown the day. No smoke; no fires, knock wood.

I’m just climbing back into the world today. Yesterday was chill. Wife and I visited the Oregon Cabaret to see Disaster! and have a brunch. Quite a silly musical, exquisitely campy. Taking off on the disaster movies which ruled like Marvel movies back in the 1970s, the setting was a casino on a docked ship. The dock was new, incomplete, and built on a fault line. The shady owner skirted regulations and cut corners. We had earthquakes, a tidal wave, fire, explosions, and a few love stories. One love story was behind a retired couple’s story while the other was about a couple with an aborted wedding. All this was structured around popular music from that era, such as “Saturday Night”, “Hot Stuff”, and “Sky High”. A couple of the performers, such Molly Stillens as the singing nun — it’s a 1970s disaster setting, remember? — really leaned into the campiness and made it shine. Good food and a fun show that fostered multiple belly laughs.

Back home in mid afternoon, reading to finish a book due back to the library was undertaken. Ministry of Time was well written, with deeply drawn characters and an interesting variation on standard ‘time-travel’ concepts. Kaliane Bradley is beautifully inventive polishing phrases. Then I wrote for an hour, followed by yard work. Little news was taken in.

Today’s song is “After the Gold Rush”. The Neurons remembered the song as I took coffee on the front porch and investigated nature’s plate with idle curiosity about what was planned, what was done, what was to come sort of montage. Neil Young wrote it and released it while I was in high school. Many covered it later. One famous cover came from a trio of famous singers: Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, and Linda Ronstadt, which was released in 1999. While Neil’s version as as heartfelt and raw as Neil sings everything, the trio’s harmonizing lifts the lyrics into another realm. Hope you enjoy it.

Time to let Munda stamp me with its intentions. Coffee has been had. Let me go forth. May peace and grace find you this day and everyday. Cheers

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Fridaz Theme Music

Lawdy, it was the skunkpocalypse last night. I don’t know what was going on but skunk stink bowled through the house like a Budweiser King Pin tournament at 4 AM. After shutting the only windows open and activating the air filter, I consulted an oracle. “Is this a bad omen for August?” I asked. “I can’t work in these conditions,” the oracle answered, tears streaming down their cheeks. I took that as a yes. At the least, it seems like a ‘maybe’.

Yeah, that’s how Frida, August 1, 2025 rolled in on us. But could’ve been worse, judging from all that goes on in the world. Especially in the era of MAGALand. I mean, I could have been shot and killed from police exercising a no-knock warrant at the wrong address. ICE could’ve pounced on me when I opened the door for fresh air and stolen my ID or disappeared me. Earthquakes, wildfires, tsunamis, flash-flooding, and tornados are all real threats at this time. So a heavy skunk attack is mild.

Today, it’s 72 F. Gonna get to 86 F. Thunder boomers thrashed the area for several hours. We even had a little wetletting from the sky, just enough to call it a sprinkle. No reports of rampant lightning strikes, knock wood. Porcupine Fire to the southeast is new but just an acre. A helicopter is doing bucket work on it.

With First Frida, we have the downtown Art Walk to entertain us and the First Frida Bike Ride. On a friend’s recommendation, we’re going to see a play, Disaster! It’s a comedy.

News reading drove The Neurons to invite Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers into the morning mental music stream. “Breakdown” from 1977 is looping through. Why not breakdown? Reading about the many aspects of U.S. life slowly breaking down is tres depressing. The Trump Regime is a seriously backward lot. Like, over under the Fox newsguy’s guidance, the Defense Department personnel have been instructed not to work with any think tanks. While it doesn’t make sense from a historic and intelligent point of view, it’s tots inline with the TACO Regime: they’re against thinking.

Under Trump, all signs point to not thinking as much as possible. Fer instance, don’t think about our history of slavery and civil rights. Don’t think about sexism and racism. Don’t think about climate change and increasing extreme weather disasters. Don’t think about due process, the Constitution, checks and balances, and historic precedence. Don’t think about Trump’s campaign promises and how he’s not delivered. Don’t think ’bout education and morality. Most def do not think about Epstein and Trump, and their secrets.

But it’s only the title, “Breakdown”, which works. The song itself, about a souring relationship, doesn’t apply. Oh, wait; I guess that can apply to Trump and his voters. Seem of them might be souring, according to polls. Really, too early. Takes a while for it all to gel and hit home.

Well, I can’t just sit here typing and reading and writing all day while drinking coffee. Things Must Be Done. Like, the car Must Be Put Into The Shop, because it’s systems are saying, it is time again. More yardwork and housework Must Be Done. More vacation planning is in order. Can’t have a good vacation without intensive dialogues about what Will Be Done and What Is Needed.

I hope peace and grace bless you this day. Cheers

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Another Dream

I didn’t know what to call this dream. It popped about. The dream starts with my wife joining me in bed. Naked and in our twenties, we play grab-ass, laughing as we do. For some reason, it’s sunny.

Then… We’re at a play with audience participation. Don’t know what the play is about. I’m up by the stage. The audience, including me, are laying down. The light is low, with focus on the stage via yellow spotlights. During intermission, it’s announced that prizes are available. The prizes are up by me. I begin exploring them. One is of a pair of model racing cars: a Chaparral 2E and a Mclaren M8F. The Chaparral always raced as a white car while the McLarens were orange. In this model, though, the Chaparral body parts are painted orange.

Not all pieces are painted, I observe. The cars are models to be constructed, and small, maybe 1/86 scale, yet, there’s amazing detail. Some pieces are in chrome, and others are in brass. There are fittings for water and oil lines, suspension pieces, engine covers and headers, brakes, modular wheels… It’s mind-blowing the amount of details in these tiny models given away. The announcer is saying that these are for children but I say, “These aren’t for children. I’d never give these to children. The pieces are too small.” I look at the box, confirming that it states for children five and up. That has me shaking my head. It’d be a challenge for me to assemble.

We leave the theater, and are out on a sunny plaza. Many people are returning to work but I don’t need to. Because I was laying down at the theater, I have a pale yellow sheet around my waist. A red-headed young white woman is flirting with me. She’s talking about some safety procedures that I previously established for work, and how they’re still in use. They call them “the Seidels,” she informs me, which she implies is funny, but also implies that I should be honored because they’re still using the documents I create and call them by my last name.

She invites me to sit at a table with her. Drinks are ordered. Making chuckling noises, she’s reaching under the table. As the chuckling stops and the smile leaves her face, she finally looks under the table. I look, too. Her hand is up under my sheet. She asks with some indignation what I’m wearing. I realize that she was trying to get into my pants. I laugh. She huffs away.

There it is, all that I remember, although there’s a sneaking sense that I have some gaps.

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Plooze

Plooze (floofinition) – To play while lightly dozing or napping.

In use: “Young animals will often spend hours ploozing as they eat, grow, and master their bodies, antic that humans often deem cute, especially among kittens, puppies, and baby goats.”

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The Ticket Dream

The Beatles’ “Ticket to Ride” started streaming in my head as soon as I awoke and thought about this dream.

To begin. I was alone in my car. My wife was away. I was going to see a local play. It was a big, annual event.

First, I was dismayed because I was waiting for a parking spot and someone else drive in and took it. As I complained about that, I discovered a lot more — and better — parking available. I was pleased as I parked.

I then went to a machine to purchase my ticket. That would reserve my right to see the show. I put twenty dollars in the machine and then realized that that would give me two tickets when I only needed one. Riding the roller coaster again, I frothed at myself and what I’d done.

I walked to the theater’s entrance see what plays were available. Two were running. After deciding which to see, I went back to the machine. I put my ticket in and selected my play. It spit out my new ticket, and five dollars. I didn’t understand why I was getting five dollars back but I was happy about it.

I headed for the door through the throngs of people. Most were moving slow; impatient, I cut around a group of four men, telling them, “Excuse me,” as I did, as one veered into my path.

That guy laughed. “Oh, look at this guy, hurrying, like he’s special, like we’re not all going to the same place.”

He, a bald, bearded, stocky white man, irritated me, but I put that behind me and got in line. We advanced until I was the next one in line. Then the ticket taker, a young, tall man in a red uniform, announced, “I’m sorry, everyone. I’m afraid that I have to announce that there are no more seats. The theater is closed. I’m sorry.”

Protests about having tickets rose. The young man spoke directly to me. “They do this every year. They oversell tickets and then people are turned away at the door.”

Disappointed, I made my way to the my car and then went off.

Using dream rules, I was now in a huge, crowded room. I had a twin bed with a light blue bedspread, one of hundreds, maybe thousands, of such beds.

I was kneeling by my bed when the four men came up who I’d passed before. The bearded one sat down on my bed. “Hey, get off my bed please,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I want to use it.”

“Can’t we both use it?” He had a large plate of food. Saying, “Here, have some food,” he pour a huge portion of spaghetti and sauce onto my bed.

I asked, “Why’d you do that? I don’t want that. I’ve already eaten.”

“I just wanted to share with you.”

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry. I’ve already eaten. Besides, if you were giving me food, pouring cooked food on my bedspread isn’t the way to do it. I have to sleep here.”

He was mumbling something back. I was attempting to move the spaghetti. Noticing some partially eaten chicken parm, I was tempted to eat some of the food but pushed against that idea.

The guy began cleaning up, but he made a mess of it. The ticket taker came by to chat with me. Seeing the mess, he summoned someone to help clean it up. As that was happening, he apologized for the ticket situation. He said, “They do this every year. They really need to fix it.”

A manager, a Hispanic woman in a skirt and white top came by to see what was going on. Seeing her, the ticket taker told her that he was just telling me about the tickets. “They really need to fix it.”

The woman agreed. “They do.”

A tall and bald white man wearing glasses, came by. The woman told me and the ticket taker that he was the senior manager. Then she addressed the man. “When are they going to fix the ticket problem? Every year, they sell too many tickets, and we turn people away at the door. Why does this happen? It doesn’t need to.”

“We are going to fix it. You’re in charge.”

The woman was taken back. “What are you saying?”

“I’m telling you that the board met just now, and they’ve delegated authority to you to come up with a plan and fix the problem.” The man walked off.

Pleased, the woman looked at me. “Well, there you go. I’m going to fix it.”

The dream ended. Cue the Beatles.

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Wednesday’s Theme Music

Blame this one on my wife.

Which had me thinking of how couples and families related and socialized through different eras. Thinking back, imagine them gathered around a fire in a cave or a camp. Imagine them in chairs on a porch, or around a radio, and later, gathered in the living room, watching television. Now we’re gathered in the office, on separate computers.

I was playing Sudoku when she played “Seasons of Love” from Rent. Naturally, the song’s lyrics entered my stream and started looping. All through yesterday’s walking and yard-working, I’m singing, “Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
Five hundred twenty five thousand moments so dear. Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes. How do you measure, measure a year? In daylights? In sunsets? In midnights? In cups of coffee? In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife?”

I also added/slashed modified the verses. After coffee, I added, “In words? In pages? In kibble? In phases?”

It became a little goofy after that. But, I must pass this on to you to rid myself of it.

Sorry about that.

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