Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
This Facebook post simply breaks my heart. More, reading this post reminds me that any team and nation is only as strong as its weakest link. Our nation, through the actions of Donald Trump and the right-wing machine, is systemically and deliberately weakening my nation. It’s an affront to me as a person who served this nation in the military for over twenty years.
I hope others will read this and stand against any more of our nation’s backward stance before it’s too late for us.
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I have been placed on administrative leave, effective tomorrow, pending separation.
In my last official act, I was able to pin medals on three of my folks. The last salute broke my heart in two and the tears flowed freely even as I have so much to be thankful for and so many amazing memories.
There are two moments that bookend my authentic service that will stay with me always.
The first was in 2016, the day the Secretary of Defense announced that transgender individuals could serve openly. That very day, I came out to my teammates. After sending the email, I left for the gym to burn off the nervous energy, uncertain of how life might change. When I returned, one by one, my teammates came to my desk, shook my hand, and said versions of, “It’s an honor to serve with you.”
The second came just last week at my final 1-star level sync with the Joint Staff. I provided one brief update and then shared that it was my final meeting and because it was an unplanned departure we’d have to figure out my replacement soon. The colonel next to me asked where I was going. I let him know that I didn’t meet the current standard for “Military Excellence and Readiness” and would be departing on administrative leave.
There was a moment of silence before reality settled in. Then, one-by-one, a room full of senior leaders, admirals and generals, walked over to me and the scene from 2016 repeated. They offered those same words, now tinged with the sadness of past tense: “It’s been an honor to serve with you.”
Both times, I walked away with tears in my eyes. It wasn’t from sadness, but because everyone had it backwards: it has been my honor to serve with all of them.
While my time in uniform is ending far earlier than I had hoped, rather than grieving what has been lost I am choosing to focus on all I have gained.
What I gained, most unexpectedly, was a family. A team that stood by me through life’s most difficult trials. From the loss of a child and another who fought for life after being born 12 weeks early, to a cancer diagnosis and life-threatening surgery, to the circumstances leading to my separation today, they were there. They offered encouragement, extended their hands, shared their love, and showed the kind of care that can only be forged through shared service. I will never forget the countless times they lifted me up. My hope is that I was able to offer that same support in return.
This chapter may be ending, but I leave far richer for having gone on this grand adventure.
I will miss the mission deeply, but I will miss those I have served with even more than I can put into words.
It has been the honor of a lifetime to serve this nation and defend the freedoms and opportunities we have as Americans. My wildest dreams came true wearing this uniform.
Bree Fram
I’m on a doom-scrolling slowdown. I wasn’t even generally doom scrolling. I was just going through the news and blog posts. Too often when I did, I found myself muttering, “Bastard,” after reading something. Like, the tale of the manhunt for the father who killed his three daughters. “Bastard.” Or the Trump appointee idiot who doesn’t know the U.S. has a hurricane season. Is he American? How long has he lived in the United States? If he’s been living in the U.S., has it been under rocks in Utah or somewhere? “Stupid bastard.”
There is Trump, of course. Donald J. “Trump Again Chickens Out” TACO Trump. And Rep. Mike Johnson. Both are bastards. Unfeeling, uncaring, unprincipled bastards. Bastards who have sold whatever was left of their souls.
Johnson was called out for only citing CBO figures as accurate when Dems are in charge. Trump’s budget bill is called the OBBB. They say it means “One Big Beautiful Bill”. I believe OBBB means “Only Bullshit Being Boosted”. More and more constituents are calling their reps and senators on it. Not that the Republican side of things will care. See Joni “We’re all dying” Ernst, for example. More Republicans are reacting to criticism by claiming, “I didn’t know that was in the bill.” See Rep. Mike Flood and Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene for example.
Then there’s hate crimes like the murder of Jonathan Joss, unarmed and shot to death while mourning the loss of his home and pets. Shot dead by some asshole who hates gays. “Bastard.” The murderous bastard who killed Jonathan Joss probably won’t get the punishment deserved. There’s too much systemic hate, bias, and prejudice built into our judicial systems for fair trails when the victims are gay.
This is our nation now, bending over backwards, encouraging us to look away from the shit happening on our streets. People being disappeared by armed masked paramilitary who show no insignia or badges. People killed for being whatever disturbs thin-skinned, cowardly white people.
This is Trump’s America. The land the MAGAts want, a hateful place where the truth is spit upon, where science is dismissed and undermined, where murder and violence is called for by the POTUS against anyone deemed ‘his enemy’, where the past is being whitewashed of contributions by any person that TACO doesn’t like or admire, and that is a long list of honorable, intelligent people who refuse to kiss his ass.
“Land of the free and home of the brave?”
Not in Trump’s America.
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.
Overall, a very good dream.
The week’s days have puddled together in a limpid pool of memory. I organize a flock of Neurons into enough intelligence to figure out that it’s Frieda. Part of the process is done using the Fitbit on my wrist. It tells me that it’s March 28, 2025. By going backward through the week’s blizzard of news and activities, I reach my conclusion.
Alexa tells me that it’s rainy in Ashland, forty rainy seven degrees with a high of fifty rainy two expected, and a chance of showers. Sunlight boils through my windows, mocking that weather forecast, further confusing my coffeeless Neurons. The weather likes teasing me, mystiying me about how to dress and challenging me to reconsider my plans. I think it’s mean of the weather but I don’t voice that thought. That would just make the weather mad.
A mystery has the household in a tizzy. My wife announced, “I found one of those little microfiber cloths for glass in a package when I was cleaning. I thought I’d put it in the office by my chair so I can clean off my glasses. I must clean them five times a day.”
I’m half listening, half reading, so I deploy supportive husband speak. “Good idea.”
“But it’s gone. I can’t find it.”
I remembered seeing it, too. We talk about our memories of seeing the cloth, when and where, like it’s a wake. We search the area where it was last seen, the laundry room counter used as the cat food service station. Nope, not there. Nor on the floor or behind the dryer. Things fall behind the dryer. I want to install a shelf across that space. I proposed that solution the year we moved into the house in 2006. I suggested it again last night. “Let me think about it,” my wife replies in throughful wife speak, the response first given in 2006. I mentally shrug. If the cloth is behind the dryer, I’m not getting it.
A cursory flashlight search behind the dryer shows nothing. We walk around, combing through other potential places, wondering, where did it go? It’ll turn up someday, we finally decide, quitting. Then a new mystery will start: how did it get there?
PINO Trusk’s number one component, Donald J. Trump, has inspired The Neurons again today. Thinking about how he’s wrecking the world through his prejudice and ignorance, Der Neurons cranked up the 1978 song, “Godzilla” by Blue Oyster Cult, in the morning mental music stream. The latest trigger about my irritation with the mango beast came from Trump targeting ‘improper ideology’ at the Smithsonian Institution. Avoiding laws, debate, popular opinion, etc., he’s using his favorite tool of destruction, an executive order.
Weirdly, Trump’s prejudice against the Federal government’s role in places like the Smithsonian Institution can be traced directly back to the Smithsonian Institutions origins in 1836.
Conservatives and champions of states’ rights, such as John C. Calhoun of South Carolina, argued the federal government did not have the right to establish a national institution, conduct scientific research, or promote knowledge. Federalists and northerners, led by the learned and well-traveled John Quincy Adams, maintained that it was in the nation’s best interest in many ways. Happily, they won out.
As many, including me, note about Trump, the Trusk Regime, Project 2025, and MAGAts, their idea of progress is by going back to the 1800s.
The Neurons created an alternate version of first lines, featuring Trumpzilla and what he’s doing. Did this while making breakfast, so, yes, as little thought as you can imagine was actually engaged.
With a golfer’s grimace and a terrible sound, he pulls the United States government down.
Helpless people around the nation curse his name as he looks in on them.
He picks up a club and throws it back down as he leaves the course and heads for lunch again.
Oh no, they say he’s got to go, go, go Trumpzilla.
If you’re familiar with the song, I naturally had to address the closing lyrics as well.
History shows again and again
How politics points up the folly of man
Trumpzilla!
Okay, off I go. Coffee and I met a match in each other once again. Hope your day brings you some good cheer and satisfaction. Cheers
I was going to write and post a remember post but Jill has reprised her excellent post. I can’t top it and won’t try.
Over thirty years ago, I predicted to a friend that many in the United States would forget about world wars I & II and the lessons learned. I predicted that people would forget about the Holocaust. Because the more I learn about history, the more I see people forgetting or mis-remembering. Now, with our public education under attack, increased vigilance is needed to think and remember.
The furnace is running. It’s 36 F (2.2 C) outside, not so bad while you’re inside, where it’s sixty-eight. No sunshine through the windows, even after I opened the blinds and curtains, and the daylight is tentative. A mottled grey field meets my eyes when I turn them skyward. Autumn is finally surrendering its grip. Nude trees wave and bow.
It’s Monday, November 28, 2022, November’s final Monday. By the week’s midpoint, we’ll be in 2022’s final month. Winter is closing in with increased speed, having already arrived early in some places. But then, the calendar gives us an average. It’s different around the world, even in the northern hemes. South of the equator, summer is coming.
42 F and rain and snow showers will play for the afternoon. The sun delivered the daylight portion at 7:16 AM and the performance ends at 4:41 PM.
“Skin Deep” by Buddy Guy is playing in the morning mental music stream. The Neurons lured it out of memory last night when I was thinking about racism and prejudice and the insanity of it all. This song was offered as part of the Playing for Change series in 2018. I admire the project, and Buddy Guy is one of my favorite blues performers. Beyond Buddy, there’s other impressive singers and musicians coming together from diverse locations to present us this music, including several choirs. Hope you’ll take a listen.
Stay positive, test negative and do what’s needed to protect yourself, family, and community. You know, like masking to keep the spread down. Coffee is here so I shall retire to the solace of a cup. Here’s the music. I’m going to listen again. Cheers
Heartbreaking, dispiriting, infuriating…these were my pissed off reactions to headline news of Hillary’s nomination.
Yes, I’m a Bernie but I’m not a DEB. The political cacophony ended part 1. Part 2 will begin after a short intermission. I can enumerate the madness of a Trump presidency, but if asked, I’ll put to others who do it better. As a progressive, Hillary is a middle of the road choice, but I accept her as the nominee best suited to my agenda and principles, and I’ll vote for her.
What triggered my reactions wasn’t about Trump vs Hillary, nor Republicans and Democrats, or Progressives battling Conservatives. This was about the media’s business as fucking usual, blind to their own fucking faults, and continuing as a catalyst to America’s mess. So many headlines touted Clinton as in, and displayed photos of Bill Clinton. Some barely bothered mentioning her name. As the hype that Hillary had shattered the glass ceiling was furthered, these neanderthalic publications displayed the man Clinton instead of the woman Clinton. I mean, damn it, really? Why?
As weighty discussions about Clinton vs Trump circulate, they’re asking, is Hillary warm enough, ignoring the frothing, shouting, threatening buffon opposing her without asking, is he fucking sane enough? Do they know they treat her differently or are they too deep into their shit to see it? And if it’s the latter, what does that announce about their professionalism, objectivity and just plain critical thinking?
These editors, publishers, and their instruments revealed much with their misguided headlines, and yeah –
I trust and respect them less, because there it is, their blind sexism in their front pages.
Michael Seidel, writer 