It was a dark and gloomy night but dawn broke as a bright, sunshiny day. Rain clouds knifed in during the intervening hours between now and then, thwarting the sun’s stalwart efforts to give us light and heat. Today is Frida, December 27, 2024. We’re surfing a 54 degrees F day, which t’aint a bad temperatures. The winds that scoured us last night have retreated. A kittenish breeze teases the trees.
Dreams rocked my night. All of ’em were quite personally oriented. Awakening from them had me thinking long and hard about them and what they meant, if anything. That’s often the issue with dreams: any meanings which your brain could be sharing gets wrapped and warped by confusing elements. Do they mean something, or are they just neurons gaming your consciousness?
Ran into a friend this morning. Well, not literally; we encountered on another. We’d not seen each other since October. I may’ve mentioned in posts here that I had ankle surgery in October and then immobolized by the recovery process. He didn’t know that and wondered where I’d been. I presented him a situation précis, with the main point being, that’s life. Afterward, walking away, The Neurons brought up a Dire Straits fave of theirs, “The Walk of Life”, into the morning mental music stream (Trademark aging). I originally associated the song with sports, especially baseball. Listening more closely, I recognized that it was about someone singing songs, and several references to rock and roll songs are heard throughout. An interview with Knopfler, the singer, songwriter, and guitarist behind the song, later confirmed this. Now I associate the song with anyone trying to make good through strife, keeping on toward a goal. This is life; you do the walk.
Days of 2024 vintage are trickling away. 2025 is coming up like a full moon over the trees. Time to rock on one more time. Here we go with the music. Cheers
Today is Thursday, December 26, 2024. Five more days to the year. A year stamped with historic and personal significance. Wonder how 2025 will compare at this time next year.
Gray. Rainy. Chilly. Call it 44 F. Light rain. This is winter in Ashlandia. Snow hugs things above three or four thousand feet, looks like at a glance. Down here, we’re stuck in the gray. Sunshine muted through gray clouds from mountain to mountain to mountain. Gray clouds as far as I can see, looking down into the valley. And rain.
Yes, I’m complaining.
The cats are not, however. After a night of howling wind and incessant rain, Papi dragged in his wet Butter Butt and found a warm space to sleep off the day. Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah) had already set the example, staying in, finding a comfy zone, nodding into slumber.
Late post as I spent the morning writing. One of those days when the muses arrived early. The house was quiet and the coffee was hot, so. Seated myself at the laptop and added 2,500 words. Excited by the twist added. See if it stands revision, editing, and further thinking.
Today’s music selection was made by The Neurons after a friend’s comment yesterday. A decade older than moi, she’s not known for her colorful language. But there she was making a risque, off-color comment at the Christmas bash. As we reacted and laughed, she turned as red as Santa’s outfit. Net result: The Neurons have “Dirty Mind” by the brilliant Prince playing in the morning mental music stream (Trademark filthy).
Well, deep breath. Dredge up some positive energy. Here we go again. Let’s start with the music. Cheers
We’ve punched into Sa’day, 12/14/24. The line for Ashlandia’s day is 41/46/36, meaning current-high-low. But my system’s reading informs me it’s 39 in our cut of existence. Rain is falling. It commenced yesterday and didn’t let up. Hungry gray clouds have descended, eating off the mountain and tree tops like a parent going after their kids’ holiday chocolate.
Wising up to the weather, Papi is demonstrating a willingness to be flexible about going in and out, doing less of that, opting into remaining in warm, dry shelter, i.e., le house. Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah) shows little interest in answering the question, “What’s the weather like out there?” He’s more inclined toward floofosphical questions like, “What’s in that bowl? What are you eating? Can I have some? Why aren’t you giving me any?” He asks these questions with bright-eyed optimism and rapt adoration. You know how it usually ends.
Went to a gospel holiday concert last night. Ashlandia’s Rogue Valley Symphony collaborated with with the Oregon Shakespeare Festival to put on a concert at the Bowmar Theater. The Florida State University Gospel Choir and their three-piece travelin’ combo — bass, drums, keyboards — were invited in, along with a soloist named Marques Jerrell Ruff. By happenstance, I ended up seated by the night’s sponsor, the guy who gave them the upfront funds to make this happen. He’s done a lot of good philanthropy work in our small town. For instance, if you ever visit Ashlanda and visit the plaza, you can check out the mural of our sister city that he and his wife commissioned. It was pleasant chatting with him about his good deeds and some mutual friends we admire.
Portion of the Guanajuato mural in Ashland, Oregon.
The concert was uplifting and fun. I definitely recommend it. Mr. Ruff and the FSU Choir are amazing singers and awesome entertainers.
It’s been a busy week and it ain’t over. Tonight is the annual Swedish Smörgåsbord at a friend’s house. Tomorrow is the Santa Claus brunch at Callahan’s on Mount Ashland. My ankle is handling most of this well, although I do reach a point toward the end where I’m ready to rip off my shoe and sock and elevate that puppy. Haven’t done that yet, despite the temptation, principally because my wife would kill me if I did.
Jill Dennison inspired The Neurons for today’s music choice. Jill is a prolific, intelligent, and insightful blogger. I admire her thinking and principles, and we frequently exchange comments. She apologized for her mood in one recent post. The Neurons responded by placing Nirvana singing “All Apologies” from 1993 into the morning mental music stream (Trademark buried). So, here’s to you, Jill.
I met coffee on a blind date in the kitchen this morning. Now I’m singing its praises. Hope your day is as excellent as circumstances allow. Here’s the music. Cheers
It’s another Friday. This one is December 13, 2024, which triggers some, especially if they’re Knights Templars. But I’m not one and I’m not bothered by the date. Except, there’s less than two weeks until Christmas, if that’s your celebrating avenue. More importantly, the end is near — the end of the year, that is.
Today’s white blob of a sky blends in over the mountain and tree tops, fuzzying our edges and spitting on the eastern windows. Temperature is 42 F and as with yesterday, we’re just four degrees of separation from our high. Unlike yesterday, which morphed into a pleasant autumn day with wintry overtones, a brisk wind is moaning the blues, prompting a high-wind advisory.
Papi the ginger blade despairs of this wind. He beat at the door as soon as it rose. Fattened by brekkie and at least floofmentarily aware of the wind, he’s stretched out in the living room, a pretty orange and white furry binkie.
Several politically-connected matters caught my eye. One, Andy Borowitz put his humorous spin on Hegseth as Drumpf’s nominee to head Defense: “Hegseth Offers to Connect Breathalyzer to Nuclear Arsenal”. Feels hysterically funny because there’s too much truth in it. The second item was one pointed out by on Scottie’s Playground: Study: Republicans Respond to Political Polarization by Spreading Misinformation, Democrats Don’t. Some of us reacted, yes, and water tends to be wet. To see it hardwired as actual study results is satisfying because it underscores our observations that the modern American right wing can’t handle the truth and make shit up.
Finally, also out of Scottie’s Playground, is a tale of Not Good News in Florida.“Earlier this fall, Florida officials ordered transgender women in the state’s prisons to submit to breast exams. As part of a new policy for people with gender dysphoria, prison medical staff ranked the women’s breast size using a scale designed for adolescents. Those whose breasts were deemed big enough were allowed to keep their bras. Everyone else had to surrender theirs, along with anything else considered “female,” such as women’s underwear and toiletry items.”
Yes, we know that besides making shit up when they feel threatened, American Republicans tend to become crueler and treat others who aren’t like them with greater contempt and inhumanity. They’re such a misguided, fact-aversion, hate-filled, group of lying fantasists. If we had greater involvement and better critical thinking from more voting-age Americans, we wouldn’t be in this mess. But a large swath of indifference and lethargy has given power to fools, and all of us will suffer.
I have a weird song in the morning mental music stream (Trademark dated). “I’m Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter” originally came out in 1935, twenty-one years before my birth. It’s literally been around all my life and then some. The Neurons inserted it into the mmms after a dream in which I wrote myself a letter and then mailed it. A busy dream night, all I remember of that dream is that I as a young teen wrote myself a letter and posted it on a sunny day. Then this song begun. It’s been covered by two and a half gazillion performers. I have females and males singing it in the mmms because this was one of those songs Mom often played on her stereo hi-fi, and she sang along to it. I just surfed the net for a version which I like. Hope you know the song and like it. So here’s the late Jeff Healey with his cover. Jeff Healey and his band were in the movie Road House staring Patrick Swayze, Sam Elliott, Kelly Lynch, and Ben Gazzara in 1989.
Rain is spitting on the western windows now, and the wind’s mutterings have turned louder, angrier, and more prolonged. Coffee and I have made our daily agreement. Here’s the music. Cheers
I was hoping for a sunny day outside my window. But it’s raining again. And there ain’t no sunshine.
It’s October’s final Monday. The month’s 28th day. Still 2024 for just over two more months.
Rain keeps a light, steady background staccato to the morning rituals. Clouds from mountain to mountain rule outside my window. Mountain tops wear gothic lighting as they fade behind sullen gray moisture-bearing behemoths. While it’s 42 F now, it feels like 48 F, which is the day’s hopeful high. This is this week’s weather prototype.
The cats send mixed signals about the season’s new weather setup. Papi the ginger blade goes out and endures on the covered patio in his carpeted condo. Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah) goes out for a test and nixes an extended stay, arthritically humping back into house’s warm offerings. Eventually Papi will beat on the door and return inside and then head to a sleeping position to pass the day. That’s become his new pattern.
Fun fact: on this day in 1886, the Statue of Liberty was unveiled. Yeah, I didn’t know; just saw it in my feed.
He also lamented poor Abe Lincoln’s loss of Ted during Lincoln’s presidency. Ted: the forgotten Lincoln boy. His supporters of course, insisted that we give him a break, because he was close enough to knowing that it was Willie who died while Lincoln was in the White House.
That’s his supporters’ style: give him a break for being ‘close enough’ to things. Meanwhile, they demand perfection of Kamala Harris. Hypocrisy’s stench covers the GOP.
The Neurons are feeding me Pink Floyd as the gray light floods and stills over the day. They have “Brain Damage/Eclipse” looping the morning mental music stream (Trademark cut). I’ve always had a fondness for these songs, the first about the lunatic, the second about everything under the sun.
They do go hand in hand with thoughts of Trump these days. He’s always talking up hating, enemies, and destroying, along with everyone he meets, while we speak of all that he begs, borrows, and steals. He’s the con of the deal, the madman on the stage, offering trinkets to support him, riffing on fake history, making vainglorious claims. Really, though, the enemy within is the enemy in his head.
The cats are in and my coffee is snuggling into my body’s systems. Be strong, remain positive, and vote blue. My wife dropped off our votes at the ballot box this morning. Here’s the music.
It was a morning of listening: that sounds like rain. Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah) at hand we burrowed deeper between warm covers. Another noise struck my attention: ah, the heat was on. Sleep was waving me in for another go-around when a more familiar sound rolled over my eardrums.
Papi wanted in.
Activity associated with letting Papi in served to trigger Tucker’s appetite. Jumping down, he barked in a loud scratchy meow, “Breakfast.” Catching on and always the opportunist, Papi yelled, “Me, too.” So that was it. Time to rise and face Sunday, October 27, 2024.
Reminder for most ‘Mericans: we do as Cher urges, more or less, and turn back the hour next Sunday.
It’s a bleak Nosunday outside the windows. One fat lazy cloud has claimed the sky with a gray cloak. Rain has lessened its profusive flow and now spits at us with a little contemptuous attitude. The temperature hunkers at 51 F. Never fear, as it’s destined to climb to 52 F. They tell us that it feels like 56 F. That’s a tiny comfort.
Need I mention that the cats went out and returned quick as a cat. Papi did it three times, per the Interflooftional Standards for In & Out. The standards state that once is a floofcident, twice is a cofloofcident, but three times is a trend.
With the rain chilling our vibes, I kicked on the gas fireplace. A survey followed to check how the rain fell. It was my contention that no rain hit any window. A thanks is owed to our wide eaves and covered porches for that. But back in the living room with my observation confirmed, coffee joined me, and I watched the fireplace.
“Fire & Rain.” The Neurons began it forthwith in my morning mental music stream (Trademark damp). I’d featured the James Taylor song back in 2017. In that post, I mentioned how I associated it with a young crush on a girl named Susie. Wonder what she’s up to these years? Will she vote for Harris or Trump? She was intelligent and intent on a college path. Her mother, who I met briefly twice, came across as an energetic progressive, but you know. People’s opinions and voting preferences change. Sometimes they skew with unexpected directions and impulses.
Be strong, remain pos, and vote blue in 2024. Coffee is doing its utmost to keep me warm and energized. Here is the music. Cheers
It’s Wed-nesday, which originally meant wedding day. People of another age and era ‘wedded’ when the signs were most auspicious for success. That included planting crops, starting a new endeavor or business, starting a new journey, etc. But so many people waited for this day to be declared so they could wed that it became known as Wed-day. The ‘nes’ aspect was added in as adjustments between different dialects, cultures, and eras. True story which I just made up.
It’s October 23, 2024. You know what that means. That’s right, it’s almost time to set our clocks back in ‘Merica. No, I’m not making a clever reference about the election; we are not going back.
It’s cloudy, rainy, chilly. Autumn has thrown its full effects at us. Some of the foliage is wonderfully bright with sizzling scarlets and other red shades to brilliant lime greens and golds. Also spotted pumpkin-hued leaves on a tree. That tree was thinking outside of the bark. But alas, some trees have already dropped their splendor. Brown, curling leaves hang limply, drifting off when the right wing pulls them with a whisper.
45 F right now, we’re almost at our high of 49 F.
I’ll take that rain, though. Fill the reservoirs and cisterns. Replenish water tables. Ease us out of the drought. It’s needed.
Busy day. The centerpiece is a pre-op appointment for my foot issue. The office didn’t co-ordinate with me, which irritates me, but that’s more first world blues, innit? So I’m to be there at 12:25 for a 12:40. Right in the middle of my writing schedule. Add in the commute, etc, and the timing screws up the day.
But it had me propositioning myself about what to wear on a chilly day when I’ll be outside often but also inside, meeting with med staff, blah, blah, blah. The Neurons responded by firing up “Outside” by the Foo Fighters in my morning mental music stream (Trademark wet).
The song came out in 2014. Ima Joe Walsh and Foo Fighters fan. Been a Walsh fan since he and the James gang were rocking. This Foo song had a Joe Walsh guitar solo in it when it was released. Thrilled me to hear ol’ Joe rocking. Couldn’t find a copy of it online so I’m forcing this recording of a live version on you.
Be strong, stay positive, vote blue. Coffee and I have begun our latest collaboration. Here’s the music. Cheers
It’s a stillish fall morning outside the windows. Rain’s been falling from darkly loaded clouds. They’ve overtaken the blue and sun today.
It’s Thursday, October 17, 2024. Chilly with that rain, the high will be 61 and the low will be 37 F. Freeze warnings are in effect for tomorrow morning’s early hours. On the bright side of matters, our air quality is excellent, just single digits.
Got a call this morning from the county emergency system. Today is the great shake-out. They wanted us to pretend an earthquake was underway and practice surviving it. I’ve been through a few smaller quakes so I easily imagined the shaking.
The situation provoked some pre-coffee thinking. When I was a child in Wilkinsburg, PA, I remember us doing a duck and cover under my desk, in case the commies launched their nukes. Then, in the military, we were always practicing surviving war and natural disasters. There were fake NBC attacks. Fake unexploded ordinance to deal with. And of course, nukes and EMP. What would happen if we lost our telecommunications; how would we survive? We practiced decoding messages which would send us to war, and other exercises to receive notification hostilities were over. My career’s final years saw me fighting simulated space wars. Throughout, I was engaged in war planning, getting ready to deploy equipment to some theater’s front lines, etc., and reporting on our efforts to get ready and be ready, briefing the general who was our commander five days a week at one assignment, and getting ready to brief him.
Naturally, here in southern Oregon, we stay ready for wildfires. We have checklists and go-bags for evacuation. I’m fairly prepared in that regard, as I wrote local plans, checklists, and guidance for evacuating bases for wherver I was, and trained others in executing that stuff.
Seems like a lot of my life has been about getting ready. I was getting ready to be an adult as a teen. Beyond getting ready for war and natural disasters during, I was constantly getting ready for flu season, to move to another assignment, and I was getting ready for retirement.
Now I’m getting ready for my foot surgery. Getting ready for Mom and Dad to pass. That could be my life motto: “Get ready.”
Of course, as I reflect on my needs to get ready as a child and adult, I think it’s better than the active shooter drills so many children now go through to get ready for the real deal. Their need is driven by people with guns walking into schools and committing mass murder. My need to get ready was much more abstract and distant.
I have a pre-op appointment for my foot surgery next Wednesday. It’s to get me ready for the surgery. Actual surgery takes place the following Wednesday. The pre-op appointment came out of the blue. No phone call or coordination about what time works best for me; just a sudden message through Mychart telling me that the appointment was made. Poor communication, to me, and sort of arrogant, and annoying. Like, hey, what if I was out of town that day? Fortunately, I’m not, but still…
Today’s music comes via Tom MacInnes’s website. I enjoy Tom’s posts about music history, along with his experiences as a teacher and a father, particularly his stories about reading with his daughter and his students. Yesterday’s post was “The Great Canadian Road Trip…Song #76/250: Sk8er Boi by Avril Lavigne”. I ended up with “Sk83r Boi” in my morning mental music stream (Trademark bopping). It’s a lively, energetic song, and completely free and clear of political nuances, so I latched onto that. I need a political break from scanning news on either side of the schism, and tales of polls, rumors, innuendoes, and courts. Just give me some simple teenage offering.
I’m pretty pleased with it as a song choice. The Neurons had been offering “The Monkey’s Uncle” from the Disney movie with the same title. I don’t know why the hell The Neurons chose that song. Never saw the movie, but I knew of its elements, and obviously that song and some of the other songs the movie offered. That was from an era of beach movies. I never dug ’em.
Stay positive, be strong, and vote blue in 2024. Coffee has been introduced to my systems once again and I believe I have a pulse. Here’s the music. Get ready for the election.
It’s 54 F degrees. 61 is being looked at as the high. Rain and clouds give us a sloppy wet one in greeting. It’s Wednesday, the humpiest day of the week. October 16. We’re on the tenth month’s downside. November and the holidays beyond loom behind an uncertain gray veil, put there by the impending elections and the uncertainty sown by Trump.
Well, for some of us. Others are all, que sera, sera.
Had coffee duty this morning. Ordered two Starbucks Travelers and delivered them to the Family Y, where a surprise birthday party for a 95 year old friend was being put in place by her daughter. Used to be our neighbors across the street. Life and circumstances changed that. Now she lives in a cottage in her daughter’s backyard closer to downtown, about 1.5 miles away. This woman — the 95 yo — no longer drives so she walks around town or takes the bus. She’s vigorously involved in her church activities and other charity, and she exercises three mornings a week at the Y. My appreciation of her and admiration for her remains broad and deep.
I was asked to assist through my wife, natch. Her daughter reached out to my spouse, and my spouse reached out to me. No problem. I was due to deliver the coffee at 9:15 and entered at 9:16. My wife saw me and exclaimed, “You made it!” She made it sound like I’d finished the Oregon Trail.
Today’s music in fact comes from the latest Trump rally fiasco. No, not the one where he left people out there without rides back, without facilities, water, or food, as darkness came down. No, this is another one.
Rather than continue after paramedics assisted the two people, Trump instructed his staff to just play music from a playlist he has personally curated and famously often turns on during dinners at Mar-a-Lago.
“Who the hell wants to hear questions?” Trump said at the event where the entire point was to take audience questions. “Right?”
What followed was more than 30 minutes of Trump swaying on stage and occasionally doing his well-known two-handed dance to some of his favorite tunes, chatting with the event’s host, South Dakota Gov. Kristi Noem, and occasionally interacting with attendees who were seated behind the stage.
“This is the weirdest church service I have ever been to,” a first-time rallygoer who did not give their name told NBC News of the music portion of the event, which opened with “Ave Maria.”
So rather than questions and answers about policy, as expected at a political rally, Trump delivered some dancing and music. And at least one attendee mused about it being a ‘church service’.
I mean, really, WTF is going on over there in MAGA land?
The music it inspired The Neurons to play in the morning mental music stream (Trademark blown) comes by way of Emerson, Lake, and Palmer. “Karn Evil 9” is all about the show. Guaranteed to blow your head apart. That’s how I feel ’bout many of the Trump shows. It’s a show with little substance. He gushs about himself and he insults others.
Off into the rain I go. Be strong and stay positive. Vote blue in 2024. Let’s keep sanity in the White House. Coffee and I have come together on a plan to jumpstart my heart.
Here’s the music. It’s a long one. Great drum solo. Cheers
A long and greatly involved dream in three parts entertained me last night. It seemed like it was about hopes, expectations, and relationships.
Part 1: the Catholic family.
In this, Mom had to go away. Although I was an adult, she worried about where I was going to stay and what I was going to do, standard concerned Mom reactions to change. I ended up with an offer to stay with a childhood friend’s family. Neighbors. Haven’t seen the guy in almost fifty years, but here he was, in my dream, along with his parents. His parents have passed away some time ago, BTW.
In this dream, they had a huge home. I wouldn’t deem it luxurious but enormous with a byzantine layout. Some rooms were like huge cement auditoriums or gymnasiums; others were small but with multiple levels.
My friend’s mother told me, “Do whatever you want here. Just act like it’s your house. We’re happy to have you here.”
While I appreciated the sentiments, I was leery of making myself an unwanted guest, so I tried being circumspect. Weirdly I wore off-white pajamas with narrow blue pinstripes the entire time. I thanked her, of course. After casual exploring, I found a large room with a small student desk, the kind seen in elementary school, where I set up my computer and sat down to write.
After I set up, she came by with her family. Only she spoke, though, telling me, “We’re going out. We’re going to be gone a while, so the house is all yours.” It felt like a huge responsibility, almost a burden, but I thanked her for her trust and hospitality. They left; I kept writing.
At some point, I grew aware that it was pouring rain and the onset of dusk outside. I decided to leave.
Part 2: the Porsche rally and restaurant.
I went into my hosts’ garage and found a car. A small and older sports car of some kind, I knew it as mine.
I drove out into the rain and down a driveway to a busy, winding multi-laned urban street. Small sports cars were passing, dropping revs and downshifting, and sometimes sliding, drivers catching spins as the car’s back end swung out on the slick asphalt.
I recalled then, that’s right, the town was hosting a Porsche Rally, with special emphasis on older Porsches and the Porsche Spyder.
Well, that explained it! I also saw a circa 1970 Lotus Elan go by. I wondered if they’d allowed it to participate in the Porsche event, or if serendipity had brought it to this time and place.
Pulling out into the driving rain, I drove carefully, wishing I had a Porsche like the stylish little cars I saw. As I came up one hill, I needed to slow substantially because a Bugatti Veyron had spun across the middle of the road. I wondered, what is an expensive exotic like that doing here? I then saw three more going by in the rain.
Bugatti Veyron from the net — not my car.
It was almost dark and I reached my destination, a crowded old restaurant where I was meeting friends. The menu was American-Immigrant fusion. I began with pasta with tomato sauce and meatballs, and then switched to chicken fried rice. We stood as we ate, and my food tasted sensational.
As I ate, a tall, thin man walked by. “Guess what,” he loudly said, “I saw jars of Ragu in the kitchen. You’ve been tricked! This sauce is not made here.”
My friends and I shrugged it off. Wherever the food was from, it was awesome.
Part 3: the Revolution
I piled into a car with four other men. One of them was driving. One was armed with a gun which was part of his head. I could see that it was loaded with one round bullet, like something you’d fire from a musket. I was pondering the intricacies of how you’d aim a gun like that, especially if the target is moving.
We parked and entered a small, dim theater. A small stage was set up on the far end in front of rows of padded metal folding chairs. About twenty people, mostly men, were present. All were early middle-aged or older, and all were white. I milled with a few people, chatting for several seconds, and then one man began talking. They were there to overthrow the government.
Well, hold on, I thought, uneasy. I’d been invited to this gathering, and it’s not what I thought it was going to be. Something about the way they were addressed struck me as a religious group. I eased myself to one side, thinking, how am I going to get out of here?
At that point, the man with the gun head fired. He pointed it somewhere else and not at me. I watched the round ball leave its barrel with a plume of white smoke.
Michael Seidel, writer 