Tag: thinking

Twozdaz Wandering Political Thoughs

Just a reminder of what Saint Ronnie said…not that it matters to the MAGAlodytes. History is not their forte. Nor is critical thinking or bucking their beloved Trump, he who speaks from his ass, but says what they want to hear.

Meanwhile, back where the GOP controls the House, Senate, and the building formerly known as the White House, Trump shows his contempt and hatred for the United States and its citizens.

The poor should starve, says Trump administration

Sure, why not let Americans starve? There’d be less of ’em to grift, sure, but less of them to feed, less of them to criticize Trump, less of them to complain. Plus, with less ‘Muricans out there, simple supply and demand kicks in. Less people = less demand = less inflationary pressures = lower prices = happier people. That’s Trump’s ‘thinking’. All will be happy except those mourning the dead and those with the thinking set to see where all that will lead. Trump never did get the whole empathy and love thing. Never will. “Me, me, me,” is all he ever thinks and says. Which means he’ll screw We the People and the Constitution every time.

Trump really is a radical rightwing despot. So deranged. So radical and VERY LOW IQ. He proves it with his tweets on a regular basis. People read his tweets and ask, “How can this man walk and breathe at the same time? His IQ is too low to walk and breathe at the same time.” If it wasn’t for Putin, Trump would’ve already been imprisoned for his crimes against the United States. Should have happened after his first term. But Putin intervened and said, “No, he is a useful fool. Do what we can to get him re-elected so we can use his hatred of the United States so we can destroy it as an economic powerhouse and democracy once and for all.”

Trump doesn’t understand math. Third grade arithmetic. History. Science. Medicine. Sports. Cheats at everything. Everything. When he took the cognitive test, he paid people off to help him identify the animals. They were cheaply paid off, of course. Took just the promise of money. They’ll never see that money. He always breaks all of his promises.

That’s the Trump bottom line. Terrible person. Breaks everything. Breaking the nation. Destroying the White House. Cratering the economy.

But at least ‘the left’ is upset. So MAGAland is happy.

For now.

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Fridaz Wandering Thoughts

Six AM Thirstda was approaching. We were flying north.

I told my wife, “I’m closing my eyes for a minute.” The Neurons piggybacked into the morning mental music stream with “Dream Weaver” but it didn’t keep.

Neither did keeping my eyes closed. I read for a while, drank coffee, ate the cookies the airline provided.

Funny, getting those cookies. Hundreds of dollars were paid for these seats. This attendant comes along and bends down with a tray and asks, like we’re children, “Would you like a cookie?”

Oh, yes, please!

Descent into SeaTac was been announced. The eastern sky faced me. Molten orange was knifing through the space between a dark stiletto of clouds and the horizon. Then, left – north – a white slice hooked my vision.

Shooting star!

I probably felt the same excitement distant forerunners felt when they looked into a dark sky and saw that quick slash of silvery light. Euphoria jumped me. I felt, yeah, that’s a good sign. A good omen.

I share all that with my wife.

She nodded. “I’m jealous.”

I smiled. A shooting star.

That’s better than a rainbow, in my book.

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Wenzdaz Wandering Thoughts

Thinking about my travel packing this morning. Long ago, I developed a habit of packing my toilet bag a few days before I leave. Then I use my toiletries from it as though I’m in a hotel room. In that way, I sometimes realize something was overlooked, and I’m not rushing through packing it at a later time. This is all my own in that I’ve never read about it, subject to memory limitations. I’ve never mentioned it to others till now, either. Wouldn’t surprise me to learn that others do the same.

Follow me for more tips about drinking beer and coffee.

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Sundaz Wandering Thoughts

Frank passed away, so I’m remembering Frank. 95, he and Mom were together for his life’s last twenty years plus. Which, as I think about it, causes me to realize that Frank was about five years older than my present age when he and Mom met. My youngest sister, Lisa, was the agent of their coming together. Mom was dating another, Ed, at the time. Lisa worked in a bank. She regularly saw Frank and decided that Frank and Mom were a good match. When she suggested it to Frank, he asked, “Is she pretty?” Lisa beamed and gave a knowing nod. “Yep.”

Lisa was right. Mom and Frank hit it right off. All was a lot of fun for years. Biking, walking, movies, tennis, dancing, estate sales. They had a good life before Mom’s accidents, health, and drugs crippled things. I’m happy they had those years together.

When my wife and I talked about it, she marveled about old people dating. “People our age,” she exclaimed as we both laughed. She went on, “I’m like that song. I’m not ready to get naked in front of another.”

We spoke more seriously about friends and relatives our age and older dating. Ron, 78, lost his wife ten years ago to breast cancer. He’s had a regular girlfriend for three years. Now he’s dating another woman and they’re having fun. Sis-in-law, coming up on 70, has a regular boyfriend, her third since her husband died of brain cancer about five years ago (I think). Then there’s Barb, 81 this Feb, dating a guy who is her age. Both had preferred younger people and would hook up with someone for a few months and then move on. Now, months into this relationship, Barb professes that she’s in love. Sweet and beautiful.

So, there’s hope, if you put yourself out there. As Frank and Mom did. Hell, as Dad did. Now at 92, he’s on his third marriage. It’s lasted over thirty years, the longest marriage of his life, and he seems happy and contented.

Hope and love aren’t limited by age.

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Ghostly Thoughts

Ghost are all around, inhabiting the land.

Offices.

Factories.

Houses.

They’re sometimes noticed.

Most are forgotten.

Except by other ghosts.

The ghosts did many things for us.

Served in the military.

Protected us.

Gave their lives.

Raised food for us. Fed us.

Kept us safe.

Wrote laws with the best intentions.

And tried to lift us up and lead us forward.

They gave us light and security.

Running water.

Safe water.

Safe homes.

Electricity.

Bridges and roads.

Books and paintings, music and rock.

Humor.

Raised us up with hands and ideas.

And now wait.

Until we’re ghosts.

And join them.

To be forgotten.

Remembered only by other ghosts.

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Sundaz Wandering Thoughts

This is just a weird household fact. Weird isn’t even the right word. Really, just something noted.

Here in our household, the clothes washer is just called the washer, or the washing machine. But the dishwasher is always fully said with both words, even though it’s been morphed into one. Examples:

“I’m going to put some stuff into the washer and do a load.” That would be the clothes washer.

“Should we turn on the dishwasher?” Self explanatory.

And now, as I’m writing it out to understand what I think about this, I see how much context plays into the whole scheme. Like, we don’t collect dirty clothes into the washer and then announce that we need to do a load. No, that’s all more systematic. We put the dirty clothes into a wheeled basket. When it’s full or one of us has a specific need for something to be washed.

I’d attributed it to our upbringing. I’m 69. My wife is a year younger. Her family never had a dishwasher. Dishes were always washed by hand. My family acquired their first dishwasher when I was eleven. Mom bought it on sale at Sears for Mother’s Day. So I thought that my wife and I grew up with clothes washers but dishwashers came later. Hence the difference.

Could be a bit of both, I suppose. As a final aside, my wife announced on Friday, “I’m going to wash clothes. Do you need to put anything in there? I’m doing darks.”

“No, I have nothing.”

I went off and did something in the other room. When I came back, she accosted me. “We had so many dirty clothes that I had to split it up into two loads.” She gestured back at the machine. “Why are you wearing so many clothes? Where are you going? What are you doing?”

“I’m just following the norm,” I replied. “You know, clean shirt, clean underwear, clean socks. Just one of each a day. Except socks. I wear a pair of them. I usually wear my pants a few times before washing them.”

“You need to be less clean,” she replied.

I laughed. Being told to be ‘less clean’ was definitely a first.

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The Hair Dream

I was the new guy in a small group of males. Basically smartasses and lower class with leanings toward crime and goofing off, I don’t know how I met them but was hanging around with them. They kept discounting me and making fun of me. I decided changes were needed and thought the way to do that was with my hair. So off I went to get dreadlocks.

A stylist eagerly did as I asked. I emerged with long black dreadlocks when I’d had brown hair before, with the crown being literally a crown of short dreads.

I went back and joined the group at a short track where a car race was scheduled to take place. All were surprised and taken back. One or two made fun of me for it. Then we split up. Most headed in to watch the race but one other and I stayed back, sort of watching the group’s belongings in a small corner by a counter. Catching my image in a mirror, I was horrified. “I look terrible,” I said. “Ridiculous. What was I thinking?”

The other guy, a short, white almost bald fellow said, “Well, I admire what you did. Took balls. I respect that.”

“Really? But it looks like crap.”

“Yes, but you did something.”

I met a woman who wanted to go into the track but wasn’t certain how to go about it. I asked where she wanted to go in there. “By turn two,” she answered. “Come on,” I said, “I’ll take you there.”

I took her in through the crowd. As I did, a young black woman paused to tell me with a wide smile, “I really like your hair.”

“Thanks,” I answered, pleased, amused. Showing the woman to turn two, I moved back through the crowd to the outside. Another young black woman accosted me, saying, “Nice hair.”

I encountered a white female friend as I left the race track. “What did you do to your hair?” she asked.

“I know,” I said. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m going to see if it can be fixed.” But I was thinking, it’ll probably need to be cut. Then it’ll take a long time to grow back. While this went through my head, a young black woman said, “I’m sorry but I overheard what you said. I hope you don’t change your hair. I think it looks really good on you.”

Dream end.

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Mundaz Wandering Thoughts

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.

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Thirstdaz Theme Music

September continues for a few more days. It’s Thirstda, September 25, 2025. 74 F in Ashlandia. Blue but hazy sky. Sunshine. Reaching for 86 F. Leaves have not started freefalling but the fall color shift has begun.

A dream provides today’s music. It was a weird damn dream, featuring the strangest game of basketball ever, and a zombie sort of white man. The dream ended with me victorious in basketball, gaining others’ freedom, and then walking away, leading five others. As I left, I began singing a song made popular by The Animals, “We Gotta Get Out of this Place”. Written by Cynthia Weil and Barry Mann, it’s a powerful protest place against the pressures and conditions of modern first world life, we were become so defined by work, paying bills, and trying to stay safe. When I started singing it in the dream, the others joined in as we walked up and out of a square, concrete tunnel, sort of the kind often encountered in underground parking garages.

Just want to note, BTW, Weil and Mann also wrote the hit songs, “On Broadway”, “Kicks”, “Make Your Own Kind of Music”, “Here You Come Again”, “Walkin’ in the Rain”, and contributed to “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin'”, and “(You’re My) Soul and Inspiration”.

Whenever I think of this song or play it, I remember a childhood incident. I was eight when The Animals came on The Ed Sullivan Show to perform. Mom was very excited; she thought there would be animals singing. So we all tuned in to hear a human rock band singing this song, severely disappointing Mom.

Trump continues throwing apples at bogey threats. Now he’s pretending the violence in the United States is caused by ‘the left’. That’s how it is in his fact-free alternate reality. Actions like this lower freedom, democracy, unity, and respect. But it makes Trump feel pretty.

Deification of Charlie Kirk mounts. Put his likeness on the silver dollar, Republicans urge. Sure, cement this era’s insanity for the future to more fully and completely understand.

A government shutdown crawls closer. Trump refuses to negotiate with Democrats, chickening out once again, because he knows he’s a terrible negotiator. TACO, in control of the House and Senate, wi;th the Supreme Court backing him, has to resort to lying on the net once again in support of his alternate reality, this time claiming that Democrats want to give trillions illegal immigrants. It’s as shady and ugly as previous lies he’s made, like immigrants are eating people’s pets. His fact-free existence continues as a problem for the rest of us. From his ridiculously uninformed medical advice to his absurd grasp of history and his overinflated sense of himself, all he does breaks down centuries of trust, progress, hope, and peace.

As a bully, Trump is threatening to be cruel and stupid as part of the shutdown. That’s his normal style. Bully, bluster, blame others, and do stupid things. In this case, the WH issued guidance that it’ll use the shutdown to fire folks. “With respect to those Federal programs whose funding would lapse and which are otherwise unfunded, such programs are no longer statutorily required to be carried out,” the memo says. “RIF notices will be in addition to any furlough notices provided due to the lapse in appropriation.”

It’s part of the Trump Offal Office Circus. The GSA just announced it’s hiring people Trump let go through DOGE because getting rid of them screwed up the government. Ditto, the IRS. Now, here goes TACO down the same alternate reality hole he always goes, dragging the nation and world down with him.

I wonder what Trump’s BFF, Jeffrey Epstein, would say at this point?

Well, got coffee, so I’m good for the moment. Hope peace and grace grows stronger in the face of Trumpnanigans.

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