Frida’s here and the smoke is here, and the heat is coming. It’s July 11, 2025, 68 F locally, 93 F pitched as the day’s high. I stepped outside to check it all out and smoke jumped into me and kickstarted my sinuses into broken water line mode. I ditched the outside work planned and vacuumed instead.
My spouse last used this vacuum. Like many Boomer Americans, we are over vacuumed. A cranky, ancient Hoover is on standby along with some Black & Decker Dustbuster copy cat, and a central vac system. I was using the central with the power head. This system features three outlets and a 30-foot long vacuum hose.
The hose was tangled into several knots. As I untangled it, I grumbled to myself about my wife’s tangling habits. I’d just untangled her hair dryer cord and her Apple laptop cord. This seems to be a world of tanglers and untanglers. Knotters and Unknotters.
Firings, tariffs, lies, and bullshit highlight the Trump news day cycle. More flooding struck several states; more wildfires have forced evacuations. The biggest news circulating at the mo seems to be Trump’s efforts to coerce Brazil not to enforce due process in their nation by slamming them with a 50% tariff. Such a law and order person, isn’t he? Yeah, that’s snark.
Today’s song is “Ride Captain Ride” by Blues Image. The song was popular in the U.S. in 1970. I recall being with my friend, Scott, and talking about the song, as he was supremely enamored with it. It’s a mellow rock tune and one that invoked a faraway cast to his gaze. I heard that he died of a drug overdose a few years later and have always wondered if the song about sailing to another world was his secret fantasty. Come on, we all have them, those secret fantasies. Before I move on from the song, I want to mention, this is the only Blue Image song I know.
Off to pursue my not-so-secret writing. Have the best Frida available. Cheers
One of my dreams last night left me puzzled but optimistic and in a better mood when I awoke. As I went over its details with myself, one part that captivated me was it featured my first car.
In the dream, I was a young man again, and I was driving my first car. This was a 1965 Mercury Comet. Forest green, it was a four door automatic sedan with a 289 V8.
Dad gave me the car. He’d recently remarried, and this was his new wife’s transpo. Dad bought himself a used service van at an auction to drive to and from work, and turned over his 1974 Chevy Monte Carlo to her to drive. I was completely blown away by their decision. They’d not talked to me about it ahead of time. Until then, I’d been hitching or walking to get around.
With a car, I suddenly had a dating life and began dating the girl who is my wife. Our dates were never much because, car or not, I didn’t have much money. Dad did give me gas money and a few bucks besides. But I was in high school and on sports teams, and local jobs in our rural region were scarce.
After graduating, I joined the military and went in for training. After I returned home from basic training and tech school, I drove that car three hundred miles through a snow storm to my new duty assignment at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Fairborn, Ohio. It was a taxing drive. Ice and snow were thick on the car by my journey’s end.
One day, the car wouldn’t start. It was probably a starter or selenoid switch. As it was a 1965 car and this was 1975, and it was a four-door sedan, I did what many guys would do, and bought my first used car, a sleek little 1968 Chevy Camaro with a 327 V8. Ah, fun car! Young car!
I left the Comet sitting in its parking spot. A man saw it sitting there without movement, hunted me down, and bought it. I’m not sure how much he gave me but I didn’t haggle. The thing is, though, when he went to change registration, he learned it was still Dad’s car.
Oh, yeah.
Dad was pretty pissed but the sale went through. I still laugh about it, and he still shakes his head.
It’s supposed to be the first day of summer in Ashlandia: Frida, June 20, 2025. But it’s fifty and has a certain autumn flavor to the air. Sun and blue sky have surrendered to charcoal clouds. Rain veils aren’t there but an atmosphere of impending rain lurks. Today’s high will only be 61.
The cat is not happy. Prancing out for sunshine, he stops and looks around. “Right,” I say. “Where’s the sun?” The cat doesn’t say anything. He’s not much for conversing. “Want to come back in?” I ask. The cat’s gaze at me is rich with skepticism and disappointment. “I can’t control the sun,” I say. “I’m going back in.” I go in and close the door. A few minutes later, I check on the cat. He’s sulking. I open the door. He hurries in. “I agree,” I say. He meows for food and is given a third breakfast to make up for the sunless suffering he endured.
My mouth is healing. This is Post Op Day 2. Teeth are missing from the upper right and left sides. I’m not allowed hot stuff yet. I make oat oatmeal and let it cool, doing the same with my black coffee. I inhale the coffee’s aroma, comforting myself that I can soon gulp down a tepid splash. I make my warm water with salt and swish, rinse, and spit, as required, marking it off my mental checklist, along with two Ibuprofen and my Amoxicillin. I have pain killers but I don’t use them. Just give me some coffee, damn it.
My wife is leaving for the gym. “Do you want me to pick you up anything?” she asks.
“Sunshine,” I sniff.
“I mean food.”
“No.”
I sit and eat my chilled oatmeal and smell my coffee.
I check my phone for texts. Nothing from Dad’s side in Texas nor Mom’s side in Pittsburgh, PA. Guess both of their issues are temporarily abated.
Today’s music is “How Does It Feel” by London Grammar. The Neurons turned it loose in the morning mental music stream after my wife asked how my mouth felt. “Fine,” I answer, feeling grumbly.
The coffee is cool enough to drink. The sky has gotten darker. It’s almost time for my chlorhexidine gluconate oral rinse. I raise my cup and look out the window. “To summer.”
Dreamed my wife and I went car shopping. I found a sleek new silver sports car. Turned out that it was a Chevy Camaro but it was completely unlike any Camaro previously produced. This car was low, wide, and fast. I didn’t see much of the exterior in the dream except that it was so brightly polished, its silver surface hurt my eyes.
I instantly like it and wanted to sell my wife on it. “Here, babe,” I said. “Take it for a drive.” I had to coax her because she doesn’t trust her driving skills. Finally relenting, she entered the car and got behind the wheel. The car was electric and made little sound. She was amazed. Then she began driving it. After a bit, she said through a big grin, “I really like this.” So we bought the car with dreamlike ease. The whole time, she remained behind the wheel. When I asked if she wanted to keep driving, she replied, “Yes. This is fun.” That pleased me.
We went to a parking garage. As she pulled the car into a slot, a group of young men came up and began hassling us. Annoyed, I told them to go away. At that point, I discovered that my wife had the car’s roof retracted. As I told her to put it up, one of the young men reached into the back and took out a brown folder of papers. I asked him to give them back. He mocked me and walked away with his friends. They began throwing the folder around as they would in a game of keep away. Getting angrier, I found a large orange and a large green papaya. I wrestled with what to do with them. As the man who first took the folder caught it, I hurtled the orange at him, hitting him in his ankle. He went down with a cry, complaining of pain. The rest didn’t know what had happened.
I went over and picked up the folder. A second man threatened me. I threatened him back with the papaya. Another guy laughed and said, “That’s just a papaya.” I hit him in the face with it, knocking him over. As he sat on his ass in pain and astonishment, I returned to the Camaro and my wife drove us away.
I’m fortunate enough to have treasure chest of favorite moments to sift through. I fell in love with an intelligent and beautiful girl in 1974, married her in 1975, and we remain together. She’s given me a bundle of favorite moments. Fun times, vacations, Christmas and other holidays, have given me a chunk of favorite moments, as well. Playing ball with my father and wrestling with him gifted me more, and being in the military, traveling the world, and having a plethora of good friends further enriched my favorite moments. And, although I’ve won promotions, awards, and honors, starred in local productions of plays and had some great moments playing sports, two special memories effortlessly surface.
One came in 1989. I was stationed in Germany with a C130 unit. A training mission was planned for the weekend to give navigators an opportunity to do overwater nav training. I normally didn’t fly, so offered a seat for familiarization and orientation, I jumped at the chance.
Our first stop would be Aviano Air Base in northern Italy, but politics put a crimp in our plans. Col. Omar Gaddafi ruled Libya. Two Libyan MiGs went up against two US Navy F14 Tomcats. The MiGs lost.
The episode put the region on high alert. We took off for Italy but were denied permission to enter Italian airspace. The Italians didn’t want to inflame the situation with more U.S. warplanes entering their nation. We were placed in a racetrack pattern over the Swiss Alps while diplomats worked on the problem. Going around and around, it was surreally beautiful and peaceful to gaze down on those rugged, snow and ice-covered ancient mountains, watching as shadows arose and lengthened, lights went on in the villages and hamlets, and the sky changed colors as the sun dropped below the horizon. We were permitted to continue into Italy and land, but our training plans were curtailed. It’s a favored moment because the time and situation allowed me to sit quietly and contemplate the world and existence. I could look up the emerging stars, where humans were rarely found, and back down to Earth, where we struggle to thrive, and reflect further on the circumstances around that unique moment.
My other favorite moment is one with my wife. We were in California, where we lived, in late 1999. We’d just moved into the first home we bought, a townhouse located in Half Moon Bay. Settled in and unpacked, we went for a walk one evening. After walking for about a mile, we arrived at Kelly Beach. There, we stood on a bluff, arms around one another’s waist, and watched the sun darken into red as it set on the deep blue Pacific Ocean. I felt content, satisfied, and hopeful about life in a meaningful way.
I’m happy to share these moments. They weren’t much in the span of time and life, but they mean so much to me.
My wife’s car is over twenty-one years old. Just 110,000 miles on it, it’s her car for buzzing around town. It’s a gray Ford Focus ZX5. I surprised her with it after her previous car was declared totaled when it was rear-ended.
The five in ZX5 means the car has five doors, which includes its hatchback. We bought it new. It’s never broken down on us. The engine is terrific, the brakes are always screeching and complaining, the suspension has sports car aspirations, and the seats were shit. I put seat covers on it ten years ago, which greatly improved the interior’s looks.
Worse for me, though, is her car’s transmission. An automatic, it does this clunky downshift which sounds and feels like the engine is falling out. I took it to Ford after the first few times that it happened; they said, “That’s normal.” I replied, “That’s shit.” I wanted to get rid of the car. Get something newer, maybe a hybrid, which would get better fuel economy and have more modern creature comforts.
Wife says, “Nope. I want to keep my car.” That’s that.
She came to me the other day. “My car is making a new noise.”
“Well, it’s old. It’s not a surprise.”
“It groans a lot. Sometimes it sounds like it’s saying, ‘my knees hurt.'”
My wife is a year younger than me, which puts her in her late sixties. I looked at her. “I think you might be projecting, hon.”
An elderly woman asked for my help at the coffee shop yesterday. She’s another coffee shop regular. I’ve seen her here for several years. By observing and eavesdropping, I knew where she lived, what she drove, her previous occupation, her standard order, and her name.
She’s named Sandy. As I helped her, she said, “I was an elementary school teacher.”
I replied, “What a coincidence! I used to go to elementary school.”
She laughed.
I’m thinking of Sandy today because I’m reflecting on Mom. Mom is 89; Sandy is 82. I’ve witnessed Mom’s decline over the past decade. I’ve seen Sandy declining over the past two years. She used to have no problem walking. Always a diminutive person, she seems smaller, thinner, and weaker, and struggles to stand, sit, and walk. Terrible to see.
It affects me because I’m also seeing such a decline happening in my wife. It’s surreal because I’ve had many more medical emergencies and don’t attend to my health as my wife does. I generally bounce back from whatever I endured. Yes, my bounce is not as high these days, and it takes more bounces to get back to close to what I was. My wife, though, is slowing and weakening. She often loses her balance. Her diet and activities are becoming so limited.
All of this reminds me of how impermanent things are. This is true of products, societies, our bodies, our existence. Ground Penetrating Radar finds forgotten settlements. We come across photographs of relatives we never knew about. Genetics and genealogy can fill in blanks about who your ancestors were but it’s typically in broad terms. Names, places, occupations, mostly.
It all finally roosts in me as a reminder to not take things for granted, whether it’s success, health, family, or your government. Nothing really lasts forever. Worse, the ending can come without much warning. As in so many other matters, it’s something which I learned before, and then forgot.
My fellow Terrans. Today is Thirstda, June 5, 2025 in Ashlandia. Some refer to the day as Thursday.
Summer is rising in Ashlandia. Ridiculously blue skies have us covered like a fine duvet. Sunshine is showing up early and staying late, putting on a bright display. Today’s high will be 82 F, about 8 degrees north of our present temperature. Humidity is not bad, and light winds lazily stir the leaves and brush past.
Papi is happy as a floof can be, chirping around the house in the early morning before floofsconcing into a nap nest. My wife isn’t as happy. Although her various ailments are easing, mosquitos are finding her irresistible. Their bites swell on her which is an annoyance. As for me, I’m embroiled in an agent hunt put my personal happiness and satisfaction both at 7.5 on the scale, where ten means it’s all awesome. That might just be coffee influencing my spirits.
The world continues its status as fascinating but complex. For example, forecasters and personnel at NOAA. We’d heard that DOGE took its usual cleaver to NOAA. Meteorologists vacated the business, taking early retirement, etc. But there was U.S. Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick at a Senate hearing telling us that the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) is “fully staffed” with weather forecasters. Meanwhile, a search for news updates about NOAA tell multiple other stories.
Those stories were all posted a day ago. Lutnick testified last week.
There’s always been news churn where politics encumber how facts are related. But vetting those facts with the TACO Regime is increasingly challenging. We do understand that. Trump is a dedicated liar and butchers facts. He’s willing to make up anything to make himself look good. The people he hired are right off the same cookie sheet.
Today’s music is by Billy Joel. “We Didn’t Start the Fire” is Joel’s musical recitation about facts and history culled from his lifetime. The song came out in 1989. From Wikipedia:
Joel conceived the idea for the song when he had just turned 40. He was in a recording studio and met a 21-year-old friend of Sean Lennon who said “It’s a terrible time to be 21!”. Joel replied: “Yeah, I remember when I was 21 – I thought it was an awful time and we had Vietnam, and y’know, drug problems, and civil rights problems and everything seemed to be awful”. The friend replied: “Yeah, yeah, yeah, but it’s different for you. You were a kid in the fifties and everybody knows that nothing happened in the fifties”. Joel retorted: “Wait a minute, didn’t you hear of the Korean War or the Suez Canal Crisis?” Joel later said those headlines formed the basic framework for the song.
Looking further back in U.S. history, there’s been multiple awful times to be 21 years old, a truth known around the world. Some irony creeps in for someone from a privileged background, Sean Lennon, son of John Lennon, making that observation back in 1989.
The Neurons brought the song into the morning mental music stream after I read about actual wildfires in the United States and Canada. I feel for the people and animals in those places, as we’ve worried about California and Oregon wildfires for much of the last twenty years.
But the song is a good song for today, mostly because it strikes me that the TACO Regime is trying to fan the flames rather than fight the fires. As others note, it’s increasingly evident that TACO is tearing down the world order to make it easier for the wealthy to take over, rule, and make more money. Anyway, here is the song.
Got my coffee. Hope you have your beverage of choice. Let’s do the best that we can today. Here we go. Cheers
Summer is pushing more blue sky and sunshine on us. Chastised clouds have slipped the area and the sun reigns supreme. 70 F at 11 AM, we’re anticipating…78 F as our high. Sweet to me.
Papi the butter butt floof loves this warm weather. He came in this morning. We shared a purrful visit, then he stuffed himself on kibble, wet food, treats, and water. Now he’s floofsconced in the vinca. Only his sweet ginger and white face is visible among the green leaves.
Today’s music arrived with a boost from my wife. I was listening to a video which played a few seconds of every Billboard weekly number one hit song in the United States from the beginning of 1960 to the end of 1969. This came to my attention via 1440’s deep dive into the history of rock and roll.
My wife came in as the video advanced through “These Boots Are Made for Walking”, “The Ballad of the Green Berets”, “(You’re My) Soul and Inspiration”, “Good Lovin'”, and “Monday, Monday”.
“What year are you listening to?” she asked.
“Guess,” I replied.
She tried 1970, 1968, and then 1965. “1966,” I said. A little later, Bobbie Gentry sang, “Harper Valley PTA”.
My wife sang along and then said, “I love that song. But the very first record I ever wanted was “Society’s Child” by Janis Ian. I think I was thirteen. I asked for it for Christmas but I didn’t get it.”
I looked it up. “That came out in 1967.”
“How old was I then?”
“Ten.”
Anyway, The Neurons slipped “Society’s Child” into the morning mental music stream when I wasn’t paying attention. My wife thought the song had hit number one; I never told her that it didn’t break the top 10. Of course, bigotry and racism and it’s controversial topic of interracial dating kept it from getting airtime.
I’m at the coffee shop, my fix at hand. There was a line and a hold up. As I waited, the manager came around with my drink, along with the side of ice water which I always request. “Where do you want these, Michael?” she asked.
Laughing, I answered, “I can take them,” but she insisted on delivering them to my table for me.
Michael Seidel, writer 