Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
September is dashing through the weekdaz. We’ve already punched through to Satyrda, September 6, 2025. It wasn’t hot. Rain fell. Thunder crashed and lightning flashed. Hail slammed us. Yes, it was an Oregon road trip.
Here is “On the Road Again”. Canned Heat. At Woodstock.
Hope your day was well, my fellow earth dwellers, and peace and grace found and kept you. Cheers
It’s a bleak and featureless Sunda morning. Like winter and spring both decided not to show up. The sun complained, “If you guys aren’t in, I’m not either.”
The gray feels like a weight pressing down. I wonder what the weather was like when Robbie Robertson wrote “The Weight” for The Band.
It’s three quarters through March, 22 of 2025. 46 F now, the weather ‘they’ are trying to sell me on mostly sunny skies and a high of 66 F. I’ve gone past skeptical about that. Then I read that we’re hitting the seventies for Monday through Wednesday here. My heart harbors doubt. Do they mean the 1970s? With Trump still in office, there’s a reasonable question about the reference.
Papi the ginger blade is energetic today. I make a critical mistake. After feeding him breakfast, I give him his blood pressure medicine in some Churro. He loves that stuff and this is our regular process. But stupid me, I think, I’ll do two things at once. Give him his BP med in the Churro and while he’s eating that, I’ll rub his thyroid medication in his ear. That last is something that must be done twice a day.
Except my nose is a little snoggy. I hear myself breathing through it. In and out like a wheezy, broken machine. Were it a machine, I’d think, I need to replace that thing. It’s beyond fixing.
Doing Papi’s morning meds is not a favorite activity for me. Tucker was on the same regimen. He lasted a year. Papi began it the same month when Tucker passed. Lot of burdensome memories organized in this task.
I bend down to administer the thyroid med. Papi hears that breathing. Thinking a bear or something must be after him, he hits reverse like he’s a Corvette in a police chase and speeds through my legs. I bend over double, trying to grab him while saying, “No, stay there, let me do this, please, Papi. Papi..”
He darts away. I get the gooey white medicine on me. That’s toxic to humans. Cursing, I take off the used finger cap, dump it, and wash off my hand.
Papi has settled by the back door. He did not eat his Churri with his heart medicine. He’s eyeing me the way a quarterback is looking at a defensive end just before the ball is snapped. He is thinking, “Is he coming after me? How do I get away?”
I carry out the Churri bowl like a peace offering. Papi gallops up, all purrs, and bends his head to the task. I back away to give him space.
Papi takes two licks of his Churri and speeds off again. WTF? The Neurons ask. There is no answer.
Okay, I’ll go to the other med. We’re on the clock. This stuff is s’posed to be given every twelve hours. I don a new little finger cap. Put new med on it. Head for Papi.
“Mrr,” Papi says. Watching me, we begin a ballet. I move forward. He moves right. I go right. He backs up and heads left, then turns and prances around the coffee table, saying, “Mrr,” as he does. He looks yearningly at the back door. He wants out. I’ll try to trick him. Heading to the door, I unlock it. Opens it. Papi darts up and skids to a halt. “Mrr.” He knows this trick. Smarter than me, he doesn’t budge when I open the door and brightly declare, “Do you want to go out?”
Papi shies back into the room. I close the door. Verbally cajoling him has worked in the past. That’s the past. Papi’s not having it this morning. He keeps circling me, telling me, “Mrr.” I keep explaining that he knows that I need to give him this med. It’s not that bad. We do it everyday.
He finally decides, okay, here I came. Purring, he edges up to my leg. I slowly bend. Holding gently onto his back, I thank him for indulging me and gently rub the medicine into his inner ear.
Released, he bolts to the back door and releases a plaintive cry. I get what he’s saying. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Time to go out.” I open the door. He’s like a fast wind blowing out. Halfway across the patio, tail up, he turns around, sits, and stares at me. I can’t read that expression. Telling him the usual precautions whenever he’s out, I close the door. Whole thing has taken thirty minutes. I feel like it’s been ninety, ninety five minutes. Back in the office, I take a long gulp of cooling coffee.
Here’s The Weight by The Band. If you read this far, you know why it’s in my morning mental music stream.
I type up this post. Papi comes back in. I set the Churri with his meds down in a different room. He eats it up.
I come back into the office and set. Papi joins me and purrs as I scratch his head and chin.
I need more coffee. Cheers
Mood: Coffeefried
We’re in the middle of the week — Wednesday — and on August’s 7th day in 2024.
Ashlandia’s air is clear this morning — praise be! That makes the cats happy. They were already pleased to sign the flooftition endorsing Gov. Walz to be Vice President of the United States, and are purring over the idea of a Kamala Harris administration.
Yesterday, we saw the temperatures go from 93 F in the late afternoon to 58 this morning. We’re in the mid sixties now under spot free blue skies, and we’ll be churning up to 97 F.
I’m still on the freedom theme. The Neurons have popped Richie Havens playing “Freedom” at Woodstock in 1969 into the morning mental music stream (Trademark still free). I heard this when I was thirteen and the intensity made me pause and listen more closely. And afterward, there’s a release, just a *whew* and a half minute of thoughtful silence about what was heard. The song still strikes me that way today.
I’d like to let freedom roll over us like a good long blast of fresh cold mountain air.
Stay positive and be strong. Lean forward and Vote Blue in 2024. Coffee has been brewed up. Here’s the video. Cheers
Monday found me. It wasn’t a hard search, apparently; Monday found me in bed, still in dreams up to my head. Told me she’d come back in a while, but I just closed my eyes and slumbered.
It’s January 17, 2022, which means there’s only about nine months until the holiday seasons begin for 2022. It is also Martin Luther King Day in most parts of the U.S. Labeling it a holiday seems misguided, given his spirit of service and change, and his assassination. Many reference it as a day of service, an opportunity to meditate on equal rights and justice, and how to help one another. Meanwhile, the sun rose as expected, striking my sliver of existence with sunshine at about 7:36 AM. Temperatures were hovering around 30 F then. They’ve jumped up as the sun scaled the sky. The temperature is now 47. We expect to feel 57 before sunset closes the sunshine down at 5:06 PM.
I awoke with a Santana medley swimming through the morning mental music stream. Carlos has been around a few years as a talent and has given us some impressive tunes. After sorting through them and singing one to a cat, I’m going with “Evil Ways” from 1969. I was singing it to Tucker in a joking manner — “You’ve got to change your goofy ways, kitty, before I stop petting you.” Just a little give and take between two loving animals, me and the feline.
Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the jabs when you can. Meanwhile, I’ll get some coffee when I can; I feel a bit sad that I’m dependent on this brew that’s dependent on such energy waste and ill treatment. Sigh. Here’s the music. Take care.
As expected, Sol arrived at the expected time, 5:39 AM on this Saturday, May 29, 2021. Good ol’ Sol. So dependable. Like clockwork. Which means, given his predictability, he’ll depart the Ashland area about 8:38 PM, as the world turns.
Meanwhile, the clouds have done a runner, leaving Sol to throw down some heat. Highs almost touching ninety are expected, prelude to next week, when we’ll start playing with 100 degrees F.
Drinking water this morning, I happened to be looking at a wine bottle. This juxtaposition fed the 1968 Canned Heat mellow song, “Going Up the Country”, into my thinking spectrum. That’s due to the lines, “I’m goin’, I’m goin’ where the water tastes like wine. I’m goin’ where the water tastes like wine. We can jump in the water, stay drunk all the time.” Calling to Alexa to play it, she did, like a good little machine, feeding my net history with another piece of information.
Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the vax when you can. Have some coffee. Doesn’t taste like wine but it sure do taste fine.
It’s spin back Saturday!
Woke up with The Who’s rock opera, Tommy, in my mind’s center hall. Then the two song medley, “See Me, Feel Me/Listening to You” (1969) goes on loop.
It’s an appropriate song when thinking about the cults of politics percolating around the world, especially of the great wing type, especially of the Trump cult. It’s in sharper focus for me because that’s my country. I hear and read the staggering knots and twists employed to justify supporting him to the detriment of everything that matters, unless you’re white, wealthy, and male. The Evangelicals, Blacks, and women who support me startle me, but this medley seems to illuminate their position.
On the one hand, you have Trump – Tommy – isolated and self-centered, emotionally distant. Where the analogy collapses is Tommy knows his state and wants healed; Trump is blissfully unaware of himself and doesn’t want healed. He doesn’t know he’s sick. Feeding his base, he doesn’t see himself as sick.
Then you have the base. The comparison with Tommy shines here.
Listening to you I get the music
Gazing at you I get the heat
Following you I climb the mountain
I get excitement at your feet
Right behind you I see the millions
On you I see the glory
From you I get opinions
From you I get the story
Listening to you I get the music
Gazing at you I get the heat
Following you I climb the mountain
I get excitement at your feet
h/t to Genius.com
Decided to post the Woodstock video as it captures the essence of that time in rock. Have a listen, please, and as they say in America, “Have a nice day.”
We went to a spotlight performance the other night. As an elderly community of retired professionals in their sixties to nineties thrive around here, performances are often geared toward their preferences and memories. The spotlight performances are among those, featuring music from 1960s era “girl-bands”, the Motown sound, the Eagles, and the current offering focusing on the Mamas and Papas. They’re a lot of fun but they fire up neurons from that era, as more of that period’s music flooded my stream this morning.
“Eve of Destruction” by Barry McGuire was playing as irritation with our current government sent me into new spasms of frustration. Then along came a song by a group called Thunderclap Newman has been on loop. I always liked the name, Thunderclap Newman. Goes right up there with Moby Grape, Psychedelic Furs and Strawberry Alarm Clock.
Thunderclap Newman’s song, “Something in the Air” is streaming in my head. Word association started it. First, “Eve of Destruction” lyrics bobbed along the stream:
Yeah, my blood’s so mad, feels like coagulatin’
I’m sittin’ here just contemplatin’
I can’t twist the truth, it knows no regulation
Handful of Senators don’t pass legislation
And marches alone can’t bring integration
When human respect is disintegratin’
This whole crazy world is just too frustratin’
Read more: Barry Mcguire – Eve Of Destruction Lyrics | MetroLyrics
Ah, the rhyming. But the song’s sentiment plays as true for 2019 as it did for 1965 regarding governments’ ineptitude, human respect, frustration at the pace of change, and constant war. We stay on the eve of destruction, don’t we?
Lock up the streets and houses
Because there’s something in the air
We’ve got to get together sooner or later
Because the revolution’s here,
I always enjoyed Newman’s piano solo in this song. I have a vivid memory of smoking hash and listening to this song again and again when I was sixteen and my Dad was away.
So, that’s my Sunday theme music, Thunderclap’s 1969 song, “Something in the Air”.
Cranking up a childhood favorite, “I’m Going Home” by Ten Years After, as played at Woodstock. The song’s frenetic energy at the beginning and end appealed to me as a thirteen-year-old. Now I think the guitar riffs capture the feel of the original rockers. Well, they sample quite a bit of others in this medley.
Of course, in the military, when a deployment was ending, and then later, in marketing, when a show was ending, and then in management, when I could finally leave corporate headquarters and go home, this was my internal joy song – “I’m going home!”
Lot of memories of time and place embedded in this song for me.
Joni Mitchell wrote it, and sang it, but I remember the cover by CSN&Y.
The year of nineteen sixty-nine found me a budding thirteen year old rocking hippie wannabe living in a suburb of Pittsburgh, PA. My pants were bell-bottoms, and my thick hair was shoulder-length. My mustache and goatee were coming in without any prodding (Mom thought my face was dirty), and I was drifting toward the counter-culture.
I had some problems, though; can you be counter-culture and madly love cars like the Corvette, Jaguar XK-E, Ford GT, and Cobra, or the Porsche 917s and Ferrari 512s racing at LeMans, and the Can-Am and Formula 1 racers? That seems counter-counter-culture, as does being a Pirates fan and idolizing Roberto Clemente. But then, isn’t what what thirteen is all about, expanding your thoughts about where you’re at, what you’re learning, and where you’re heading?
Besides being my thirteenth year, nineteen sixty-nine is more frequently remembered in America for the Vietnam War, protests against it, President Nixon, the moon landing, “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” “Midnight Cowboy,” “Easy Rider,” “True Grit,” the Miracle Mets, and Woodstock, as in the Woodstock Music & Art Fair. I wasn’t there (at the fair), but I heard a helluva lot about it afterwards. Part of that was because of Joni’s song, so I offer it here to you, to remember or learn of that festival that began on August 15, forty-eight years ago.
If it’s the year of twenty-seventeen, then you know an airline is in trouble. I don’t accept the year unchallenged. Like Billy Pilgrim, sometimes I feel like I’ve become unstuck in time. It comes mostly from hearing male Republicans say things like, “Nobody dies because they don’t have access to healthcare.”
Well, not if you’re rich! Ha, ha. Oh, that Raul Labrador. He was kidding, of course. Ha, ha, what a joker. Thank the gods someone in the nation’s capitol has a sense of humor that matches Trump’s White House. You know those guys have a sense of humor when they decide they’re firing scientists from the EPA’s advisory board and replacing them with members of industry. That’s got to be a joke, right?
This year, depending on what Trump does — and his potential for disaster is infinite — might go down as a pivotal year of change for the U.S. airline industry. Each week finds another one in trouble or the news in recent months. First, there was United Airlines, politely trying to re-accommodate a passenger by taking him out of his seat and off the flight, to put him on another. Then American Airlines became the focus of social media ire when an employee bonked a woman on a flight with a stroller. American Airlines tried to fix it all by announcing that they were going to reduce leg room! That’s terrific news! Next they’ll be telling us that they’re going to start charging us to recline our seats or to use the restroom. After all, they’re making money and experiencing record profits, but, you know how it is with money and corporations: there’s never enough.
Delta Airlines, jealous over the the other airlines gaining so much attention, decided to boot a family off a flight from Hawaii. They made up with them, afterwards, of course, because it was just another spat between an airline and those ungrateful people buying tickets.
Today, in the spirit of U.S. airline news, Spirit Airlines canceled nine flights. People were upset. The airline blamed the pilots. The pilots blamed the airline. We all know that Spirit Airlines really just wanted their time in the news. All the other U.S. airlines were in the news. Even Southwest Airlines made the news after reports that their CEO is resisting changes to the baggage policy and still letting people have two free bags. What a madman! Doesn’t he know he’s leaving money on the table? Gads, the scoundrel.
Of course, the wealthy have had enough of the commoners and their problems with those pesky airlines. They’re either buying their own aircraft or using the terminals constructed for their exclusive use.
It’s exhausting to contemplate. As Alvin Lee of Ten Years After said at Woodstock once, “I think next time, I’m going home by helicopter.”
Maybe he didn’t say it. I am getting old. Or maybe I’m just unstuck in time again, and he’s going to say it in the future.
Michael Seidel, writer 