Wenzdaz Theme Music
Today’s music was almost “Smoke on the Water”. After a day that peaked at 93 F, clouds swollen with thunder and lightning climbed over the mountains to fill our valley last night. At one point, smoke coiled out from the pass north of us and hustled down the street, congregating in the valley like a well-organized demonstration. After a recce, I came in and told my wife, “It sounds like the drum section of a drum and bugle corps is marching down the street.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand what that means.”
“It means there’s a lot of thunder out there. Sounds like drumming.”
“Oh. I got you.”
The smoke surrendered, though. I never did learn a source.
Today is Wenzda, August 27, 2025. 84 F, a hazy blue sky hosts lurking cumulo thingies. Gonna get to the mid 90s F again. Thunderstorms are on the menu, but they sometimes run out before their time here. We’ll see how it flows.
Papi the ginger master of all he surveys doesn’t appreciate thunderstorms. They’re loud and ominous. He goes into the master bath to outwait them. After their passing, he heads back out to his floofdom. A bit south of midnight, cat singing commences. I go out to see Papi chatting up a black and white tux. The tux is dismissive of Papi. I’ve seen this one before. They weren’t real concerned. I asked, “What’s your name?”
That suggested a song to The Neurons. “What’s Your Name”, a 1977 southern rocker by Lynyrd Skynyrd, was pushed into the morning mental music stream. I protested to Les Neurons that the song refers to a ‘little girl’ who is a groupie. This tux was not anyone’s groupie. Being as obstinate as granite, The Neurons dismissed this objection faster than the Roberts Court rules in favor of the Trump Regime.
I’m encouraged by arguments rising out of Iowa. Democrat Catelin Drey defeated a Republican by 10 points in a state legislative contest. Okay, good news, but it’s too early for me to celebrate its significance too much. Trump still rules MAGALand and can do no wrong in their estimate. Much of what he’s doing, declaring that he’s the president and can do whatever he wants, is gut-wrenching to hear. Checking polls, many GOPers are quite happy with his declaration, continuing to support and cheer him on.
Meanwhile, much of his activities reminds me of the U.S.S.R. under Joe Stalin. Stalin’s means of governing involved one party and a police state. Stalin established purges based on his declarations that those he purged were ‘enemies of the state’ and ethnic cleansing through deportations. Any of this beginning to ring any bells when thinking about Trump’s efforts to control the media, imprison enemies, send the national guard out as a police force, and ICE disappearing people off the streets?
MAGAs and the GOP will never recognize or acknowledge any of this for the most part. They’re firmly in the ‘means justifies the ends’ corner, even if that means disavowing all the principles, tenets, and checks and balances our founders established when the United States became a nation. What is also distressing is listening and watching while so much of the established media downplays events. It seems like they fear Trump’s retribution to the point that they’re making themselves more and more irrelevant.
Well, coffee has arrived in the system. I hope peace and grace gang up and reward you with a beautiful day. Time to go write like crazy, at least one. More. Time. Cheers
Regulars
I am a known coffee-shop regular. The manager gives me a wave and a grin as she deals with the guard picking up the previous week’s take. I put in a fake order, an oat-milk iced siracha dusted with chocolate. The barista laughs. My usual order already awaits me at the pickup station despite five people in line ahead of me.
My favorite corner table is available. I’m soon in the writing realm, pretending to be a famous novelist. Habib approaches, bag in hand. “Michael? Cinnamon.” I don’t catch the other words as a wave of sound takes them out to sea.
I know it’s not mine. But I know another Michael is here. He’s one of five other regular Michaels I see coming through.
“No, it’s Michael’s,” I tell Habib, pointing out the other Michael. The other Michael waves and then gives me a thumbs up. Habib pivots his way.
This is how it goes in the life of a regular.
Choices
Maurice was the new man. Looked like his birth gender might have been different. Or maybe he was just a beautiful man with some exquisite feminine elements. Either way stirred me into intrigue.
He glided us through the identification protocols. I played nice. The others punish you if you don’t play nice. Outside of this establishment, they’ll pound you until death gives you a smile unless you play nice. Death and I played tonguesies a few times before that lesson found a way through my paywall.
Now to business, Maurice orchestrated a beautiful smile my way. Wonder if all those beaming white chicklets were real and natural. Such aquamarine eyes, too. Wars nicely with the glass-smooth mocha skin. Ah, to be wrinkle free. Like that matters to such as me.
“You have two outstanding attributes which might be available to you, Mickey,” Maurice purred. My mind surfed a mental register of attributes and awaited further info. “Invisibility and timetravel are both possible for you, but only one or the other.”
My mind jumped, flipped, and twirled like Simone Biles. Invisibility is the second-least attribute found in people. Time travel is queen of the rarest. No wonder pretty Maurice was here chatting me up. “Wow,” I said like a hayseed blown in on the wind. “I’d like being them.”
A professionally contrite expression landed on Maurice’s beauty. “I’m afraid that you can only be one or the other.”
“Oh.” I poured sadness into my gaze. “That’s a bummer. I thought it’d be so great to be an invisible timetraveller. Just think of the fun.”
“Yes, the opportunities which present do boggle the mind.”
LOL. Only salespeople talk like that.
Maurice ran me the drawbacks and bennies the program provides with those attributes. I made noises and expressions like I paid extreme attention and contained excited interest. I knew from farm skuttle that every attribute has drawbacks. As Maurice delicately phrased it, “Time travel unfortunately damages the cerebral cortex, amygdala, and hippocampi. Being invisible shreds muscle mass and does nerve damage.” He went on with greater clinical details without graphic explanation about how long it generally takes to do these things to people with those attributes.
My mind had already harvested those details and was racing through previously exercised pros and cons in the two choices, searching for the answer, which attribute will be the Amazon Prime delivering my freedom? My shackled co-inhabitants in the farm all punched in with seasoned reasoning about the attributes and freedom. We did it with all the attributes. Nightly ritual. No matter, as Daisychain always said as the bottom line, “You might think you’ll get out, but they will bring you back.”
Someone always put in the addendum, “Or kill you.”
We always laughed with deathly glee. Like being killed was terrible.
Yes, we were ignorant about how terrible things could be in the Farm. We didn’t know that they protected us from knowing.
So, like others, thinking myself more cunning than our masters, I answered Maurice’s ultimate query with suitably guarded hope, kidding myself that they didn’t see right through it.
“I’ll go for timetravel.”
Because I didn’t know that, yes, there are people who can both timetravel and be invisible.
They were the ones who began the program.
I was soon to meet them.
The Writing Moment
I brought a few books with me to read on vacation. One was recommended by my wife. She picked the recommendation up from Ann Patchett via Ann’s regular video post, New to You. My wife heard what Ann Patchett said about reading while writing a novel, and then what she said about this book, and told me, “I think you want to read this book.”
The book is a memoir, Running in the Family, by Michael Ondaatje. Ann says something like, “It’s beautifully written and writers will love it.” I picked it up to begin reading today. Tucking it under my arm, a glass of wine in my other hand, I climbed the spiral staircase to the third-floor loft. Out on the balcony where the sunshine sparked with Pacific blue, I sat down and began to read.
After a few pages, I knew that I could not read it now. The book was an immediate serum inducing me, go write. But my writing needs separation from friends. Space to let the writing neurons take over. And I get cranky when I’m interrupted while writing. I talked to my wife and friends about the book and put it away, to be read when I get home. This is a library copy. I think I might need to buy my own copy.
And then I’ll write like crazy, at least one more time.
Twosdaz Theme Music
Greetings from Yachats (which is pronounced just as it appears, with a silent ‘c’: ya-hots — which isn’t how it appears), where a relaxed but busy Pacific studies the land and plots their moves under a light marine layer. Presently 56 F, it’s gonna be 66 F and sunny.
I have the dining room to myself so I’m typing away while I can. Everyone else is asleep, save my wife, who is down in our room doing her dressing and hair thing. That takes some time. Three couples are sharing a huge place. I think two more couples could stay here and barely be noticed. But while the house is big, with three floors, bordering on fancy and luxurious, it needs some updating and repair routines. That big fancy stainless steel frig doesn’t deploy ice and water as it should. The heating controls are hit and miss. The oven and stove top are ancient and wonky. We have an ensuite arrangement but the tub can’t hold water. Then there’s the dealio of utensils and cookware; there’s barely enough to prep and serve one meal. Like, WTF? Serious feedback is being compiled. It is all first-world whining, of course.
Read, of course, about Trump’s continuing overreach, sending in more troops to DC as he and the GOP make like strongarm dictators. I think the jackasses are overreaching, myself. I’m sure Trump hopes to cut off the voting apparatus so he can ignore the midterms, but we the economy trashing, the Epstein Files hanging over his head, his increasing grift and lawlessness, that ridiculous dog and pony show with Putin, his whining to the Nobel committee, and his dictator moves, I think the majority of U.S. citizens are already ready to cancel the season on this mango clown.
Haven’t heard much about Trump and Epstein today but haven’t been deep into the news. I can’t believe that Trump has already forgotten his BFC (best fucking criminal). I’ll post a photo to remind everyone.
Today’s music comes from vintage shopping. My wife loves going into used good places. St. Vincent’s, consignment store, Goodwills, etc. She can cruise those aisles, eyeing those things all day. I’m ready to depart the door in seven point five seconds. Anyway, as I walked around, trying to be patient in one of those places, up comes the Marshall Tucker Band with “Heard It In A Love Song” from 1977. The Neurons excitedly shouted, “We know this song!” So did everyone else in the store. Amazing how many folks were humming along or softly singing that chorus. The Neurons were so taken with the display that they kept the tune playing in my head for many more hours, and refreshed it in the morning mental music stream. Recognizing the situation, I know the only way to get The Neurons to release it from their grubby little hold is to put it out to the world and infect others. Once I, the carrier, do that, then the song leaves my head. I don’t know why; that’s just how it works.
Coffee is applying its black magic to my bod. Time to drift out toward the ocean. May peace and grace find you today and on all days. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 