I have two cats that I am now pretty much responsible for. As a child, I detested felines - they were cryptic and furtive, not openly emotional like dogs, conveying the distinct impression that they only saw humans as a source of food. However, I have grown to appreciate the fact that they are self sufficient, independent and decidedly low maintenance. The only problem occurs when they revert to their natural instincts.
The first cat is a beautiful silky black female we named Olive, found by a friend at the side of a rural byway. She likes to occupy laps, but prefers seeking out high perches atop refrigerators and staircases, a proud lioness overlooking the African savannah. This delicate and gracious animal is obsessed with birds. Unfortunately, we have a trio of hanging feeders which are constantly full of black oil sunflower seeds, food that will attract all shapes and sizes of birds from miles around. Olive spends most of her days sitting patiently under the receptacles, mesmerized by the ebb and flow.
The second is named Plunky, as in "kerplunk". He used to live behind a restaurant and still prefers to be outside. He shuns human contact, and tries to bite you if you pet him too much. Plunky is gray and muscular, definitely a feline with attitude. Unfortunately, despite the cat door we carefully installed a few years back for easy access, I've been forced to block it at night so that I can monitor Plunky's comings and goings.
The primary reason for restricting his presence indoors has to do with waking up half asleep, heading out to the kitchen to make coffee and finding a headless corpse on the floor. I've uncovered numerous decapitated mice and a few birds, not exactly the kind of wake up call you want before another grim day at work. Outside, Plunky's stalking skills have resulted in the death of several rabbits, moles and chipmunks, the most bizarre incident having occurred one night when I caught him trying to drag a huge rabbit corpse through the cat door into our garage, the body being too big for him to get through the opening.
Nevertheless, we have fought back against the antics of the wanna be lions. I rescued an incredibly angry cardinal one morning, sitting on my foyer carpet, chirping loudly, not yet seriously hurt but about to be devoured by the cat. I am normally scared of birds, but I swallowed my fear, and upended a scrap basket onto the intended victim. I then slid a place mat underneath the basket and manoeuvred the terrified bird outside.
One night when I was getting ready to take my daughters and their friends out to dinner, I was pausing to comb my hair when I heard a volley of terrified screams from our kitchen. I raced inside, assuming an axe murderer was lying in wait for my offspring, only to find a frightened chipmunk racing across the floor, again being pursued by the cat. I managed to corner him between the stove and the counter, then coax him into - you guessed it - the trash can which I managed to transport outside once again, allowing the poor animal to flee into the underbrush.
The moral of the story , I suppose , is you can't judge a book by looking at the cover. My cats may look harmless, but don't cross them.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
Land of Lincoln(s)
It's true - every American who retires - along with the gold watch and the Caribbean cruise - gets a Lincoln. Not money - a car - a Lincoln Continental. The reason is that owning a Lincoln entitles the driver to privileges way beyond those of the average American motorist.
Lincoln owners, for example, can drive in the middle of the road at 20 miles an hour, making them impossible to pass until you reach a traffic light, an accident or some other obstacle that forces them to actually stop so you can try to sneak by. Rest assured that the driver, recognizeable from his pastel golf cap, will go out of his way to glare at anyone who dares to pass, since letting someone go by is considered a sign of weakness not to mention disrespecting your elders.
Lincolns are also allowed plenty of slide room- sliding into intersections, out of driveways or segueing into mall parking lots. Once they've managed to clearly obstruct through traffic, the other drivers have no choice but to let them go first, granting the retiree the status he or she has earned from a lifetime of drudgery.
Most Lincolns are some shade of green with cream upholstery. Don't just take my word for it - look closely when one inches by you on the way to work tomorrow. Although they may look the same, they are manufactured with the senior citizen in mind - you've probably noticed that the front seats are so comfortable the elderly passengers can barely see over the dashboards.
Lincolns not only honor those who've given their lives for the system, they also make America strong and healthy. They burn lots of fossil fuels, thus benefiting the oil and gas industry, as well as providing the rationale for the Republicans' alleged energy strategy. They spew out a lethal cloud of toxic pollutants, insuring that the health care system will continue to prosper from treating those with respiratory ailments. They keep auto body shops humming, since most of the oldsters tend to collect dents on even the most trivial outings, not to mention giving the hood ornament thieves a steady income.
Personally, I can hardly to get my hands on one. The best thing about a Lincoln is, if times get hard, you can always live in the back seat. At the rate things are going with the housing market, it's a feature that may come in handy.
Lincoln owners, for example, can drive in the middle of the road at 20 miles an hour, making them impossible to pass until you reach a traffic light, an accident or some other obstacle that forces them to actually stop so you can try to sneak by. Rest assured that the driver, recognizeable from his pastel golf cap, will go out of his way to glare at anyone who dares to pass, since letting someone go by is considered a sign of weakness not to mention disrespecting your elders.
Lincolns are also allowed plenty of slide room- sliding into intersections, out of driveways or segueing into mall parking lots. Once they've managed to clearly obstruct through traffic, the other drivers have no choice but to let them go first, granting the retiree the status he or she has earned from a lifetime of drudgery.
Most Lincolns are some shade of green with cream upholstery. Don't just take my word for it - look closely when one inches by you on the way to work tomorrow. Although they may look the same, they are manufactured with the senior citizen in mind - you've probably noticed that the front seats are so comfortable the elderly passengers can barely see over the dashboards.
Lincolns not only honor those who've given their lives for the system, they also make America strong and healthy. They burn lots of fossil fuels, thus benefiting the oil and gas industry, as well as providing the rationale for the Republicans' alleged energy strategy. They spew out a lethal cloud of toxic pollutants, insuring that the health care system will continue to prosper from treating those with respiratory ailments. They keep auto body shops humming, since most of the oldsters tend to collect dents on even the most trivial outings, not to mention giving the hood ornament thieves a steady income.
Personally, I can hardly to get my hands on one. The best thing about a Lincoln is, if times get hard, you can always live in the back seat. At the rate things are going with the housing market, it's a feature that may come in handy.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Trash Talk
Most of us think of Norman Rockwell's classic painting from the "Four Freedoms" of the earnest looking guy in the leather jacket voicing his opinion at that time-honored New England forum, the annual town meeting, as a reflection of government in action. However, conflicting lifestyles and convoluted schedules have created a new political arena - the town dump.
My small town in Massachusetts is no exception. After all, where else do the die hard longtime residents , the upstart yuppies and everyone else who creates garbage- but like the implied machismo of transporting their own refuse as opposed to paying for pick up - eventually meet? Consequently, Saturdays are prime time for dump debates. By the way, you can really call it the dump anymore - it's the "transfer station" - which gives you the option of either throwing everything into one big garbage bag and paying the per bag fee, or separating out the plastic, cardboard, newspapers, bottles, etc. to show that you're ecologically attuned. I suppose the same rationale applies to the transfer of ideas.
Last weekend was no exception. As is usually the case, there were two opposing factions firmly entrenched below one of those grassy hummocks that look bucolic but actually conceal a heap of older garbage. The issue was a petition drive. Rather than going intro the fine points, each erstwhile dump visitor was giving the option of saying: "You know, your idea really stinks " or "How can you believe that garbage?". I can just imagine the poor town clerk who has to collate the completed forms; the odor must be quite distinctive, necessitating latex gloves and wide open windows, not to mention signatures obscured by tomato or motor oil stains.
I can see real potential in this new political forum. No matter how slick a Presidential campaign might be, holding a debate at the transfer station could act as a huge common denominator; it would be hard to entertain flights of rhetorical fancy amongst the fractured glass, twisted metal, and mountains of cardboard. In fact, the dump may become even more viable if campaign financing laws are radically altered. The idea of drive up voter registration could be combined with buying your dump "coupons"; after all, your residency status would be clearly delineated by the sticker on your windshield as well as the presence of those distinctive black plastic bags in the back of your minivan.
Come to think of it, maybe the town meeting should be held at the transfer station. The surroundings might help limit debate. After all, voters might be compelled to distinguish the important issues from those that will inevitably end up in the trash.
My small town in Massachusetts is no exception. After all, where else do the die hard longtime residents , the upstart yuppies and everyone else who creates garbage- but like the implied machismo of transporting their own refuse as opposed to paying for pick up - eventually meet? Consequently, Saturdays are prime time for dump debates. By the way, you can really call it the dump anymore - it's the "transfer station" - which gives you the option of either throwing everything into one big garbage bag and paying the per bag fee, or separating out the plastic, cardboard, newspapers, bottles, etc. to show that you're ecologically attuned. I suppose the same rationale applies to the transfer of ideas.
Last weekend was no exception. As is usually the case, there were two opposing factions firmly entrenched below one of those grassy hummocks that look bucolic but actually conceal a heap of older garbage. The issue was a petition drive. Rather than going intro the fine points, each erstwhile dump visitor was giving the option of saying: "You know, your idea really stinks " or "How can you believe that garbage?". I can just imagine the poor town clerk who has to collate the completed forms; the odor must be quite distinctive, necessitating latex gloves and wide open windows, not to mention signatures obscured by tomato or motor oil stains.
I can see real potential in this new political forum. No matter how slick a Presidential campaign might be, holding a debate at the transfer station could act as a huge common denominator; it would be hard to entertain flights of rhetorical fancy amongst the fractured glass, twisted metal, and mountains of cardboard. In fact, the dump may become even more viable if campaign financing laws are radically altered. The idea of drive up voter registration could be combined with buying your dump "coupons"; after all, your residency status would be clearly delineated by the sticker on your windshield as well as the presence of those distinctive black plastic bags in the back of your minivan.
Come to think of it, maybe the town meeting should be held at the transfer station. The surroundings might help limit debate. After all, voters might be compelled to distinguish the important issues from those that will inevitably end up in the trash.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
The Bush Legacy ?
It has finally occurred to W. that the "legacy" thing might be something that even The Black Prince himself - Karl Rove - and Daddy WARbucks - Dick Cheney - can't orchestrate for him. Consequently, I've devoted some of my spare time to come up with some noteworthy aspects of his alleged administration that should be enshrined for future generations:
1. Keep Repeating Yourself:
This is a noteworthy style of Bushspeak that employs the old political standard of simply spitting out the same phrase over and over again. Particularly useful in the Kerry debates, the President was able to demonstrate that even intelligent, articulate people can be derailed by repeating the same slogan. After all, if it sells fast food, cars, beauty products and a wide range of other products, then why not the President?
2. Don't Go Changing:
Our President realizes that, by steadfastly refusing to change his mind about anything, he has joined world leaders like Kim Jong-il, most of the Saudi Royal family, and the upper ranks of the Chinese government.
3. Folks Making Less Than Fifty Thousand Annually:
Fortunately, W. was exposed to lower income non-white people during his formative years - the maid, the gardener, the feller that takes care of the pool , and all those other folks. This invaluable perspective has allegedly surfaced in secret Presidential sensitivity sessions, in which Condi Rice tries to convince W. that reruns of Amos and Andy and the Cosby show will not produce viable solutions to the "race"issue.
4. Those Pesky Reporters:
Although rumor has it the administration started out by trying to supply the press corps with hand written questions for Presidential press conferences, the focus quickly shifted - when that technique didn't work - to holding as few as possible. Besides, when are those Democratic reporters going to stop asking questions about that Iraq thing?
5. That Stem Cell Research Thing:
Once the President's close advisers explained to him that a stem cell was not a new form of maximum security incarceration in the penal system, W quickly came to realize that it was better to let people die from incurable diseases rather than try to save them. This approach will ensure badly needed savings in health care as well as ensuring a constant supply of hospital beds.
6. Those European Fellers:
W's distaste for frogs' legs and the rest of that high faluting French grub made him realize why the country was always so hard to deal with - they have constant indigestion. Fortunately, the English speak American, so at least he could understand what Tony Blair was saying. The President also discovered that you should ask permission before you grab German women.
7. I'm On Vacation:
George's flawless sense of timing was evident in the fact that he was on vacation during two of the major disasters of his administration: 911 and Hurricane Katrina. Fortunately, he managed to recover his image after the hurricane, when one of those pesky network fellows asked him what his opinion was on Roe v Wade. W showed his compassionate side and said: "I don't care how they get out of New Orleans."
I'm going to volunteer to start accepting book donations for the W Presidential Library as a public service. Picture books are preferable, but, in any event, please scan the text in advance for words over two syllables.
1. Keep Repeating Yourself:
This is a noteworthy style of Bushspeak that employs the old political standard of simply spitting out the same phrase over and over again. Particularly useful in the Kerry debates, the President was able to demonstrate that even intelligent, articulate people can be derailed by repeating the same slogan. After all, if it sells fast food, cars, beauty products and a wide range of other products, then why not the President?
2. Don't Go Changing:
Our President realizes that, by steadfastly refusing to change his mind about anything, he has joined world leaders like Kim Jong-il, most of the Saudi Royal family, and the upper ranks of the Chinese government.
3. Folks Making Less Than Fifty Thousand Annually:
Fortunately, W. was exposed to lower income non-white people during his formative years - the maid, the gardener, the feller that takes care of the pool , and all those other folks. This invaluable perspective has allegedly surfaced in secret Presidential sensitivity sessions, in which Condi Rice tries to convince W. that reruns of Amos and Andy and the Cosby show will not produce viable solutions to the "race"issue.
4. Those Pesky Reporters:
Although rumor has it the administration started out by trying to supply the press corps with hand written questions for Presidential press conferences, the focus quickly shifted - when that technique didn't work - to holding as few as possible. Besides, when are those Democratic reporters going to stop asking questions about that Iraq thing?
5. That Stem Cell Research Thing:
Once the President's close advisers explained to him that a stem cell was not a new form of maximum security incarceration in the penal system, W quickly came to realize that it was better to let people die from incurable diseases rather than try to save them. This approach will ensure badly needed savings in health care as well as ensuring a constant supply of hospital beds.
6. Those European Fellers:
W's distaste for frogs' legs and the rest of that high faluting French grub made him realize why the country was always so hard to deal with - they have constant indigestion. Fortunately, the English speak American, so at least he could understand what Tony Blair was saying. The President also discovered that you should ask permission before you grab German women.
7. I'm On Vacation:
George's flawless sense of timing was evident in the fact that he was on vacation during two of the major disasters of his administration: 911 and Hurricane Katrina. Fortunately, he managed to recover his image after the hurricane, when one of those pesky network fellows asked him what his opinion was on Roe v Wade. W showed his compassionate side and said: "I don't care how they get out of New Orleans."
I'm going to volunteer to start accepting book donations for the W Presidential Library as a public service. Picture books are preferable, but, in any event, please scan the text in advance for words over two syllables.
Monday, July 2, 2007
China's Secret Weapon
It's bad enough that we read every day about another chemical additive from China that has snuck under America's radar screen into the food supply, but I've discovered the real danger in products imported from the Peoples' Republic - the Bureau of Instructions.
Yes, it's true - somewhere behind the walls of the Forbidden City in Beijing lies a top secret government agency that has embarked on a mission to disable Western democracy. Even more amazing is the fact that it involves no military hardware and conducts no clandestine operations overseas. It's sole function is to generate the sets of instructions that come with all Chinese products, rendered into misleading English that is designed to play havoc with the mind of the American consumer.
A few weeks ago, I innocently purchased a bookcase from a leading office supply retailer, deciding to finally upgrade my home office so it no longer resembles a homeless shelter for wayward intellectuals. I was disgusted when I realized I would have to assemble it. Anyone who knows me will attest to the fact that I am a complete failure as a man - I can't fix engines, I don't like televised sports, and I will always pay to have something put together BEFORE taking it home. However, a bookcase seemed like a fairly easy proposition; after all, how hard can it be to affix three shelves to a backboard plus two wooden sides? My wife eyed me skeptically as I wrestled the huge box inside. "What's that?" She inquired.
"A bookcase." I tried to project the take charge attitude displayed by true do-it-yourselfers." I need it to store more of my stuff in the computer room."
She smirked." Good luck." I ignored her defeatist attitude as I hauled the unassembled furniture to its designated space, trying to forget all the years of breaking down in tears over Christmas presents that I just couldn't fathom, only to have my wife brush me aside and figure it out in thirty seconds.
I decided to abandon my usual haphazard approach of half doing one thing until boredom set in and then moving on to something else by actually being methodical. The first step was obvious: take all the parts carefully out of the package and lay them on the floor to ensure everything was there. The wood had the uncomfortable heft and unnatural finish of sawdust compressed into ersatz shelves. The screws and mountings were all made of flimsy plastic. I wondered how they could possibly support any weight, but assumed that the leading retailer I bought it from would never sell a defective product.
Consequently, I arranged everything and matched it to the almost unreadable type on the dreaded instructions. The first step was a success - the components were all there. I went to Step 1. "Put Section A," The Bureau of Instructions had written," to next Part B and C." I studied the minuscule pictures of A,B and C, trying to ascertain if they resembled anything on the floor in front of me since nothing was labelled. Finally, I concluded that A referred to the back panel. B and C apparently referred to the shelving. I tried to put A to next B and C, or next to B and C, or something like that. Step 2 commanded: " Screw mounts D,E,F to sides, it will support." I discovered that the side panels hard been weakened by several rows of drilled holes which - allegedly - D,E,F would fit into, except that the holes were all different sizes. Finally, by process of trial and error, I located the ones with the right diameter. On to Step 3: "Insert hardly screws G,H,I into D,E,F." I stared at the little plastic nubs, wondering if it meant they were hardly screws, or it they were hardly supposed to screw in, or if I should give up , go back to the store and leave the books in the box where they belonged. I managed to wedge the correct item into the designated spot, snapping off the edge of several screws in the process.
Somehow, I blundered through the rest of the cryptic instructions until I reached the crucial step of actually adhering the shelves to the back panel. I was so disgusted at this point - having maimed so many little parts in the process - that I simply charged ahead, attempting to jam the unwieldy thing together without being waylaid by the instructions. Everything seemed fine until I tried to put the thing up and realized it was upside down.
My wife, who has a great sense of timing, appeared at the door." How's it going?"
I pretended to have mastered the art of assembly. " Fine. Almost done."
She nodded." Is it always going to be upside down? Must be a new kind of bookcase."
I collapsed quickly under the domestic pressure." I guess I kind of overlooked something."
Smiling, she proceeded to re-read the directions, instructing me where to insert each component part until my new bookcase stood grandly in one corner. "Thanks," I mumbled.
"No problem." She diplomatically covered her mouth as the inevitable chuckle emerged.
This is purely a cautionary tale, but the message is simple. China won't go to war with us, certainly not with conventional weapons. The dismantling of the Western world will be done slowly until the Bureau of Instructions manages to drive the hapless American consumer into a state of befuddlement. Fortunately, I know now that we don't need satellites or conventional weapons to counter the threat; just send my wife over there for a few days, and everything'll be straightened out.
Yes, it's true - somewhere behind the walls of the Forbidden City in Beijing lies a top secret government agency that has embarked on a mission to disable Western democracy. Even more amazing is the fact that it involves no military hardware and conducts no clandestine operations overseas. It's sole function is to generate the sets of instructions that come with all Chinese products, rendered into misleading English that is designed to play havoc with the mind of the American consumer.
A few weeks ago, I innocently purchased a bookcase from a leading office supply retailer, deciding to finally upgrade my home office so it no longer resembles a homeless shelter for wayward intellectuals. I was disgusted when I realized I would have to assemble it. Anyone who knows me will attest to the fact that I am a complete failure as a man - I can't fix engines, I don't like televised sports, and I will always pay to have something put together BEFORE taking it home. However, a bookcase seemed like a fairly easy proposition; after all, how hard can it be to affix three shelves to a backboard plus two wooden sides? My wife eyed me skeptically as I wrestled the huge box inside. "What's that?" She inquired.
"A bookcase." I tried to project the take charge attitude displayed by true do-it-yourselfers." I need it to store more of my stuff in the computer room."
She smirked." Good luck." I ignored her defeatist attitude as I hauled the unassembled furniture to its designated space, trying to forget all the years of breaking down in tears over Christmas presents that I just couldn't fathom, only to have my wife brush me aside and figure it out in thirty seconds.
I decided to abandon my usual haphazard approach of half doing one thing until boredom set in and then moving on to something else by actually being methodical. The first step was obvious: take all the parts carefully out of the package and lay them on the floor to ensure everything was there. The wood had the uncomfortable heft and unnatural finish of sawdust compressed into ersatz shelves. The screws and mountings were all made of flimsy plastic. I wondered how they could possibly support any weight, but assumed that the leading retailer I bought it from would never sell a defective product.
Consequently, I arranged everything and matched it to the almost unreadable type on the dreaded instructions. The first step was a success - the components were all there. I went to Step 1. "Put Section A," The Bureau of Instructions had written," to next Part B and C." I studied the minuscule pictures of A,B and C, trying to ascertain if they resembled anything on the floor in front of me since nothing was labelled. Finally, I concluded that A referred to the back panel. B and C apparently referred to the shelving. I tried to put A to next B and C, or next to B and C, or something like that. Step 2 commanded: " Screw mounts D,E,F to sides, it will support." I discovered that the side panels hard been weakened by several rows of drilled holes which - allegedly - D,E,F would fit into, except that the holes were all different sizes. Finally, by process of trial and error, I located the ones with the right diameter. On to Step 3: "Insert hardly screws G,H,I into D,E,F." I stared at the little plastic nubs, wondering if it meant they were hardly screws, or it they were hardly supposed to screw in, or if I should give up , go back to the store and leave the books in the box where they belonged. I managed to wedge the correct item into the designated spot, snapping off the edge of several screws in the process.
Somehow, I blundered through the rest of the cryptic instructions until I reached the crucial step of actually adhering the shelves to the back panel. I was so disgusted at this point - having maimed so many little parts in the process - that I simply charged ahead, attempting to jam the unwieldy thing together without being waylaid by the instructions. Everything seemed fine until I tried to put the thing up and realized it was upside down.
My wife, who has a great sense of timing, appeared at the door." How's it going?"
I pretended to have mastered the art of assembly. " Fine. Almost done."
She nodded." Is it always going to be upside down? Must be a new kind of bookcase."
I collapsed quickly under the domestic pressure." I guess I kind of overlooked something."
Smiling, she proceeded to re-read the directions, instructing me where to insert each component part until my new bookcase stood grandly in one corner. "Thanks," I mumbled.
"No problem." She diplomatically covered her mouth as the inevitable chuckle emerged.
This is purely a cautionary tale, but the message is simple. China won't go to war with us, certainly not with conventional weapons. The dismantling of the Western world will be done slowly until the Bureau of Instructions manages to drive the hapless American consumer into a state of befuddlement. Fortunately, I know now that we don't need satellites or conventional weapons to counter the threat; just send my wife over there for a few days, and everything'll be straightened out.
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