What Is a Refugee?

What is a refugee?
Could it possibly be someone like me?
I live in one of the wealthiest countries in the world;
But people just like me lost everything when the waters swirled.
Houses are gone, property too
Even people maybe you knew
There hasn't been electricity or the Internet or cable
No frig or freezer or dining room table
Help's been slow to arrive and there's no place to go
Everyone's talking about shelter overflow
A few generations ago the drought cleared everyone out
Now it seems too much water is putting people to rout
Planes trains and trucks are loading up quick
People say there's a whole nation from which to pick
But each destination's shelters are filling up fast
And tomorrow looks a lot like yesterday's past
Refugees come across water, so they say
Well, folks from down South are definitely coming that way
There's no Moses to part the waters this time
Just slow-draining water leaving behind slime
There's anger and fear and frustration ahead
As the count mounts as we tally the dead
First there was fire in 2001
Now there's water by the gallon and mud by the ton
We're choking the air as the ozone hole grows
And the soil's polluted as everyone knows
Do you think that our country can't produce refugees?
How much more flight will it take till everyone sees?
Our once-great nation's in a bit of a mess
How will this generation deal with the stress?
Will we whine and sob and point fingers at others
Or will we lean on each other and recognize brothers?
Can we give and take refuge and not worry about words
Or will we go the way of the Great Plains herds?

Labor Day

Today is the day we honor the worker
By slacking off and imitating a shirker
We say farewell to the summer sun
To days of lounging around for fun
To bright colored garbs of red orange and yellow
To every noisy feathered fellow
To gardens green so lush and ripe
It's time to tear down vines and bare the pipe
Time to roll up sleeves
And rake fallen leaves
Time to check storm windows and radiators and chimneys
Time to dig out blankets and comforters stored behind skeleton keys
Time to prepare for holidays with family and friends
Time to store away summer's odds and ends
Time to seek activities indoors instead of out
But not quite yet time for that long winter pout
For autumn has yet to pass through turning breeze to gust
With its flash of brilliance before rendering all still in the dust
Still summer's over of that there can be no doubt
So let's have just one more barbecue while the sun is still out.

Chatty Catty

Chatty Catty I am called
Just because when JJ's mauled
I'm accused of telling tales
When all I've done is watch garden snails
But late at night when everyone's asleep
I prowl the grounds to guard this keep
And oft and long as I make my way around
I'll sing the news of what I've found
Ants and wasps each asleep in a nest
Resting up from a long day of being a pest
Dryer humming and clacking as it tumbles
While outside I hear the feral rumbles
Owls and hawks and swallows passing overhead
While diurnal creatures are safe in bed
Squirrels asleep and dogs indoors
While I prowl these grounds on all fours
Television blaring is done for the day
Stories of disaster that have held sway
Continue to flow across the screen
Close-captioned ghosts telling of what they've seen
Computer screen silently flickers against modem hum
Screaming enough horror stories to leave one numb
Immigrants telling Americans their country's no good
Asserting they'd leave if only they could
Children hearing only the negative side
With not enough evidence to turn the tide
Of harsh opinions aired with conviction
Allowed to be aired without restriction
Because that's the American way, you see
Free speech is allowed and idiots allowed to rant free
So I sing all night of what I've seen
And keen through the day once I'm clean

European Response to Katrina

This morning Yahoo via Reuters is reporting that the European Union has announced that it will be sending refined gasoline to the U.S. in response to the disaster that has shut down refineries in the Gulf. Ironically, France is reportedly sending by far the most gasoline, and this at a time when French-bashing is in vogue. Germany, Spain, and Britain are also sending us some of their reserve supplies to tide us over for at least a month, these in addition to the help Canada announced yesterday. These countries have had mandatory reserves of at least 90 days ever since the Iran-Iraq war back in the 70's. The U.S., on the other hand, only stockpiles crude oil, thus leaving us vulnerable now that so many of our refineries are down.

European officials are being quoted as saying, "Whatever the U.S. asks, it will be given." Sadly, American reporters eye this generosity cynically, wondering what the political price tag will be, recognizing that the "hard ball" U.S. diplomats have been playing under Bush's regime will be difficult to continue in the face of such generosity.

In politics as in life, it's much harder to hold a line without seeming petty when other parties are prompt and generous in their open-handedness.

Response to Katrina

I was just wondering this morning if anyone thinks to send aid to the U.S. in times of disaster the way people here immediately set up hotlines and donation depots upon hearing of disasters overseas. Then this afternoon I came across an article on Yahoo highlighting Canada's intent to do what it can to help the U.S. alleviate a bit of the fuel crisis caused by the refineries in the Gulf that have been forced to shut down due to Katrina. Granted, the U.S. has trade restrictions in place that actually hinder such aid (in an attempt to protect domestic markets from being flooded and undersold by foreign sources). Don't you just love the irony?

I must say I am glad to be able to read that we neither have a monopoly on humanitarianism nor do we hide what should be a self-evident fact.

Let's hear it for Canada, a country that evidently does not intend to let our sticks and stones break their bones in our time of need.

Do You Sudoku?

Sudoku is a curious game
From Japan it got its name
Though the West gave it birth
Now it provides hours of mirth
Or endless agony for some
Who cannot make the numbers come
Or go into their proper spaces
Because they've stopped in other places
For hours on end I can tear my hair
Life for me has no other care
Than to fill those taunting empty boxes
Whose numbers are more elusive than foxes
Yes, Sudoku's the game for me
I love the madness, don't you see

Reflections on a Hot Day

It's smoking hot on the pavement
Good place to be frying eggs
Even the ferny undergrowth
Doesn't help cool the fur on my legs

Those twin engines flying overhead
Don't help matters either
Each time they buzz over the courtyard
Leaves me in need of a breather

Images of Hurricane Katrina's devastation
Fill me with converse fear
So much wind and water in motion
Is frightening with the Bay so near

My human is daily getting better
But that leaves me with a new concern
For I still rarely get to ride
On shoulders, but have to settle instead for the stern

But the house is filled once again with those odors
That can only mean cooked treats are near
And if I'm a very good kitty
Fresh shrimp may yet appear:

YUM

When Was Summer?

Where has the summer gone? I still hear a lawn mower diligently filling the air with one of the sounds of summer and the sweet smell of freshcut grass, and the sun has broken through particularly early this fine morning, but the news is filled with the sights and sounds of students preparing to return to classrooms, of parents heaving huge sighs of impending relief, of Labor Day Weekend sales, and of end-of-season barbecue preparations. When did the summer begin?

The last thing I remember is going home in late Spring to visit Dad and keep him company in the face of two consecutive funerals. Then there was a flurry of activity that included seeking, finding, and moving into a new abode across the Bay, followed by a long painful blur from which I am just now emerging. As far as I'm concerned, summer should be just about ready to begin. Such is my life . . .

Never mind being a day late and a dollar short; I've been told I'm a life late and a life short. Alternatively, I've been assured that I have a very young soul, in the grand scheme of things . . . Of course, this is in addition to having been born an old child . . . So if everyone is right, I have achieved the impossible: the ability to stand still in midstream of the flow of time . . . Is that why I always feel like I'm treading water, just killing time until the next life when I can get serious about all the commotion about motion in life? Or is it just my island heritage?

The mainland has seasons, and I've long enjoyed the seasonings that spice up life, but I've also enjoyed the philosophy that letting life come to you is a kinder, gentler, and therefore superior way of living. Of course, that's not an attitude conducive to survival in an urban environment, which has been my primary exposure on the mainland. Does anyone still value that which can only be achieved with patience and time?

I'm a Food Network aficionado, but recently I've noticed that all the hosts are sounding alike, using the same techniques, ingredients, and shortcuts. They are all very much aware of the half-hour time constraint on their shows, and they either feature only things that can be whipped up within that timeframe, or they cook things ahead, thus limiting the vicarious pleasure of the process and discouraging dilettantes from trying such recipes.

The same is true of Do-It-Yourself (DIY) and the more traditional How-To shows. Everyone treats all viewers as impatient victims of Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). Time is treated as the ultimate enemy, to be tricked, cheated, and short-circuited at every possible opportunity.

And yet, the truth is that time does, indeed, move inexorably on. Those of us who choose to step off the treadmill of life, to step away from the rat race that consumes so many, find ourselves out of step with the majority and out of luck if we desire ought of conventionality. We are left to wonder where each season has gone and to marvel as each new season arrives . . . outside our expectations . . .

Musings on Assimilation in America

When America was seen as a melting pot, there was a sense of hope that this innate sense of schizophrenia that comes with not being born into the dominant white culture would, in time, level out, perhaps even pass into oblivion. Alas, that is not to be.

Today America is being variously identified as a mosaic and a hopelessly dysfunctional society made up of such diversity that the term "separate but equal" has resurfaced in startling places.

So just how does that work for those caught midstream attempting "the assimilation process"? You're midstreas or mid-pool and suddenly the banks of the stream or sides of the pool recede. You're mid-life (or so you hope) and you've spent your youth and your energies trying to blend, to meld, to assimilate. It's been an upstream swim and you're pretty tired of feeling like a salmon en route to spawn, but that seems to be a very naturalistic thing, so though you're exhausted, you toil onward. Then suddenly you realize that while you've had your head down swimming upstream, the current has shifted but so has your goal. Individuality is still touted, but now somehow you're expected to know and understand your ethnic heritage, after having spent a lifetime trying to fathom the heritage into which you and your peers have been born and in which you have labored for so long.

Ethnic heritage? Okay, so you've heard things, but such talk was always quickly hushed at your approach. You've been pushed as much as pulled towards the Great American Dream of assimilation, so you're pretty clueless about much else. Up till now your single-minded determination has served you in good stead, but now you're out on a limb with no clue about the tree from which you've stemmed. And you're being held accountable for your ignorance. Yeah, right.

There's just enough anger at the seeming unfairness of it all to allow you to dimly see a certain sense in this new call for ethnic pride, for what else do you have left? At the same time, there's a sense of belonging and alignment that has been carefully developed and nurtured over a lifetime of assimilating that is not willing to let go of the notion of equality that includes a sense of sameness, of kinship with those whose similarities may not be as readily noticeable to the casual observer, but whose similarities leap out with the slightest conversational gambits, whose similarities are self-evident upon scrutiny. There is, logically enough, a similar difference between you and those whom you superficially resemble. So what's a puppy ... er ... kitten ... to do?

Poker, that great American card game that comes to us out of the Western tradition, has the answer: play the cards you're dealt and don't count your money while you're sitting at the table. As Kenny Rogers sings, "There'll be time enough for counting when the dealing's done."

Low-down High Profile Pompous Publicity Porkers

Pat Robertson gives Christians a bad name, as do the majority of televangelists and other high-profile individuals who presume to speak for the (admittedly shrinking) multitudes. If one ought not to judge a book by its cover, then one ought not to judge people grouped by a label because a few loudmouths verbalize folly in public places. This guy clearly pays too much attention to the Old Testament and not enough to the New. There's such a thing as a close reading, but then there's selective reading, which is what those who wish to follow the bloodthirsty examples set forth in the Old Testament are doing. The O.T. is full of tragic morality tales, examples of folly, not examples to follow. What can such people be thinking? Ah, they're not. OK. But then, neither are those who judge all Christians by what such fools spout.

Pain Pain Go Away (Human Lament . . . Again . . .)

Pain pain go away
Don't even think about coming back another day
You've taken my pride
You've taken my fun
You've made me a cripple
Unable to run
I can't even walk to the bathroom with ease
It's time to go away and leave me alone please
I've rested and stretched and pummeled and wept
I've stopped eating and drinking and sitting you bet
I want to be able to sit stand and walk
I want to be able to move without a squawk
My JJ wants games I cannot provide
My Max knows it's no fun to even try to hide
I cannot pursue him or hunt him down
And JJ's resorted to being a clown
All they want is a little fun and games
And for me to be able to call out their names
But lying flat or flip flopping around
Not even reaching the bed but settling for the ground
Is not what they want or expect or deserve
I've got to find a way to liberate this pinched nerve

Asian Americans: The New Blonde?

Am I obtuse? Has this been going on for a long time? I've only recently become aware of just how idiotically Asian Americans have been portraying themselves in television commercials. I'm not talking about immigrants, mind you. I'm talking about those who evidently have been born and reared in this country. The AA's I've been seeing recently gush over the lamest, most crassly materialistic things, as though determined to throw off the "stigma" of being intellectual. Don't want to come off too brainy? No worries: you're looking like total asses. Come on! It's just a drink, just a car, just a weekly sale special. Being American doesn't necessarily mean that you have to buy into the lowest common denominator you can find...

Sun's Up

Sun is shining overhead
Herbs and veggies snug in bed
Clouds above that promised rain
Sunlight scatters through dusty pane
Eye of newt and toe of fig
JJ eats like a pig
Rhyme and meter flee from me
Triathletes flounder at sea
Football lineman cracks his head
Cannot wait to die in bed
Drops right there upon the floor
Doesn't even get out the door
Bush bashing's an all-weather sport
Five more years by latest report
Iraqis thought we'd set them free
Now they wish we'd just let them be
London bobbies shoot to kill
Following American cowboy drill
No sense wasting taxpayers' monies
On fools that flee and leave their cronies
Pitt and Jolie still in the news
While Aniston reportedly sits and stews
Who cares about the private lives
Of people with creative drives
Let them work and live in peace
For life is only ours to lease
Time to live and time to die
Time enough later to cry
Now's the time to be up and doing
Let others watch and do all the cooing

Tired of the Pain

Didn't Carole King once sing something about not having time for the pain? I am so tired of all this pain. My human has been projecting pain for three weeks now, and I'm pretty fed up with it. It has been interfering with my rides, our cuddles, our quality time . . . to say nothing of the more basic interference with things like breakfast, litter clean-up, and JJ's daily game. I say it's time to just suck it up and get on with life.

Of course, that might well result in us being abandoned alone in this place, but it's not as new as it once was. I'm resigned to calling it home, and to tell the truth, until yesterday it seemed like a pretty fair tradeoff. Yes, I missed the fog, but the warmth has been wonderful and the quality time we get out of doors in the courtyard is awesome. Besides that, there is so much more room in which to chase JJ and to elude the little fellow, though I must admit he seems to be getting a bit more muscular these days. Oh well, that just means I get more opportunities to put him in his place. (I'm getting a bit stronger, too, I think . . . ;->)

Besides the pain, there's the whole hunger thing. My human is such a noisy thinker, you know? When my human feels pain, the whole house has to know about it. Now that my human is trying this new feeding regimen, our portions seem to have been cut as well. I ask you, where is the justice in that? I'm exercising. I'm slimming down. I don't have glucose problems. Why do I have to have less food less often? And don't tell me it's because of that walking, six-legged protein that has been invading the dishes of late, because that's just the lamest excuse I've ever heard for cutting a fellow off from his food.

Pain. My human should do what I do: when I hurt because I was held down when they were applying hydrogen peroxide to my cheek where JJ had scratched me, did I complain? Well, okay, I did; but then I got on with my life - I let my human know in no uncertain terms how I felt by making a generous deposit right under the computer desk. There was no ambiguity in the statement, and my human understood. We have had no further misunderstandings along those lines. Moral: When it hurts, give a shit.

Clearing View

The sun has burned the fog away
And the blur of pain is also at bay
With fresh eyes I view this house
Which could clearly use more than a douse
Of handy cleaning fluids and sticks
Instead of mere computer tricks
And games with light and shadow meant to hide
The mess my human has allowed to grow inside
Busy with work and fatigue and pain
Is no excuse for that carpet stain
Created no doubt by more of JJ's hacks
But clearly left by some human's lax
Attitude
Dude

Don't tell me you're still not feeling well
For I've seen you playing and I can tell
If you can sit up and talk and tap
You're not going to leave me with the rap
This sty needs mucking as all can see
You cannot leave these piles be
So get cracking
And finishing unpacking
While JJ and I
Watch time fly
Along with that pesky hawk outside
That got us tied up inside
Today
Wanna play

Needles and Noses

Each day the sun comes later to play
Each day the sun makes a shorter stay
Our noses twitch as we sniff the air
Staying late outside is becoming a dare
My human lies prone much of the time
And can no longer stop on a dime
But last night once again the air was filled
With the odor of garlic cooked and distilled
My human tottered painfully about
Occasionally stopping for a profane shout
That human has taken to pricking skin
Measuring glucose again and again
My nose continues to quiver each day
As I smell the news brought back across the Bay
The wind is changing the birds sing of flight
Hawks and owls are less seen by the growing moonlight
One last butterfly lingers outside
Guess she missed her end of summer ride
I frequently wipe my nose anew
Trying to clear out the garlic chicken stew
Pine needles are drying soon they'll fall
But my human remains completely in my thrall
So what's with the bloodletting morning noon and night
Somehow somewhere something's not right

Sunshine

Sunshine on my fur can make me happy
Sunshine on my fur can make me smile
Sunshine almost always takes the blues away
When sunshine comes to stay awhile

Blanket sleeping all day long
Blanket sleeping can't go wrong
But dozing in the sunshine is far warmer
With fresh air blowing through me like a song

Fog banks are fine for keeping cozy
Fog banks make blanket sleeping fun
But sunshine on my fur makes me so happy
I just want to get up and run

Busy day with dust a-flying
Furniture moving all about
Floors are slick with mop a-swishing
Dirt and grime are all washed out

So I move from bed to floor
Then I move beyond the door
Dust and dirt and mop all follow
As I see the house floor glow

Sunshine pales as day is waning
Dirty paws are barred from floors
But a loving human lets me
Rides up high, then down on all fours

Sunshine go away today
Come again when I can play
Let me return to blanket slumber
Lock out that JJ bumbler
(Just kidding)

Rhyme has followed sun away
Rhythm too has gone astray
Time to end this pathetic doggerel
Time to chase the neighborhood squirrel

Born Boobytrapped

Genetics is a funny thing. With all the medical diagnostic tools available these days, all you can really learn sometimes is that you've been screwed since birth. It's easy enough to take pride in the positive potential passed down from one's ancestors, though sometimes the weight of expectations can be overwhelming. It's a whole different ballgame when said genes guarantee future bodily malfunctioning . . . from both sides, no less . . .

I was down to one grandparent by the age of five, but that one grandparent lasted well past the birthing of a fifth generation, so longevity seemed to be an interesting gamble for the whole clan. That was back when folks could still die of old age . . .

Have you noticed that no one dies of old age anymore? There's always a much more specific diagnosis, a determination of precisely which organ(s) pooped out and exactly how. This information, in turn, is used to scare survivors straight into the waiting arms of medical support industries such as pharmaceuticals, therapists, nutritionists, exercise specialists, and other related ancillary service providers. People fend off death with every last dollar, dime, and cent because the mystery has been unveiled and the details seem to be open to being bought off. Bull.

Okay. So it's no longer a question of whether or not I'm going to be able to "dodge the bullet"; it has now been confirmed that I am going to have to live with this disease and quite probably die from complications that arise from it. Fine. Does that mean that I'm going to let it rule my life from this point forward? What ever happened to accepting the limitations of life and going about the business of living it instead of ducking and dodging and fleeing and hiding in hopes of evading death just a little bit longer? Okay, if you like the dodge, then enjoy yourself; but if you prefer to go for the gusto and shun the shadows, where's the advantage of a half-life existence?

Hm... I hear an HP anthem sneaking up on me . . .

Pithy Thought

Dealing with being hurt requires far greater courage than just getting hurt, though the latter can make for a more impressive spectacle.

Rebuttal (Human)

You don't know it, Max, but you actually do prefer more complex blends to simple food. You haven't been satisfied with a straight can of chicken since you were six months old. You won't touch anything but fine blends of several different types of meat anymore, and you care very much which brands you are served.

Cooking is particularized chemistry, wherein ingredient interactions combine to form wholes infinitely superior to their discrete parts. The more flavors are involved, the more engaged the palate is with the experience of food passing over it en route to the stomach and on to nurture the various parts of one's body. This experience, when sufficiently complex, also nurtures the soul. Cavalierly dismissed, the soul is tortured, knowingly or not. The body rebels, inflates or diminishes, and health is put at risk.

So you think you're a gourmutt, that you're easily pleased with the simpler things in life, and that may be true. What you don't realize is that the simple things in life are no longer inexpensive or easy to acquire. Organic fruits and vegetables, whole grain goods, and chemical-free meats have been identified as highly desirable and therefore high ticket items in the contemporary grocery store. Even fresh water is best bottled, thanks to the air and ground contamination so prevalent in modern day America. The days of being an average gourmutt are gone, swallowed up in the epidemic tide of obesity sweeping the country, thanks to processed goods and box store marketing.

So farewell to the casual hamburger (and its many boxed helpers).
So long to Mac-n-cheese.
So long to colored sugar water
That mothers used to use to please.
So long to refined carbohydrates.
So long to marbled meat.
So long to rolled up fruit sheets
And every other packaged treat.

Gourmet or Gourmutt

First of all let me make it perfectly clear that it is JJ, the pureblood, who has the alley cat palate, whereas I, true descendant of infinitely more complex bloodlines, am like a finely aged wine: full of complex subtleties. That said, let us get on to the discussion at hand.

From the French culture we get a strong negative sense of aristocracy, yet it is from this same French culture that we learn of the great pride in the brewing of fine wines, the fermenting of such an amazing variety of cheeses, and the elevation of cooking to artistic creativity, all of which smacks of aristocratic distinction.

We who live across the wide sea and great expanses of land pride ourselves on our egalitarianism, yet there are those among us who also take great pride in their powers of discrimination, especially as applies to the discernment of the palate. Do you consider yourself a gourmet or a gourmutt?

JJ will eat anything, as long as it is not too strongly laced with those aromatic herbs that are toxic to his kind. It remains for those around him to protect him from himself. For him the Food Channel is merely an obstacle in his path to a human plate and whatever remains for the licking.

Some humans, on the other hand, are more particular than others in what they put on their plates. Now, I like my meat straight up: no fuss, no muss, and definitely no added herbs or spices polluting the perfection God put into any cooked fowl. My human, however, is always adding things, making good food foul with garlic, ginger, onions, basil, cilantro, oregano, chilis, tabasco, Worchestershire sauce, various tomato-based concoctions, shoyu (soy sauce), lemon juice, lime juice, other fruit juices, vinegar... you get what I'm trying to say here. You can call it complex all you like; I know toxic waste when I smell it.

Aging food and beverages may work for some fancy folk, but I like mine fresh out of the can. Old is old, and I can taste it. Don't be trying to tell me taste improves with age; I know spoiled when I smell it. What's so great about refrigerator-burnt leftovers anyway? The only thing more complex about it is the variety of bacteria growing in it when it's reserved to us. HAH!

Garage, Lawn, and Estate Sales

When I was a child we passed outgrown clothing around to younger siblings and cousins. Tools were shared among uncles, friends, and neighbors. Recipes were swapped among the aunties, though we cousins agreed that some aunties' subsequent versions were invariably superior to others, no matter where the recipe started... Possessions just didn't leave the immediate circles.

When I was a young adult the Salvation Army and Goodwill began to get pickier about donations and costlier in their outlet stores. Garage sales began to spring up around some of the more affluent neighborhoods, then among the less affluent as the housecleaning and moneymaking advantages became obvious to all and sundry. Those without garages had lawn sales. The weather was always sunny, so why not?

These neighborhood sales allowed folks to see what a family had been hoarding over the years, which was an initial stumbling block, but soon enough it was showing more similarities than differences and the idea caught on in a big way. Prices were quite reasonable as people understood that they were doing each other favors in providing cool things and in hauling away unwanted junk. It was a most excellent reciprocal situation.

Eventually this small idea went big-time and the Swap Meet was born, taking the humble garage sale out of the neighborhood and opening up private lives to the public at large. There was a certain ironic sense of privacy in selling to strangers instead of neighbors and friends. Buying was expanded to people of different cultures and classes as well. All too soon the first humble swap meets became Big Business. Now one can find pretty much anything at a Swap Meet. Unfortunately, the prices are not far from retail among the less scrupulous, partly to conceal the sometimes shady origins of the merchandise.

Still, one can cruise an old-fashioned neighborhood and still find the occasional quiet garage sale, though block sales are becoming more common, wherein several neighbors join together to set out their unwanted goods simultaneously in the hope of attracting a larger audience. These garage sales now run the gamut from the avaricious overcharger to the old-fashioned dime to dollar seller.

Saddest of all for me, however, is the Estate Sale, something I have only recently encountered. This is the selling off of the leftovers in the wake of an individual's passing, i.e., death. Once the Will has been read and the heirs and assigns have taken that which they may or may not have coveted, the remnants are offered up to the public. I went to one once: it felt like picking over bones; I'll not go again.

Sure, there are deals and steals to be found, treasures unrecognized by survivors. Antique dealers and souvenir collectors haunt such places, I'm sure. For me, however, it's just too sad. I even cringed at the sight of a sign advertising one while I was cruising garage sales this weekend. I am enough of a vulture accidentally; intentionally picking through a deceased person's belongings in search of a steal of a deal is just too foul for me.

Further HBP Observations

In between catnaps I've been rereading HBP and I've noticed a few more curiosities...

- I can't help noticing that Ch. 2 presents Narcissa, a blonde, with Severus, a greasy-haired dark fellow who for once seems pretty cool; while Ch. 29? presents us with Fleur, another blonde, juxtaposed against the normally uber-cool but now physically marred Bill.

- In Ch. 3 as they approach Slughorn's borrowed residence, Dumbledore adjures Harry to keep his wand at the ready but assures him that he has little about which to worry because Harry is with him. Then in Ch. 28 as they are leaving Tom Riddle's appropriated Cave, DD tells Harry that he is not worried because he, DD, is with Harry. The baton is definitely being passed here.

I wonder just how well-balanced such pairings are... I must look further...

3 August 2005, 6:23 p.m.

Keep your friends close but your enemies closer:

- Snape is arguably a better friend to Harry than the latter realizes while Horace Slughorn, whom Harry assumes is a friend of DD's because they were longtime colleagues, reeks of conspiracy, from the frown that creases his forehead when he first notices Slytherin's ring on DD's hand to the mystery of the fourth Death Eater atop the tower to Slughorn's eagerness to close the school in the wake of DD's death.

A Little Late

I see my human's been lamenting a recent visit to the doctor's office. That's not what I'm told when it's my turn. You should hear the faradiddles I'm told about fun outtings, good for me, and promised treats that never materialize...

So this morning I slept in, still a little disgruntled with my human for threatening me with a hose yesterday, though I did note that JJ actually had a near miss before he moved... Silly little boy... Anyway... I was sure that we were finally settling down to a regular rhythm once again, but that was not to be...

A little before noon I arose for my daily roll and game with this lovely white butterfly who likes to swing through the courtyard about then. Unfortunately, I was too late. Then I looked for my human's lap; again, too late - JJ was there before me. So I went back to bed. When I awoke again, I found my human dressing to go out; again, I was too late - so I did the only sensible thing: I went back to sleep.

Much later this afternoon my human returned bearing tasty smelling packages, though when JJ started to investigate, they mysteriously disappeared behind closed doors. Fortunately, it finally seemed time for the screen doors to stay open, and I spent an idyllic late afternoon under the ferns before making my way inside, just in time before the doors were locked again. Finally, it seemed, my timing was synchronizing!

So this evening I finally found myself ahead of the game, or at least ahead of JJ. My human and I spent some seriously quality time watching "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" and making peace before JJ came and budged his way into the action. Since then we (JJ and I) have been having an awesome game of tag, and he's the "It" boy: hahahahaha! Now it's his turn to be a little late! Yes!

Human Babble - Visit to a Physician

A visit to a physician always seems to inspire the most concerned looks, followed by what seems to be a reflexive request for lab work. Lab work, of course, means the drawing of blood, something I do not dread as does Max. No, what I dislike is the fasting directive, too often followed by an offer for an afternoon appointment. What is with this institutional sadism? Fortunately, morning visits are allowed, even encouraged, and summer is a great time to take advantage of such opportunities.

I guess I'm accustomed to major urban centers, to waiting rooms where people hang out the gills and one can read much while waiting. I should have noticed how close I was able to park...

Silly me, I just thought I was feeling lucky. So I stuffed a street meter full of coinage and daringly took the stairs (instead of the usual elevator ride...) There were two technicians in the lab, only one of whom had a patient. There was someone ahead of me at the check-in desk, but she had #12 and I drew #13. (Note how oblivious I am of real-life signs, symbols, signifiers, et al...) Things were going so smoothly that I didn't know what to do with myself. Then the receptionist/cashier handed me two sizable containers, a gallon baggie, and directed me to pee... Of course, I had just emptied my bladder before leaving the house: doesn't everyone over the age of five?

There had been two technicians outside, there were two restrooms in back, and there were now two sizable plastic containers staring me down. An embarrassingly long time passed... In the end embarrassment won out; I conceded that I was not going to be filling these containers anytime soon, certainly not without further input. Red-faced, I submitted my paltry output and left. On the way out, I asked the technician who had drawn my blood just how much urine was needed. She told me the techs only need 2 cc: so what was with that double-barreled demand? She was kind enough to check for me, told me I was fine, and sent me on my way. This kind of public humiliation is what I get for not studying medicine like a properly ambitious child, I guess...

Curiously, when I had blood tested on the other side of the Bay, the vampiric technicians there cheerfully withdrew some four full vials. Here just a thin, half-sized vial seemed to suffice. Maybe they have learned to do more with less here... We'll see...

Anyway, I was prepared for some serious blood-letting and had therefore already picked out my post-donation breakfast spot. After all, one shouldn't drive on an empty stomach after surrendering blood, right?

Still, it was such a bright, beautiful morning and the downtown area has a curiously quaint charm, (well-cultivated by strict laws and regulations, I might add), so I strolled about.

Half an hour later I found the restaurant I had been seeking, and it was well worth the walk. I don't believe I've ever had such light, airy waffles and I love how well the oil factor is controlled there. The ham steak is also a respectable portion, not one of those pathetic refugees from sandwich fixings that are too often used as excuses for meat on breakfast plates.

Hey, I'd already given blood for testing and figured I'd better get my last licks in before yet another health care provider tries to cut me off... Immature, you say? I watched my mother die on a healthful but ultimately unhelpful diet that left her miserable. I'm going young(er) but more satisfied, and that's all there is to it. Word has it our bodies don't need food in heaven anyway, so it's not like there's going to be ample opportunity later...That's assuming I'll be let into heaven with my arrogant, blasphemous attitudes anyway...

Ever watch those cooking shows where veal morsels or chicken breasts are prepared scaloppini, so that each piece gets pounded into a lovely thin slice that spreads before it gets breaded and thrown into piping hot oil? That's what happens to women when they turn 50, though most medical professionals encourage them to submit in their 30s or 40s. Uh huh... Of course, the male equivalent parallels rotisserie or spit cooking... The medical profession did gain much of its modern knowledge from WWII research deemed inhumane, did it not?

I believe in the miracles of modern medicine... for others... Myself, I'm old-fashioned, at least that way . . .

Doubles

I'm a full fool, double "l", double "o".

Usually it's JJ who likes more, please, but somehow today despite the shiny sunrays my paws hurt, maybe from too much cool dirt. The vaulted ceilings and cool tiles are attractive features and fine selling points when it's 90 degrees out, but stay awhile and chill with me and then we'll see...

Harry Potter's on my mind, still obsessing about curious parallels and odd couplings/doublings/deja vu things...

The CHAMBER OF SECRETS is both a cave far beneath Hogwarts, possibly the Lake, and one's mind (Riddle's and HP's, actually).

Huh! That just made me think: Riddle's mind holds the answers to the Horcrux riddles, but Harry's mind holds the answers to the Godric's Hollow riddle that is driving me personally crazy... and DD's mind seemed to positively teem with secrets, so much so that he needed to use the pensieve regularly to sift through them all, besides which DD clearly spent much time wading through the chambers of other people's minds mining their secrets in search of the answers to TR's secrets... I think I'm chasing my tail, but it's fun: Wheeeeee!

Both Bellatrix and McMonagall, the two female right hands of the two most awe-inspiring wizards alive, consider the possibility that their respective leaders may have been mistaken about Snape...

The HALF-BLOOD PRINCE is both Snape, half the son of Eileen Prince and half the son of a Muggle, and Tom Riddle, if we see him as the half-blood last uncrowned heir to Slytherin and aspirant to world dictatorship.

In the second chapter, "Spinners End", Snape protects Narcissa from the eavesdropping Wormtail. In the twenty-seventh chapter, he protects Harry from himself. As Dumbledore has been, so is Snape: a guide, a counselor, but not a confidante...

Must ponder more...

Cool Pain

I press my nose against the cool pane
Fog lingers today
My paws burn with cold upon the tile
Cool pain throbs
I gather my legs into a ball and tuck my head
Hug elusive warmth
Familiar comfort seems almost foreign
Half-held memories
Sensory input almost lost in recent waves of heat
I search dreams
Voices echo tight and hollow beating upon my ears
Who's there?
I jog double-time as panic clutches shut my throat
Fear startles stifles

And then I wake
And press my nose against the cool pane
To feel the pain of cold creeping painfully permeating

Responsibility Is Freedom

All my life I've wanted to have the freedom to control my own choices, but now I find that such choices are the greatest restraints I have ever encountered. Once external restrictions are lifted, there is no one left to blame for things not being exactly as one wants... except oneself. Against whom or what can one rail if all choices are one's own?

Dumbledore has repeatedly told Harry that life is about choices and that one is what one has chosen. Without the Dursleys to constrain Harry, without school rules to restrict him, without Dumbledore to guide him or withhold information from him, on whom will he foist blame when things go wrong? There is no one but himself to hold accountable for his actions, at which point Hermione will need to tell him not to blame himself (when she isn't trying to deal with the overgrown infant that is Ron).

Adulthood is about stepping up and accepting responsibility for the consequences of all those choices one makes in life, whether to act or not to act. Arrested development in early adulthood does not absolve one of such responsibility, though perhaps at the other end of life it should...

Thoroughly Warmed House

Wednesday night Aunty Carol came
Since then nothing has been the same
She filled the guest room with her things
Ran JJ ragged chasing strings
Shopped and chopped and fried and baked
Pureed vegetables and tidbits staked

Saturday dawned bright and clear
Heat sooned permeated and started to sear
Everything and everyone
Until sunset when began the fun
People came and rang the front doorbell
Laughed and talked about what I won't tell
Ate and drank well into the night
Till the road home was a blurry sight

Sunday morning brought more of the same
Sunshine waking before anyone called my name
All too soon the humans went out
Across the Bay while I stayed to pout
Came back late that night all fagged
Carrying shopping trophies bagged
Stayed up late again to pack
Cuz Aunty Carol had to go back

Monday dawned finally bringing fog
But I slept on like a log
Car was loaded and Aunty went away
Though JJ wanted her to stay
Human came back and joined me in bed
Meant to work but slept instead

In Search of a Muse (Ment)

It's a fuzzy furry day
I got nothing much to say
My bro's been cut
He hurts somewhat
The sky's all grey all day

Aunty Carol's come to town
We're gonna get down
Gonna get locked up
Like an untrained mutt
Gotta make something brown

Doggerel's all this cat's got to say
Cuz nobody's letting him out to play
The sunlight's gone
From my lawn
Human's goin' across the Bay

HBP's great, Melissa said
So I sat down and got it read
Draco's a goof
Trying to be aloof
And Dumbledore's dead

But DD's a phoenix buried on the land
And JKR's interview tips her hand
Her silence suggests false lines of thought
Over which there'll be many hours fought
And a few irate posters banned

But I'm just a cool cat locked in a house
With nothing to pounce except my toy mouse
So I'll sit and sleep and dream of meat
Then prowl about and smell some feet
Until I hear my human grouse

Ramblings

It's hard, so hard to resist spending the whole day here at the computer thinking and talking about J.K. Rowling's most recent publication, The Half-Blood Prince, but things are moving and shaking in preparation for the House Warming party this weekend. The first guest is arriving tomorrow night from home, so the mad scramble is on.

I need to get all the rest I can while my human terrorizes JJ and tears around our new abode. Hiding from strange, invading humans can be such hard work, don't you know.

My fog blanket followed my human home across the Bay last evening and now I snuggle down, comfortably ensconced in, on, under, around my favorite beds. Later, when I am more rested (and done reading this HBP under my covers), I will be ready to discuss it with you, if you like.

Weird Weekend

What a weekend! I can't believe my human thought it was for reading! Well, we cleared up that misunderstanding, didn't we? All right, I had to enlist JJ to help me, but that's the kind of insanity that prevailed. It took doubleteaming to clarify what should have been a self-evident truth: the human belongs to me... er, us.

Friday night is when it all began. My human has been staying up past the designated bedtime, so at first I didn't think anything of it. Then, however, two hours after everything should have settled down for the evening, the first oddity occurred: My human got up, got dressed, and slipped out. At that hour!?!? Of course I was perplexed.

When the human came back forty minutes later, instead of coming to bed, another strange thing occurred. My human went to the opposite side of the house, turned on the lights, and began reading. Naturally I was upset. How are we supposed to assume our sleeping spots until the human is settled? So I did what I had to do: I climbed, I curled, I purred, I rumbled, I even sat on the newly opened pages. All this did get my human's attention and I did get a lovely rub. Satisfied, I curled up in the book and went to sleep. It must have been an hour later when I awoke, found that the human was still reading, and finally gave up and went to bed myself, leaving JJ to do what he could.

Sometime before dawn my human and JJ finally came to bed. While I was relieved, I was also a little peeved that JJ had evidently succeeded where I had not. It didn't matter, though, because the human finally settled down and went to sleep.

All too soon it was time for breakfast. I fully expected my human to be a reluctant riser after that late night, but I was pleasantly surprised to find that this was not the case. Breakfast, however, was followed by more couch-sitting and reading. JJ and I arranged shifts, prepared to spend a long day trying to disrupt the human. (We're more accustomed to blocking the computer screen...)

Our human, however, fooled us and went out, returning hours later with large, mysterious boxes that turned out to be furniture from IKEA. We were subjected to more banging and clanging, but at least that was interesting. After dark mysterious flickering lights appeared in the courtyard, but we were not allowed out to explore.

After all that activity, I was sure this would be an early night, but I was wrong. My human settled onto the couch again for another evening of late-night reading! I did what I could, but it seemed a hopeless task. Finally I gave up and went to bed. JJ joined me around midnight. Sometime in the early morning hours before dawn my human finally joined us.

And still my human's mind was seething, still focusing on that book. It made sleeping quite impossible. Sunday came and with it the usual hubbub of activity. My human went out early and did not return until nearly dark. There was more construction, followed by more reading, again, past midnight.

Finally, however, I sensed that my human had moved back from the couch to the computer. I could sense that this madness was over, at least for now. Who is this "Harry Potter" anyway? Grrr...

Lazy Daze

See, now this is how summer is supposed to be spent: lazing about, occasionally moving between the bed of ferns and mosses in the courtyard and the bed my human tries to appropriate at night.

The sounds of construction have become commonplace, as have the sounds of my human fumbling about, banging and clanging, occasionally dropping things, letting things drip, and generally puttering about. JJ has his game again and I am only occasionally disturbed by the sense of focused thought, though that is an admittedly rare event. Life is good.

Though the fog seems to have lifted, the daze lingers on, a pleasant, peaceful atmosphere of tranquility perpetuated . . . or is that perpetrated?

I hear a bird calling, a wasp buzzing, life taunting me in all its fullness and challenge. What am I doing just sitting here licking my balls, I mean paws?

Catspaw -- Interruption Over: Life Goes On

Going out
Is no big deal
It's just another room
That's for real
Four walls three doors
Nothing to see
Don't know why I was trippin'
Guess that's just me
Nothing to see
Nowhere to go
Just green grass
They expect me to mow
Or chew up faster
Than I can consume
I'm not JJ
Who eats then zoom
He sits there hacking
Up everything he's eaten
While I patiently wait
Knowing he's beaten
I'll pounce him daily
Make no mistake
He's my little brother
Just a little cupcake
I own that Boy
And I'll make him rue
The day he decided
To stick to me like glue
He follows me in
He follows me out
But I'm so slick
Without a doubt
I own this place
Now we've moved here
I'll make them pay
And that right dear
You think you can
Transplant me somehow
Without me
Making you kowtow
I chose you
You belong to me
With companionship comes
My personal fee

My Human's Lament

Much as I wanted the heavy lifting to end
I knew that worse was just around the bend
Now that I've sorted things into each room
Shuffling paper is my new doom

Out in the courtyard the sun blazes bright
Wind rustles the grass and everything seems right
Sounds of splashing and laughter invite me out
But I stay here sorting and try not to pout

I've surfed the net and chatted with friends
Waiting for tomorrow when the HP suspense finally ends
Music wafts on the air as does a barbecue scent
But I sit here sorting because of time ill-spent

The capellini is cooked, the meatballs are done
Please let me out into the westering sun
I promise to play with you all day long
If only this sorting doesn't go wrong

Paper is fun to cover with ink;
Why can't I just file with a simple link?
Why must these folders get in my way,
Trapping me here sorting all day?

Why did someone scramble these files
And tangle these cords that go on for miles?
I just want to sit in the shade with a drink
And not have to worry and wonder and think

Where are those records, those jackets, those sleeves?
Why do I care what anyone believes?
So what if I get audited down the road
By some puny governmental I.R.S. toad?

I didn't say that, I didn't mean it
Don't take my house, just wait a bit
At least let me finish unpacking my things
Before you send me leaping through your paper trail rings

I'm just a nobody, nobody special
Ask me anything: I'm really quite dull
I'll be quiet and get back to my sorting
You won't find me running about and cavorting

My furry sons are the ones who like to leap
At all kinds of insects when they're not asleep
I'll just sit here filing until I'm all done
Wading through boxes that weigh half a ton

Unexpected Chaos

I was resting on my bed this morning after a moderately strenuous workout terrorizing JJ, (it's my job and I'm quite good at it,) when the peace was abruptly shattered by the sounds of power tools outside every window. I raced around the house, trying to determine the source of all the madness, (seeking refuge at the same time, I admit it,) to no avail. The noise was everywhere, escape nowhere. I thought my world was ending; when it didn't, I would go mad.

Hours later, (it seemed like eternity,) the noise finally stopped. My human suggested a lunch break, and so I've spent the afternoon in mortal dread of the chaos resuming. Fortunately, however, except for the dread sounds of sweeping, the madness seems to have ended. Somehow it seems to have taken with it my mad desire to mount JJ (don't ask).

Now we lie, JJ and I, in companionable rest and mutual comfort here on the couch, confident that our human will protect us, or at least keep us company, should the madness begin again. And yet, the unidentified terror lurks just outside, waiting for us, for me to let down my guard again. CONSTANT VIGILANCE: I dare not become complacent again in this strange place that is evidently now my home, at least for now. CONSTANT VIGILANCE: a healthy paranoia is not so high a price to pay for security... is it?

Sunshine and Shade

Be wary of what you desire:
I sought warmth but found fire
The blanket of fog
That starts each day
Is burnt off too easily
On this side of the Bay
The flies I would chase
Keep a sluggish pace
But the heat puts me to sleep
And chasing will have to keep
Until blessed dark returns
To ease the concrete burns
The lines of rhyme
I would have alternate
Are dead from this heat
And cannot wait
So my rhyme scheme
Is not what I dream
Just as world events
Heard of from overseas
Tell of trouble
That a normal person flees
So dreams of glory and terror alike
May prove both less and more
Than the average viewer/listener/reader
May actually look for
We'd best deal with what is at hand
In our own lives
For tomorrow brings new tidings
And terror drives
Sense before fear
And courage before threat
Unless we cease wailing
And put forth our best efforts yet
For all we can do
Is meet each new day
Leave tomorrow's worries
And deal with today's play

Carpe Diem

On this day of great consternation and distress each person faces the same challenge: to go on with life obliviously, to wring hands helplessly, or to seize this opportunity and all others that present themselves to move forward.

Tony Blair said this is an opportunity for the English people in general and Londoners in particular to show the world their character. As their elders did during WWII, so the present generation has a chance to bear down and move forward or to bow down under the crushing weight of terror.

One may question which way forward is, but surely there is honor in standing firm and not being stampeded by what in boxing parlance would be considered a feint. The flip side of that, of course, is that the potential for worse clearly exists as well.

Life's Too Short

The sun was shining on the yard
Shining with all its might
I wondered if it felt as hard
As it was glowing bright

JJ and I were sitting at ease
Convinced that the doors would stay shut
When suddenly, as if to tease,
The screen opened; but on what?

Hesitant at first,
Soon bolder I grew
With curiosity I'd burst
Exploring so much new

Some of these plants
I'd swear I know
There's every chance
I've watched them grow

Then there were trees
That I'd never before seen
New insects to tease
And fresh grown grass so green

The sun was so hot
The ground so cool
And many a new pot
With which to fool

All too soon it ended;
The hose came out
The fun was suspended
Amidst a rout

JJ remained, unable to get back
While the hose splashed his fur
As he dodged the attack
Before ducking around a corner

The screen slammed shut
He was safely in the house
JJ sat and licked his butt
Too excited to grouse

Another Sunny Day

It's another sunny day
Seems here it's always that way
So why aren't we allowed to go out
And check out what that courtyard is all about?
Why can I only scale my human?
Am I no longer the favored son?
Why does that roof beckon so invitingly there?
Why will the human this great outdoors not share?

This place is so silent and still
Except when I run;
Then there are sounds to disturb my fun...

Sounds I hear that make me start:
The sound of my human making a fart
The sound of a child racing a cart
The sound of an auto dropping a part
The sound of the nearby transbay B.A.R.T
The sound of a speeding feathered dart
The sound of the oven baking a tart
The sound of my own pitterpattering heart

Celebrations

Today the United States demonstrates in truly ostentatious fashion that we as a citizenry have money to burn as we celebrate the official birthday of our nation. From the most bombastic publicly sanctioned aerial displays to the seemingly innocuous sparklers twirled by timid children of all ages, people gather together to raise the air pollution quotient, challenge sound limitations, and generally "rock the house". Is there anything more American than doing all we can to defy the boundaries we otherwise enforce on others in an ironic attempt to dictate to the world what is best for the global majority?

Today an acquaintance/friend invited a select group over for the standard American barbecue that included a moment of silence as we raised glasses to the memory of a mother who passed on just one year ago today. As with this country, the daughter with difficulty attempted to articulate the love/hate relationship that is now too late to mend.

Inherent in such relationships is the vague understanding that the person has been loved though the actions could not be approved. So it is with the United States. Today in particular voicing disapproval or dissatisfaction with the leadership seems heretical, yet at the very heart of this nation's founding lie the right and the responsibility to do just that when the leadership seems misguided.

And yet, our national experiences with Vietnam have made so many so wary of criticizing those who lay their lives on the line, even as we wonder what those in charge must be thinking, or even if they are...

So as we celebrate the birth of our nation amidst the sounds and sights that can revive memories of shellshock and do, in fact, evoke decades of memories of asthma and sinus challenges, are we in fact celebrating the ongoing opportunities for capitalistic exploitation, or dare we recall with impunity our civic rights and responsibilites so eloquently articulated centuries ago, paid for in blood, leeching away today with but a whimper in the name of "security"?

Flora et Fauna

Like showy people, I intensely dislike showy flowers. They're large, smelly, messy, and ephemeral; and yet, I cannot help but notice the color they have added amidst the quieter, cooler greens that have been brought here from my former home. They provide counterpoints of interest among the sometimes all too familiar, more somber shades of green to which I am accustomed. They disturb my sense of balance even as they intrigue me with their foreignness. Their leaves have different shapes, their flowers are so much more vivid and attention-demanding. Birds, bees, and insects swarm around them, eager to be about some unknown business with these colorful characters. How's a fellow to concentrate with so much going on? Hm... maybe I should look into these things myself...

Escape from Stepford

On the road again
Exploring new places
Seeing new faces
Making connections
Chancing rejections
Trying different food
According to mood

Examining buildings and juxtaposed spaces
Imagining long-lost traces
Of people and things and events long ago
When friend stood by friend against common foe
In a windswept street
Packed down by feet
Of thousands of laborers seeking a future
Only to be treated like some mangy cur

Thoughts go off wandering as a train rolls by
The novelty causes imagination to fly
Until attention deficiency causes a U-turn
As impatient riders the wait do spurn
And the need for speed
Leads to a more modern deed
Racing troopers
Those roadway poopers
Pure folly that

Space

Space has been described as the final frontier, but frontier days are a thing of the past, in this country and in this new dwelling place.

Too much space leaves one feeling isolated, alone, abandoned, at risk. Small spaces, on the other hand, provide definition, familiarity, comfort. Then there is lack of space, which is what is rapidly being achieved in the small, defined spaces initially available and comforting. Be wary of what you desire...

There is an open space filled with plants, bounded by doors and walls, that has been enticing me since our arrival here a week ago today. Today, however, my human somehow caused rain to fall through the sunshine, splashing the plants, the ground, the windows, the walls; it was startling. Fortunately, I could see that my human was causing it, so my concern was (marginally) less than it might otherwise have been.

The day's events were topped by curious booming sounds at twilight. I'm not sure what caused those sounds, but there is a sense in the air that they were but the first of more to come. What is happening? I must mount guard over this new space and be alert in the coming days...

Back and Back

A back is a more fragile thing than one would normally imagine. I assume, for instance, that my human's back was designed specifically for me as my personal saddle and, generally speaking, that is true. Recently, however, things have been changing. That back on which I depend has begun to get quite bumpy and has developed a disquieting habit of straightening to a vertical position well before I am ready to dismount. Now what, I ask you, is up with that?

My human, normally so reliable and attentive, has been sadly neglecting both JJ and me. Evidently it has not been enough to uproot us from our home of three years. For the past several weeks we have been abandoned early and late, left to our own devices in this strange though admittedly fascinating new place. When the human has returned, there have been familiar smells mixed with disconcerting amounts of dust and dirt, all rolled together with the new smells to which we are gradually becoming accustomed. The worst of it, of course, is that the arms in front of that slackening back have become similarly untrustworthy, buckling prematurely and even unexpectedly.

On the positive side, there are new bookshelves of varying heights across which I am able to travel around a room. Better yet, JJ cannot reach them... There are hallways, too, down which to race, and corners around which to pounce. The pouncing here is particularly fine, though not as much fun without the human to witness... If only the human would stay with us more, perhaps I would not be so eager to return home, though I do miss the cool fog that so often blankets my world.

So there's my human's back and there's no going back, or so it seems. I wait and I watch, but the dreaded "Kitty Eater" arrived today, a strong indication that this is meant to be a stay of some duration. In fact, almost everything from home seems to be here, everything but my beloved fog.

And yet, there is an enticing garden courtyard here. Once I managed to get out into it, but the human became so concerned that I returned to the confines of the building. Someday, if I am well-behaved, I expect to be able to explore that sun-dappled pavement encircled with a tantalizing mixture of familiar and unfamiliar plants, a veritable jungle over twice the space to which I am accustomed. Then there is the lure of all the grassy knolls outside the many windows here. Yes, there is much to explore, much to stimulate and keep me awake after my long hazy nap in my comforting fog.

FYI

Just logging on to say that I'll be logging off until next Tuesday. I'm about to get unplugged... the dust is flying... my fur is all musty dusty... everything I cherish is systematically disappearing... including myself...

Sore Sower - Weak Excuses

My human complains of sore paws and limp limbs
My daylong hope of evening pampering dims
JJ sits so tenaciously still
Bending the human to his own will
A game he wants and a game he demands
As he sits looking forlornly and licks proffered hands
I proffer my back, turn tail and stalk away
My human continues to promise tomorrow's another day
I've heard that promise too many times before
I just don't want to hear it any more
Clearly there's something afoot
My human's paws are covered with soot
Or something equally sticky and foreign in smell
Though where those feet have been I cannot tell
My favorite nooks and crannies are daily disappearing
As each time the front door opens more cardboard is appearing
My lungs are so clogged with the dirt and the dust
These boxes must go soon . . . or I must
Today though there's a new smell of soil and fresh-cut grass
With the promise of open spaces across an unknown pass
Those human paws keep wandering away
Those human lips keep promising a new home someday

Chin Up

Times have been tough of late it seems
But I've raised my chin and I'll pursue my dreams
Of chasing spiders and flies and mice
And pouncing on JJ from ambush in a trice
I'll continue to dream of strokings so sweet
From my now rarely seen human when next we meet
Of fingers that travel from my head to my tail
Of the touch that brings pleasure without fail
My satisfaction I'm sure as sure can be I will purr
When my human's hand once again plays with my fur
A long slow rub of my stomach I need
And that right quickly with all due speed
Then and only then will I again raise my chin
Wipe my nose dry and let the rubbing begin again

Defective Personality Test

The Internet is rife with gauges that purport to assist individuals in the ever elusive search for self. My human is pathetically enamored of said sites, though I do my best to redirect the web searches... Despite my best efforts, however, this is being posted to my blog. Should you choose to scroll down and continue reading, please do not hold me responsible for anything you might view below, filled as it is with gaps, errors, and false innuendo... Rather, note the statistical meaninglessness of it all. gm/fe

Spiteful Loner You are 71% Rational, 42% Extroverted, 57% Brutal, and 42% Arrogant.

You are the Spiteful Loner, the personality type that is most likely to go on a shooting rampage. You are a rational person and tend to hold emotions in very low-esteem; not only that, but you are also rather introverted, meaning you probably bury any emotions you feel deep inside yourself. Combine these traits with your hatred of others and your brutality, and it seems that you would be quite likely to shoot innocent people in a rampage. Not only that, but you are also a very humble person--not a braggart at all--meaning you could possibly have low-self esteem. This is only yet one more incentive to go on a shooting rampage, because you wouldn't care if you died as a result. Granted, you probably haven't gone on a shooting rampage and probably never will, but all the motivations are there. In conclusion, your personality is defective because you are too introverted, brutal, insecure, and rather unemotional. No wonder no one hangs around you, you morbid, cold-hearted freak! To put it less negatively: 1. You are more RATIONAL than intuitive. 2. You are more INTROVERTED than extroverted. 3. You are more BRUTAL than gentle. 4. You are more HUMBLE than arrogant. Compatibility: Your exact opposite is the Televangelist. Other personalities you would probably get along with are the Capitalist Pig, the Smartass, and the Sociopath. * * If you scored near fifty percent for a certain trait (42%-58%), you could very well go either way. For example, someone with 42% Extroversion is slightly leaning towards being an introvert, but is close enough to being an extrovert to be classified that way as well. Below is a list of the other personality types so that you can determine which other possible categories you may fill if you scored near fifty percent for certain traits. The other personality types: The Emo Kid: Intuitive, Introverted, Gentle, Humble. The Starving Artist: Intuitive, Introverted, Gentle, Arrogant. The Bitch-Slap: Intuitive, Introverted, Brutal, Humble. The Brute: Intuitive, Introverted, Brutal, Arrogant. The Hippie: Intuitive, Extroverted, Gentle, Humble. The Televangelist: Intuitive, Extroverted, Gentle, Arrogant. The Schoolyard Bully: Intuitive, Extroverted, Brutal, Humble. The Class Clown: Intuitive, Extroverted, Brutal, Arrogant. The Robot: Rational, Introverted, Gentle, Humble. The Haughty Intellectual: Rational, Introverted, Gentle, Arrogant. The Spiteful Loner: Rational, Introverted, Brutal, Humble. The Sociopath: Rational, Introverted, Brutal, Arrogant. The Hand-Raiser: Rational, Extroverted, Gentle, Humble. The Braggart: Rational, Extroverted, Gentle, Arrogant. The Capitalist Pig: Rational, Extroverted, Brutal, Humble. The Smartass: Rational, Extroverted, Brutal, Arrogant.

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 57% on Rationality You scored higher than 33% on Extroversion You scored higher than 66% on Brutality You scored higher than 42% on Arrogance

Link: The Personality Defect Test written by saint_gasoline on OkCupid Free Online Dating

Nekko Scents

Each day a load of laundry leaves
But does not return --
Where are my piles of warm sweet garments?
Each day the laundry leakage lessens --
Soon all comfort will be gone

And yet, each day brings with it
New and intoxicating smells as well
Unknown scents that make no sense
Beg, nay, demand a context:
Mysterious, unknown, beckoning the explorer
In me to come forth

Promises have been made
And promises broken
But this time perhaps
I really will go along again
To cross the water
And smell new things
And finally kill a spider.

Madness and Unbearable Excitement

The Michael Jackson verdict is about to be read, but what do I care? Word has come down that it is official: I must say farewell to this habitat that has been my abode for the past three years, to this area I have inhabited since I was but a 12-week-old kitten. Whither we go, I do not know; all I know is that the madness has set in. Worse, I can't get no satisfaction as my human wants to waste precious time being "logical". huh!

P.S. Took about 30 minutes...

The Summer Season

The official start of summer is still ten days away, but signs of the season have already begun to manifest around the country and throughout the northern hemisphere. The air is filled with the smells of barbecue and the sounds of music and laughter late into the night. Now the news says that the hurricane season is underway and that the mosquitoes will soon be swarming. I don't like mosquitoes.

My human clips my claws on a weekly basis, besides which my teeth never quite reach the nape of my neck, though mosquitoes do. Frankly, they're just not the kind of females I like to attract, if you know what I mean. So if my human isn't around to scratch me when I itch, I'm in for a miserable time. Fortunately for me, my human has found an article on the Internet that says catnip keeps mosquitoes away. That's the best news I've heard all week! :-)

Life is that way: drinking whiskey isn't generally considered a healthful daily regimen, yet it's a handy way to head off a cold or clear up a sore throat. Garlic and onion reek, besides being downright poisonous to me, but they help my human's circulatory system, or so it's been said. Equally important, I hate my annual visit to the vet because of the regimen of shots I have to endure, but I'm pretty sure they help me through the rest of the year. That's why I'm so excited that catnip, which I love, has been declared a good way to keep mosquitoes at bay, even across the Bay. Yeah!

Barbecue and Other Odors

A feline has a very sensitive olfactory system, so why must my human insist on assaulting it? Is it not enough that I get my daily news from the laundry leavings everywhere? Why must warm weekend days bring the offensively head-banging reek of charcoal and burnt flesh of all kinds? Worst of all, of course, is the kind of barbecue reek that has at its heart that essence of lighter fluid. Where is the humanity?

Now, on a normal weekday, I've come to expect the customary assault of odors such as burning garlic and frying onion, not to mention the variety of pungent cheeses and chilis that pass through this place, all in the name of healthful eating, but what's up with this intentional burning of perfectly good food? Even JJ isn't interested in such incinerated residue, (though neither of us mind the burning of those nasty vegetables...)

Give me a nice pate' of chicken, turkey, beef, lamb, shrimp, tuna, or fish (or even some of that ono pork) and a fresh bowl of water and I'll be a happy cat.

And every once in awhile, if you really love me, you'll slip me some of that McDonald's-type Friskies product. ;->

Time on My Paws

You humans hustle about through the trivialities of life, so certain that what you pursue is more important than time spent with JJ and me. You set obnoxious alarms that go off in the early morning hours just as I am settling down from a night's industrious and fruitful prowling. You turn on all the lights just as I am seeking the comfort of darkness for my own slumbers. You disturb my sleep with your clanging and banging about as you prepare for your daily adventures. Then, when I finally reconcile myself to according you the attention you so clearly crave on your way out the door, you unceremoniously dump me from your lap -- every single day.

Every five or six days, just when I'm getting used to the idea of being free of you during daylight, you decide to stay home and bother me. Then when I pay you some attention, you toss me off again. What's wrong with you?!?

On the days when you are kind enough to go out and stay out, you come home in a foul mood as often as not. The upshot is that you refuse to open the lanai door and JJ can't enjoy a twilight bark with his fowl neighborhood friends. Then I have to listen to them mock him through the shut glass doors. That's irritating, not that you notice, absorbed as you are by that idiotically oversized glass and plastic box with the flashing lights and fake sounds. . . .

Sometimes you fall asleep in front of that box, blocking out our playing area and disrupting the blessed comfort of night that spreads throughout the house after you have gone to bed. You turn down the sound, but the lights flicker on, and we wait and watch as you snore on the couch or on the floor, exhausted from your day's labors. We know from experience that eventually you will awaken, stop the lights and noise, and stumble into the bedroom. Then it will be our turn to play.

But I forgive you. Because sometimes you do remember to pause between my paws . . . and then we are both refreshed.

Food: Predictability vs. Choice

There are several websites available on the Internet for neophyte nekko owners, all of which uniformly assert that we cats are happiest when given the same food consistently, day in and day out . . . every day, every way . . . day after day after day after . . . I consider myself a reasonable fellow, so let's try that theory on you for awhile . . .

I'm patient and I love my human, so I put up with this for our first three months together, but enough eventually becomes too much: I quit eating. I mean, seriously, what was the point? Even astronauts get variety in their admittedly pasty freeze-dried tubes. So I quit, cold turkey. Literally. The day came when I just couldn't face another refrigerator-fresh dish of cold mashed turkey paste (and no, I'm not buying that nonsense about pate').

Of course my human was worried, but my human and I are very much alike, so it was a relatively simple task to access the empathic pathways of communication we'd already established. All I had to do was trigger the buffet-response nodes. (My human has zero resistance to buffets.) Since that time, my dietary fare has expanded to encompass the most remarkable range.

Mind you, I don't get to indulge in much junk food because my human is an irritatingly meticulous label-reader, but when the occasional can of Friskies-brand product does cross my dish, you can be sure I cherish the treat and savor the sauce, storing up the memory for the long bleak healthful interval that will inevitably follow.

I appreciate the care and concern my human showers on me, and I do like to know that there are some things in life that are predictable, but without variety my mind goes stale and my muscles stagnate. I think I'm putting on a little weight and if I don't watch myself, JJ sometimes wins a wrestling match. Predictability is a comforting trap. As I grow older, it becomes more invitingly comfortable. At the same time, it is unbelievably boring. I need the freedom to choose complacency.

Ann Bancroft has passed in the night and Broadway will appropriately dim its lights in her honor. She was an amazingly gifted performer with startling range, from her finely tuned performances on stage and in films like The Miracle Worker, The Graduate, and The Turning Point to some of her more madcap turns such as her husband's To Be or Not To Be.

In fact, it's because my human likes to watch The Turning Point that I came to realize that it's more than okay for a buff fellow with superior leaping ability to go bounding around in tight tights, though I can't say it's gotten me any ladies... (though that may have more to do with my early traumatic experiences at the vet's than the fact that I absolutely refuse to wear tights, loose or tight...)

Well, the day is early and the workload heavy, so I'll bound off to check out the raindrops that keep falling on the lanai window for now.

Every Breath I Take - Paranoid Musings

I am, as I have said, a gato of leisure. My days are spent in alternately peaceful and labored slumber, depending on the pollen content of the air on any given day and the dust content of my bedding. All my life I have been told what a wonderful leaper and magnificent mover I am. There has been no reason to exercise daily as JJ does. I have had sufficient activity occasionally terrorizing my companion.

Now, however, I find myself wheezing when I try to make one of my "magnificent" moves, or even when I do something as simple as alter my elevation (from bed to floor or back). I've tried cutting down on my food, beating up on my JJ a bit more, but nothing seems to help. What's more, I feel tension in the air around me. Change is coming, I can feel it; but what?

Sunny Wind

Sunny wind blows away thick ocean born clouds
Leaves all stark and bare in the harsh light
Lets in too clearly loud noises of neighbors departing
Accentuates stale odors that have festered all week long
Enclosed fish stink that holds no sweet meat
Highlights lies all around

When will the comforting blanket of fog return
Warm shroud that shields me from myself
Blends with my coat of black and gray
Letting me slip back into my accustomed stupor
And live my dreams asleep

I do not wish to know my world's upturned
My life transplanted back across the Bay
Where sights and scents are but remembered mists
And sun burns fog away

But cardboard creeps inexorably upward
Into my home, my lungs, my soul
Boxing me out

Where will the wind blow our belongings
Leaving my secret longings

Exposed?

My Favorite Film

Dodes 'Ka-Den (1971)

In 1970 Akira Kurozawa made his first color film, according to the write-up on Amazon.com. Amazon has two reviews in its main section, one negative and one positive. Though this is a purely Japanese film, not Asian American, its reviews reflect precisely what I was talking about in my previous post. There seems to be a level of awareness that speaks only to those who are attuned to the possibilities of cultural differences, that eludes those who believe that their specific understanding of absolutes transcends all cultural differences.

In moments controversial my perception is rather fine
I can always see two points of view: the one that's wrong and mine.

Back to my favorite film: This is a series of bits bound together not only by visual aesthetics but by idealism and hope. It really is the way many of us get from high ground to high ground as we navigate the morass that life too often is. It's a patchwork tinkertoy series of strings and things by which we hang on and progress as we make our way, whether forward, backward, or trudging in place.

Mambo Kings

Meow! The pre-Broadway stage production featuring Esai Morales, Jaime Camil, Cote de Pablo, Albita, and Christiane Noll is a kick-ass high energy show featuring high-caliber acting and high octane dancing. I particularly enjoyed the continuous interaction amongst the ensemble, whether or not they were being featured. It really added credibility to every scene for me. The only really distracting aspect for me is that Morales is perhaps too effective as a former singer whose vocal cords no longer function as well as God originally intended. Other than that, I had the time of my life trying to keep my eyes on everyone doing everything across the entire stage, a less common experience than one might expect. The whole experience was very nearly purrfect.

No Warm Fuzzies - Asian American Films

Just as cats get short shrift in American cinema, so do Asian Americans. As felines are often depicted as villains outsmarted by canines (as if!), so Asian Americans seeking a film presence are too often required to play villainous dolts so inept that they are easily outsmarted and outfought by their Western counterparts. Alternatively, furry felines are depicted as complacent and pampered fat cats akin to Star Trek tribbles, even as Asian Americans are cast as model middle class professionals by day, sex slaves by night. Thus it is that in recent years Asian Americans have joined the ranks of independent filmmakers in an effort to tell their own stories, not only of the assimilation experience in this country but of universal truths in life in microcosm against the macrocosm as well.

Two such films spring to mind today: Better Luck Tomorrow (2002), a disturbing view of the senior year of high school among elite students in Orange County, CA, written by Ernesto Foronda, Fabian Marquez, and Justin Lin, directed by the last; and Saving Face (2004), another examination of the kinds of conflicts that can arise when values and goals differ between generations, written and directed by Alice Wu. While each film begins with the common stereotypes of Asians in America, each likewise does what no outsider has successfully done: honestly and accurately examine the intracultural as well as the intercultural dynamics in play. One enthusiastic viewer of SF has observed that mainstream film critics seem to have missed the subtleties of those familial and cultural dynamics that seem so obvious to Asian American viewers, but as I have not read many reviews, that is not something I can address. I would appreciate feedback from anyone who has actually seen many or any films by and about Asian Americans, (not to be confused with Asian films per se).

Better Luck Tomorrow plays off the John Woo Tomorrow films in terms of drug-related violence, but it is clearly an American tale. The film revolves around four young men clearly marked for academic, social, financial, and professional success. They are respected, honored, trusted . . . and they become the local crime lords, selling homework, essays, and test answers, then graduating to drug dealing. It all ends as one would expect: in violence, death, and loss of respect, scholarships, and life. What's interesting is the interactions among family members during the downward spiral and how the stereotypes play into the whole problem of expectations unmet and pressures unborne.

On a more optimistic tone, there is Saving Face, which has been compared to Ang Lee's Wedding Banquet probably because of its topic and location. Like BLT, SF uses existing stereotypes and set storylines. One of the nice switches is that the "great catch", though a doctor on the fast track to professional success, is a woman. Of course, the object of her desire is the offspring of her boss, which makes for a lovely spin on an otherwise cliched setup. Again, it is in the subtle interactions that there is revelation and/or accurate reflection. Mother and daughter struggle against parental expectations and that overwhelming sense of filial duty that is seen as a tripwire for so many, particlularly though not exclusively for those still in some transitional stage of assimilation. Unfortunately, the reviews I have read don't seem to notice these subtelties, distracted as they are by what are perceived as recognizable "types" and the admittedly idealistic ending. Perhaps these facts are just further reflections on the causes of the obtuseness of the one and the invisibility of the Other.

What can one do but have another catnap and continue to slumber until awareness is ready to awaken? (You see: it's not just movies and books that can utilize copout endings...)

Sunny Lanai

The sun shines bright on this California home
The arctic breeze ruffles my oil sleek fur
I bask in the glow of the afternoon light
Warmed by love

The pot-forested concrete of the apartment lanai
Holds the heat of the day in its stony surface
Where the shadows of the plants have not yet crept
In pursuit of life

Bright harsh glare woos as it repulses
Standing in hard contrast to the cold comfort within
Where the wind rattles blinds and leaves and things
Stealing hope

JJ's Anthem (Frame Job)

One banana two banana three banana four
I’m on an eating jag again
All I want is more
Though why I want anything is beyond my ken

I started out my morning with a nanner and a mug
Then segued into two bags of noodles and spam
Though I’m getting so large that I’m too big to hug
Still all I can think of now is a sandwich with lettuce, cheese, and ham

Each morning I promise myself that today I’ll start to work out
I even manage to wait until the morning is almost over
Till I’ve had adequate time to get out and about
To tell myself I’m still a fancy free rover

But noon passes by and the sun starts back down
My energy lags and my bed calls me back
My mood turns sour and my smile is replaced by a frown
Only food in large quantities can supply what I lack

My rhyming is weak my rhythm has abandoned me
My concentration is totally shot
I truly believe only mounds of food can set me free
Until I eat; and then it’s not.

Tribute to a Fellow George

George Mikan was a formidable hoopster
Who let his game do his talking for him
Unlike another unnamed rooster
Whose mouth was always shooting off on a whim

Mikan was the first to switch hands
On his way up to the rim
His name alone could pack the stands
With fans there to see only him

He dominated the boards
On both sides of the court
His hair brushed the net cords
As his teammates he'd exhort

He swatted away the opposition's shots
Like ants at a picnic
On defense he'd claim his own spots
On offense he was just so quick

But time takes its toll on us all
And the day finally came when he had to retire
Other stars now perform magic with a ball
But high as they soar no one will ever fly higher

I only wish I could do better than doggerel for the man who did so much for the greatest game in the world.

Traitor or Hero?

W. Mark Felt's family has urged him to emerge from anonymity and acknowledge his role in American history as the mysterious informant of the seventies: Deep Throat. At the time then President Richard Milhouse Nixon labeled him a traitor, and contemporary Republican leaders have reiterated the characterization. Felt's family members, on the other hand, are presenting him as a hero who dared to do what was necessary to right an injustice that they decry as a cancer that needed excising. Both sides are accurate, even as the first American revolutionaries were traitors to England but heroes to those who wanted a separate government for a land geographically separated by the second largest ocean on the planet.

Likewise, veterinarians who "fix" animals are seen as a positive necessary force in human society but are villified by their relatively helpless victims. Think about it: how has the act of forcefully removing one's reproductive organs come to be considered in any way "humane"? On a personal level, it is a very painful and ultimately humiliating experience that has lifelong repercussions. I'll never get a female feline and, sadly, have had to resort to periodically dry-humping my Boy-Toy "brother". He is in a similar situation . . .

Now, humans say that the castration was for our own good, that it prolongs our life expectancy, that it makes us more docile and therefore more amenable to the enforced incarceration that is our lot in life as domesticated "pets". What they're really saying is that it is good for their living spaces and their peace of mind, not ours.

How does this apply to Deep Throat? Felt knew what he was doing was illegal. He knew that he wasn't supposed to be leaking confidential information, possibly even illegally obtained. He even had the sense to obtain assurances that his identity would not be revealed in his lifetime. Now he's had the better part of three decades to reflect on his actions and on their consequences. It just doesn't seem in character that he should choose at this stage in life to alter his course. It seems far more likely that his family, specifically his daughter and her son, are hoping to capitalize on the actions of his now distant past. It is a curious thing that they have chosen to do so under a Republican regime at a time when the history their family patriarch helped shape is being repeated, at least in part.

Hero or goat? Ultimately, your perspective has to depend on which side of the scalpel you're on. . . .

Laundry Leakage

There are all sorts of things making the news today: Deep Throat, the SF 49ers "Training" Video, the mudslides in Laguna Beach that have caused at least a dozen multi-million-dollar homes to slip down their hillsides, but I want to talk about a more serious problem: laundry leakage.

I love laundry leakage. Piles of clothes that have been worn retain the loveliest odors. They are my "newspapers", my best source of information about the world beyond the walls that bound my existence. True, I do sniff them when they first arrive, then again when they have been discarded, but when they are allowed to sit and stew on the floors awhile, that is when I get to make them truly mine, to delve into their depths and explore the true meanings and messages they bear. It is only when my dusty atmosphere is allowed to merge and meld with the odors that enter through worn laundry, when my essence is allowed to mingle with that which has entered my world thusly, that I can take it all in and incorporate it into my life experience.

The best way to get essences to blend is to have some moisture in the mix. That's why I like sweaty clothes and towels freshly damp from showers and baths. If I'm lucky, my human leaves those around for me, allowing the pile to grow and develop a nice mildew content.

Unfortunately, mine is an all too fastidious human, all too often snatching up ripe clothing before it has a chance to properly permeate the carpet, floor, and walls. Come on: JJ and I need variety and news in our lives, not just musty dusty air. Still waters may run deep, but still air is the number one cause of hack attacks. That's why I'm here to advocate increased laundry leakage, the leaving of used, preferably damp clothing until a pile is good and deep, properly ripened for the edification of otherwise sequestered four-footed friends.