The Cats Who Use Fuzz Tower

My apartment is a very different place than it was just a week ago. Specifically, it's the living room that has changed and energized this sleepy little flat. The election is over, so it's not us screaming at the television set during the debates or endless campaign commercials. For the most part, we don't give a rat's ass about Christmas, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, the solstice, or the limitations of the Mayan calendar, so it's not that, either. Mental illness hasn't led to any dramatic episodes of screaming, suicide attempts...that sort of thing. No, it's been rather peaceful around here.

Except for the cat tree that I purchased for the four cats, which looks like this:

It's hard to see, but there are already two cats on the bottom of the kitty tree. Perhaps I should name this tree. How about the, "Tour de Duvet," which translates to, "Fuzz Tower." Everything just better in French. How about this as another example, "Arme à feu de mamelon et canon de pet" translates to, "nipple gun and fart cannon." What a language!

But I digress, as I'm oft wont to do. So the cause of all the recent excitement at the House of Four Cats is the Tour de Duvet, where all the cats have, at one time or another, flopped over and basked in the glow of indolence. Either that, or they've fought like maniacs over one spot or another. While this is going on, the resident humans have watched like parents watch their children at the playground. A bit of fear, but mostly just smiling and joyful at how damn cute are their kids. And our cats are cuter than your kid or kids. 

It gets particularly exciting around here when one of the cats climbs Fuzz Tower and tries to summit it, which means flopping over on one of the top two landings, which are 6-8 feet off the floor. There is a lot of cuteness, but the element of fear escalates. A sleeping cat can easily roll off one of these platforms and fall, and possibly not wake up until it's too late and subsequently smash into the floor. We watch to prevent this, but every so often there is a, "Whap!" in the night, and we know what it is, sadly.

The personality breakdown goes like this, when it comes to who gets to use Fuzz Tower, what part, and when. Some cats are not nice and do not share. In no particular order...

The Cats of The House of Four Cats

Fluffy - We all love Fluffy in this apartment. Many years ago, I discovered her giving birth under my back stoop, in a torrential rain. She produced 3 live kittens, all of them beautiful. Impy looked at me and it was kismet, I had to keep her. The problem with Fluffy is that she was once a feral cat, and knows what it is to be homeless. She's a fighter. She is the lightest cat here, very skinny and small. She also happens to be the cat that all the other cats fear. A lot. Fluffy will, during a fight or just when she is defending her spot on Fuzz Tower, swing her paws at her opponent so quickly that all one can see is a blur. And at the end of those paws are razor sharp claws. Annie the dog got her nose clipped once by these furious claws, and yelped. When Fluffy, so cute and so small, breaks out the blurry claw defense, you shall not pass. You'd better run. If Ghost or Panther aren't on Fuzz Tower, the reason, invariably, is Fluffy. When she is on the tower, it is hers.  You got a problem with that?

Impy - This cat rules me. Our eyes first met when she was hours old, and I may be the first living thing she saw. She has two siblings, both of whom look like Fluffy. Their eyes are deep blue, like Impy's, but the rest of them are black and white. They were both put up for adoption and are happy out there somewhere. Impy and I, however, were bound together for life. Also, Impy's brother, who did not survive being born, had the same markings that Impy has; sort of gray, with black highlights here and there. Very unusual. She got her father's markings. I'll never forget the day I pulled Impy, Fluffy, and those four kittens out from under our stoop in that rain...all goopy and newborn. Impy has become my familiar, and I'm her human. She's the boss, and I'm fine with that. What a cat. She is also very vocal, like Fluffy. She'll peep, chitter, rowr, meow, and make other odd noises a lot. She's trying to pick up English, both Nancy and I are convinced. Fluffy's noises are more like, "Rowrrrrrr!" An unusual noise she only used against other cats. Very effective.

Impy sleeps with Nancy and I every night. While getting undressed to take a shower, or before I get into bed, she'll scream at me and pace back and forth on the bed. Once in bed, she'll curl up between my legs, or next to them, purring away. She is skittish (a cough or sexual vocalizations may send her running) but if I call her back, she comes right back. I LOVE this cat.

Ghost - What can be said about this magnificent cat among cats? She is a polydactyl cat, also known as a, "Boston thumb cat." The folklore states that ship's captains leaving Boston would like to have a Boston thumb cat on board, for good luck. If you don't know, a polydactyl cat is a cat with at least one extra toe. A Canadian polydactyl cat broke the record with 27 toes! Cats normally have 17. Ghost looks like she has a large thumb, and would make a great hitch-hiker. It's impressive, and if she is playing with you, you'll feel that extra toe or two ripping into your flesh. These cats are also called, "Hemingway cats," because Ernest Hemingway loved them, and owned many. Most are found in New England down the east coast to Florida, with some in the United Kingdom.

Ghost also has a magnificent personality. She'll play with a toy by herself, she loves to chase fingers and curl up anywhere on your body. Always a ball of energy, she'll happily pick little play fights with anyone, human, dog, or cat. A very happy cat who loves to play and is a joy to watch on Fuzz Tower. She isn't mean at all, and if you scratch her itchy back, she'll lick you clean...that includes your shirt or pants or face or whatever. Frisky, funny, and a little wacky. Also affectionate and adorable as all Hell.

Panther - Panther owns my father, who is 80 years youn...no, old. He pushes him around, hisses at him, takes up most of his bed, tries to trip him when he goes into the kitchen for coffee, and can make an awful, "Rowrrr!" sound if my father doesn't do what he wants. It's an abusive relationship. If Panther were a human being, he'd be in jail for elder abuse.

An expose about Annie the Hound soon to come!

Ghost

My Darling Little Impy

Fluffy

Annie

Panther

The Protector? Nude Ballet?

The Protector

As an INFJ, your primary mode of living is focused internally, where you take things in via intuition. Your secondary mode is external, where you deal with things according to how you feel about them, or how they fit with your personal value system.

INFJs are gentle, caring, very complex and highly intuitive individuals. Artistic and extremely intelligent, they live in a world of hidden meanings and possibilities. 

Less than one half of one percent of the population has an INFJ Personality Type, making it the most rare of all the types.

INFJs constantly define and re-define the priorities in their lives. On the other hand, INFJs operate within themselves on an intuitive basis which is entirely spontaneous. They know things intuitively, without being able to pinpoint why, with or without detailed knowledge of the subject at hand. They are usually right, and they usually know it. Consequently, INFJs put a tremendous amount of faith into their instincts and intuitions. This is something of a conflict between the inner and outer worlds, and may result in the INFJ not being as organized as other self Judging types tend to be. Or we may see some signs of disarray in an otherwise orderly tendency, such as a consistently messy desk.

INFJs have uncanny insight into people and situations. They get "feelings" about things and intuitively understand them. Consequently, most INFJs are protective of their inner selves, sharing only what they choose to share when they choose to share it. They are deep, complex individuals, who are quite private and typically very difficult to understand. INFJs hold back part of themselves, and can be secretive.

But the INFJ is as genuinely warm as they are complex. INFJs hold a special place in the heart of people who they are close to, who are able to see their special gifts and depth of caring. INFJs are concerned for people's feelings, and try to be gentle to avoid hurting anyone. They are very sensitive to conflict, and cannot tolerate it very well. Situations which are charged with conflict may drive the normally peaceful INFJ into a state of agitation or charged anger. They may tend to internalize conflict into their bodies, and experience health problems when under a lot of stress.

Because the INFJ has such strong intuitive capabilities, they trust their own instincts above all else. This may result in an INFJ stubborness and tendency to ignore other people's opinions. They believe that they're right. On the other hand, INFJ is a perfectionist who doubts that they are living up to their full potential. INFJs are rarely at any level of peace with themselves - there's always something else they should be doing to improve themselves and the world around them. They believe in constant growth, and don't often take time to revel in their accomplishments. They have strong value systems, and need to live their lives in accordance with what they feel is right. In deference to the Feeling aspect of their personalities, INFJs are in some ways gentle and easy going. Conversely, they have very high expectations of themselves. They don't believe in compromising their ideals.

INFJ is a natural nurturer; patient, devoted and protective. They make loving parents and usually have strong bonds with their offspring. They have high expectations of their children, and push them to be the best that they can be. This can sometimes manifest itself in the INFJ being hard-nosed and stubborn. But generally, children of an INFJ get devoted and sincere parental guidance, combined with deep caring.

They have a natural affinity for art, and many excel in the sciences, where they make use of their intuition. INFJs can also be found in service-oriented professions. They are not good at dealing with minutia or very detailed tasks. The INFJ will either avoid such things, or else go to the other extreme and become enveloped in the details to the extent that they can no longer see the big picture. An INFJ who has gone the route of becoming meticulous about details may be highly critical of other individuals who are not.

The INFJ individual is gifted in ways that other types are not. Life is not necessarily easy for the INFJ, but they are capable of great depth of feeling and personal achievement.

And now, some nude ballet. Life is a nude ballet, just the people are not as attractive, and the dance move suck. Click here--->  NUDE BALLET!

A Love Experience

One of my favorite plays/movies is, "Night of the Iguana" with Richard Burton, Deborah Kerr, and Ava Gardner, among others fine actors. There isn't much for me to add to the scene I'm about to embed here, except that I implore you to watch it. It's beautiful and touching. The background is that Gardner is travelling the world and paying for it by doing sketches of tourists. Travelling with her is her grandfather, who is working on his epic poem. Burton is a preacher, at the end of his proverbial rope, and thus can only find a job giving religious tours in Mexico. After a suicide attempt, he is tied to a hammock by Gardner (not seen here, but magnificent in the film). Burton has a bad reputation for being a womanizer...not good for a preacher.

Here they talk about love, and the human connection we all seek. Enjoy.

The Flea

THE FLEA.
by John Donne

MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee, 
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;
    Yet this enjoys before it woo,
    And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;
    And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
    Though use make you apt to kill me,
    Let not to that self-murder added be,
    And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

Horror to Romance in Five Words

As some of you may know, on October 29 a tonic-clonic seizure, while driving, had me sailing into oncoming traffic as I flopped and twitched my way across the center line. I have epilepsy. The car, a newly procured 2008 Saturn Aura with less that 40,000 miles on it, was "totaled." Fortunately, I hit a very large white truck. That's all I remember after a brief moment of consciousness before being taken to a hospital. Well, the truck and the air bag that prevented my getting a flat face and "inny" nose, like a belly button.

So I can kiss my driver's license goodbye for at least six months, which seems fair. I could have killed someone, or worse yet a dog or cat. The smack to my kisser, and the severity of the seizure, had me in a fog for three days. When the fog lifted, I realized what I had done and understood what had happened. I've had 5 grand mal seizures in my entire life (usually in public places, for optimal embarrassment), and now, one while driving. While driving. The odds of that seemed astronomical before it happened. Now that it happened I feel like a big, fat fool for ever driving at all. And my neurologist tells me that those little seizures I have 3 or 4 times a week are equally dangerous while driving.

Back to the bus and subway for me, and my feet. Ain't no thing. Take it on the heel and toe, fatty.

I read the shortest horror story the other day, I found it clever. It goes like this...

The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock at the door.

I feel, with a little tweaking, it makes a good romance story...

The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock at the door. They lived happily ever after.

No good? Eh.

Onward.

VideoBlog with Pictures of Nancy and Kitties

Nancy and I at the St. Paul Amtrak station. Nancy to Boston!

Nancy some years ago.

Ghost looking cute as Hell.

Snow Pooch.

Ready for MGH, one last cigarette

Da Annie

Annie goes for a walk.

Darren & Nancy Talk To The Cats About Death Squads

Enjoy this last video dispatch from the Front!

Been Awhile

USA Most Expensive, But Worst Health Care Syste

THURSDAY, JUNE 24, 2010

US Ranks Worst of 7 Countries on Health Care System

In case you have any doubts, not only does the US rank badly on health care metrics, the US has ranked at or next to the bottom of this survey in past years. But be careful in pressing these findings too hard on unreceptive audiences; I lost a friend who insisted the US had the best care in the world when I brought the results from 2007 to her.

From the Commonwealth Fund (hat tip reader Paul S):

Despite having the most expensive health care system, the United States ranks last overall compared to six other industrialized countries—Australia, Canada, Germany, the Netherlands, New Zealand, and the United Kingdom—on measures of health system performance in five areas: quality, efficiency, access to care, equity and the ability to lead long, healthy, productive lives, according to a new Commonwealth Fund report. While there is room for improvement in every country, the U.S. stands out for not getting good value for its health care dollars, ranking last despite spending $7,290 per capita on health care in 2007 compared to the $3,837 spent per capita in the Netherlands, which ranked first overall…

Earlier editions of the report, produced in 2004, 2006, and 2007, showed similar results. This year’s version incorporates data from patient and physician surveys conducted in seven countries in 2007, 2008, and 2009.

Key findings include:

On measures of quality the United States ranked 6th out of 7 countries. On two of four measures of quality—effective care and patient-centered care—the U.S. ranks in the middle (4th out of 7 countries). However, the U.S. ranks last when it comes to providing safe care, and next to last on coordinated care. U.S. patients with chronic conditions are the most likely to report being given the wrong medication or the wrong dose of their medication, and experiencing delays in being notified about an abnormal test result.

On measures of efficiency, the U.S ranked last due to low marks when it comes to spending on administrative costs, use of information technology, re-hospitalization, and duplicative medical testing. Nineteen percent of U.S. adults with chronic conditions reported they visited an emergency department for a condition that could have been treated by a regular doctor, had one been available, more than three times the rate of patients in Germany or the Netherlands (6%).

On measures of access to care, people in the U.S. have the hardest time affording the health care they need—with the U.S. ranking last on every measure of cost-related access problems. For example, 54 percent of adults with chronic conditions reported problems getting a recommended test, treatment or follow-up care because of cost. In the Netherlands, which ranked first on this measure, only 7 percent of adults with chronic conditions reported this problem.

On measures of healthy lives, the U.S. does poorly, ranking last when it comes to infant mortality and deaths before age 75 that were potentially preventable with timely access to effective health care, and second to last on healthy life expectancy at age 60.

On measures of equity, the U.S. ranks last. Among adults with chronic conditions almost half (45%) with below average incomes in the U.S. reported they went without needed care in the past year because of costs, compared with just 4 percent in the Netherlands. Lower-income U.S. adults with chronic conditions were significantly more likely than those in the six other countries surveyed to report not going to the doctor when they’re sick, not filling a prescription, or not getting recommended follow-up care because of costs.

Yves here. In theory, ObamaCare will improve some of these metrics, particularly equity, but it is entirely conceivable given the effectiveness of the other health care systems in this survey that the US’s relative standing will not improve. I was extremely impressed with the caliber of the care I received when I lived in Australia, particularly given how inexpensive it was (and I was not a participant in the official health care scheme).

Dead Man's Rotary

NEGOTIATE

J. Edgar and Haiku Saki

Bootleg J. Edgar

Waiting for Nancy

The Vaseline Slather: Two Generations

Of Birds, Bees, and Dr. Pepper

An extraordinarily pleasant day. In the early morning, my wife and I made love and held each other as I fell into a deep and satisfying sleep, devoid of any nightmares and free of the disturbed, anxious unease that so often keeps me awake and staring at the walls and ceiling, thoughts racing. A peaceful sleep is a noteworthy phenomenon, and should not be taken for granted.

Just before sunrise, the need to pee compelled me to wake, shake off the cat and dog who never miss a chance to pin Nancy and I to the bed, and stumble into the bathroom. The window was open, and the birds were making their typical morning din, which is considerable. No discernible sun or lightening sky, but those birds always know when to make a racket, with their little birdy watches they know that the sun will soon be up. Those birds, they're wise...they know things.

Time for my typical morning panic attack, but today I was spared. Why? If I only knew. A few minutes later and again, sound sleep next to the woman I love. What a day! Another two hours of sleep, then up. Coffee. Took Annie for a walk. Later, I planted the vegetable garden in our tiny little plot; four tomato plants, one pepper plant, rosemary, and sage. While mulching (yes, I even mulched!), a little bastard bee stung my right hand. Quite a string of obscenities spewed forth from my gob, accompanied by a thick Boston accent (it gets thicker when in distress). Oh, no fahkin' way, ah fahk, ah fahk meeeee! 

In the afternoon, my father and I talked leisurely and drank coffee, with Annie in my lap and Impy warming herself in a patch of sun streaking through the kitchen door window. She sat there like a furry little Buddha, content and enlightened. Somewhere along away, I had a waffle. A waffle was involved.

It is early in the evening now, and Nancy and I are watching a documentary together. A few moments ago I said something and she laughed. How I love it when she laughs. Where did I find this woman? Well, I know where I found her, and she found me, but what archery! She has her own demons, and it pains me when she is fogged in by depression. She has more moxie than I, and puts up a better fight against it. I love it when she laughs and is happy, and when she gives me a squinty look after I say something stupid (happens a lot). Or when she gets pissed off at the television and yells at it (the new Dr. Pepper commercial really pisses her off, and I don't blame her).

You don't take days like this for granted. There was a span of several days last week when I woke up to a ferocious little mind-weasel gnawing at me; panic attacks and anxiety from the get-go. It sucks. The Blue Devil of self-doubt and loathing, suicidal thoughts, and numbing depression. And when you throw in a couple of epileptic seizures, you have a real shit stew. Did I mention guilt? Oh, yeah.

So when days like this come up, I treasure them.

The Radical History of Mother's Day

The Radical History of Mother’s Day

By Laura Kacere

There’s a good number of us who question holidays like Mother’s Day in which you spend more time feeding money into a system that exploits our love for our mothers than actually celebrating them.  It’s not unlike any other holiday in America in that its complete commercialization has stripped away so much of its genuine meaning, as well its history.  Mother’s Day is unique in its completely radical and totally feminist history, as much as it has been forgotten.

Mother’s Day began in America in 1870 when Julia Ward Howe wrote the Mother’s Day Proclamation. Written in response to the American Civil War and the Franco-Prussian War, her proclamation called on women to use their position as mothers to influence society in fighting for an end to all wars. She called for women to stand up against the unjust violence of war through their roles as wife and mother, to protest the futility of their sons killing other mothers’ sons.

Howe wrote:

Arise, then, women of this day!
Arise, all women who have hearts, Whether our baptism be of water or of tears!
Say firmly: "We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies, Our husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause. Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn All that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy, and patience. We, the women of one country, will be too tender of those of another country To allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs."
[Read the remainder of Howe's quote here] 
The holiday caught on years later when a West Virginia women’s group led by Anna Reeves Jarvis began promoting it as a way to reunite families after the Civil War.  After Jarvis’ death, her daughter began a campaign for the creation of an official Mother’s Day in honor of peace. Devoting much of her life to the cause, it wasn’t until 1914 when Woodrow Wilson signed it into national observance in 1914.

The holiday flourished, along with the flower industry.  The business journal, the Florists Review, actually admitted to its desire to exploit the holiday. Jarvis was strongly opposed to every aspect of the holiday’s commercialization, arrested for protesting the sale of flowers, and petitioning to stop the creation of a Mother’s Day postage stamp.

Today we are in multiple wars that continue to claim the lives of thousands of sons and daughters.  We are also experiencing a still-rising commercialization of nearly every aspect of life; the exploitation of every possible human event and emotion at the benefit of corporations.

Let’s take this Mother’s Day to excuse ourselves from the pressure to consume and remember its radical roots – that mothers, or rather all women, in fact, all people, have a stake in war and a responsibility as American citizens to protest the incredible violence that so many fellow citizens, here and abroad, must suffer through.

The thousands of civilian casualties in Afghanistan and Iraq as well as the devastating impact of post-traumatic stress disorder on our veterans are just the beginning of the terrible repercussion of war.  As we saw last week an announcement of an extension of the military occupation of Afghanistan, let this mother’s day be a day after Julia Ward Howe’s own heart as we stand up and say no to 12 more years of war.

This article was published at NationofChange at: http://www.nationofchange.org/radical-history-mother-s-day-1336835841. All rights are reserved.

Of Getting Old and Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD)

Of Broken Pecker and The Far Side

On Turner Classic Movies right now is a movie entitled, "Most Dangerous Game," made in 1932 with Fay Wray and Joel McRea. My father was born in 1932. I'm quite sure everyone in this movie is dead. Certainly the pets are gone. The story has a lunatic who lures people onto a tropical island and then hunts them. It's quite good. Great atmosphere.

Tonight I give thanks to all my friends who advised me about penis dysfunction. My pecker is on the fritz, and it could be low testosterone or psychiatric medication or pain medication. Damned if I know. What I do know is that I'm not happy with my broken arrow, and I'm waiting for the testosterone shot to kick in and turn me into a human dynamo. Sex personified, with a fedora. Until then, I'm going to keep boring my friends with my tales of woe. If your hypothalamus, thyroid and genitals are working correctly and your hormones are in balance, thank your lucky stars, Friend-O. I'm a sexual milquetoast right now. And there is depression and lack of energy and...blah.

All this means that, in addition to using testosterone shots, I'll have to go into the endocrinology clinic and see my team of endocrinologists and urologists, all working feverishly to figure out the riddle between my ears and legs. This team includes medical school students, with a very high number of women students who have decided to major in Schlongology. Usually one student asks if he or she (always a "she") can take part in my examination. My doctor firsts asks me if it's ok if an adorable woman looks in on my genital examination and hugely embarrassing question and answer period. Always, the answer is, "Yes, it's okay." Why? It's a teaching hospital, and that's how the kids learn, and my penis, no balls, and hormones are nothing if not a unique specimen worthy of scholarly attention.

It's usually pretty cold in that clinic office, but I don't mind if my penis is shriveled up like the head of a frightened turtle. No, the big fear is getting an erection during an exam. This has never happened to me, but I live in fear of it. Given my medical condition, I simply have gotten used to answering sex questions and being looked at down there, via eyeball, MRI, and Ultrasound. Probably X-Ray specs, too...the ones that they sell at the end of every comic book, next to the sea monkeys.

It's stressful, and questions like, "Are you able to have an orgasm?" and "How often do you have sex and/or masturbate?" have me glowing red like a hot coal out of embarrassment. All the heat in my body escaping through my face. It creates an environment not conducive to sexual stimulation and a subsequent erection. Thankfully.

And soon I'll find out the fate of my thyroid. The plot thickens.

So I have the libido of a 90 year old nun with a massive head injury...big deal! So it takes me 3 hours to have an orgasm...no problem! I'll just pop, "The English Patient" or "Dances with Wolves" into the DVD player and have sex while watching a movie. When the English fellow finally dies, or when they shoot Two Socks, that's when I should be about ready to explode. Although those probably aren't good movie choices.

But what great friends I have. I'm a bit obsessed with my hormonal imbalance, as it leads to exhaustion, depression, and the aforementioned problems with sex. So I seek out advice from a friend who is a FTM transsexual, and others, who comfort me and laugh at me, lovingly, and buck me up. Thanks, really, my friends...you know who you are.

In other news, tonight I'm going to share my five favorite Far Side cartoons. It's good to laugh. Or so they say. Here we go...

#5

*This actually has a pretty good story. Apparently, a lot of people were offended at the
 idea of Jane Goodall being depicted as a chimpanzee slut. Actually, she thought it was
 hilarious and even wrote the forward for the 5th Far Side book. It's worth mentioning that Gary Larson
visited Dr. Goodall in the field, and was attacked by a chimp that anthropology majors certainly
remember reading about, Frodo. He got some sort of revenge by beating the bag out of Larson, who suffered bruises and a couple of cuts, but was otherwise fine. Post-chimp attack fine, but fine.

#4

#3

#2

And numero uno!

Good night, all.

Our Love Is Here To Stay

Around the Flat in 80 Days

Fun with video, another video blog entry of The House of Four Cats!

Of Sleeping Cars and Mama Nancy

The Imp In The Closet

The closet is eight feet from the end of my side of the bed. We use a blue curtain to cover the closet doorway. It's nice. If I were to go over and spread the curtain "door" open, I would find one of my cats, "Impy," sleeping on a chair that I have stored in there. Without fail, every time I open wide the curtain, there she is, bleary-eyed in the dark and blinking at the light I'm letting in, no matter how dim. And then she'll peep at me. It's a noise that is not easy to describe. It would present a challenge to any wordsmith. Perhaps a musician could describe it. The best I can do is to simply say that it's a classic caterwaul, with a question mark at the end instead of an exclamation point. If Kim Kardashian howled, it would sound like this cat. It's been described as, "pathetic," but met with exclamations of, "Jesus Christ!" and, "What the Hell, kitty?!" It's loud, and Impy is small. It makes an impression. She's got style, this cat. I'm proud of her.

And every time I look in the closet (half the time just to see her and give her a pat), she does it. 

I've been looking at, and thinking about, this closet quite a bit over the past week. No renovation is planned, and there nothing worth considering about the closet. No funky smell, no guilt-inducing clutter, no childhood "monster in the closet" memories. I don't scare easily in my own flat. There was a time when my wife and I heard someone or something scratching at the wall in the apartment next door. It made the hair stand up on the back of my neck, literally. Goose flesh. But the closet is just the place to hang my shirts, store a chair, and pat Impy. 

I keep thinking about that damn closet because it makes me think of suicide. Of hanging myself, like two people I once knew who did that very thing. There may as well be an "Exit" sign over it. Green or red, your choice. I'll never give in to suicide. I've made promises to all the right people that I'd never try that again. Still, it's difficult to stop thinking about. It is, after all, a solution.  

Another solution to racing, negative thoughts that scream and whisper in the night, throughout the day, and particularly in the early morning is to take Annie for a walk. A lovely distraction. Or kiss my wife, whom I love more than any other. 

That fucking closet. What a great cat that Impy is, always guarding the exit and ready to screech at me in case I decide to give in and do the dangle. 

Sleepless Without The Nancy

Prince Says It All About the State of Things

Self Exams & Cancer Prevention: Balls and Boobs

Today is the anniversary of the day I had my second testicle removed due to Stage 1 cancer. This simply means that cancerous cells were found, but no tumor had yet formed. Since the little fellow didn't work anyway, they performed a radical inguinal orchiectomy. That's where they go through the groin and get the testicle, spermatic cord, and everything connected to it. This was done first in 2004, for the same reason. They should have taken them both out at the same time, but didn't for whatever reason. The second was removed in 2007.

On this, the aforementioned anniversary, I've decided to post a video for young men (18 - 35) that explains how to do a testicular self-examination. It's a bit graphic, but it's really no big deal. Testicular cancer is the most preventable cancer there is, due to the location of the testes outside the abdomen. So, here's the video:



This is the best video I could find, although ideally the video would literally be done by the man himself. Still, it's a good video.

While I'm at it, I may as well show a video on breast exams, given Nancy's recent scare with a possible tumor. The love of my life could have had breast cancer. What a terrible thing to go through. So be proactive. Men, feel your balls. Women, feel your boobs. That's not so difficult, is it?

The breast exam video is part of the same series that did the testicular self-exam.

My Re-Election!

Friday Night at Four Cats House

Das Ist Und Pippen

Scrumptious pipe, primo delivery system of sweet, sweet tobaccy! Thank you, Nancy!

Can't Get Right

In the past few hours it has become clear to me that I've a character flaw that makes me just one of those people who have a quality that makes them unlikable. I've known for years that I have this quality, or lack of quality. I'm not affable, and it seems that I put people ill at ease. I don't know why. I'm very fond of people.

I'm not sure what the future of this blog will be. I'm tired of feeling like the reject, the strange one, the one people snicker at and gatherings. The heat radiates off the pavement, a cool breeze descends from a tall, cloudless sky, music flows through a neighbor's window, wind in the trees speaks to some part of me that makes my heart ache, the smell of lilacs is in the air...and everything is telling me that I'm not right. I'm not quite human. It's tiring, and I welcome death, or will when it comes.

The feeling of this despair emerges from the grass or pavement, and spirals around us and leaves us at the mercy of the governing body of our own self-loathing.

There are many people whom I love, nobody more than Nancy, and she would be so much better off without her misshapen pseudo-human husband. If I loved her, I'd slit my throat and set her free. My god do I love her. You think you know love, but you don't. The love I have for this woman is unlike any other.

Some people aren't right. I'm one of the not-right ones. It's just the way it is. 

Jerkocracy

Everyone of us, at some point, is going to be a jerk in somebody’s else’s eyes - without exception. If you put a smart person amongst the ignorant, they’re the jerk. What a moron - he thinks the world is round, when obviously it’s flat - any fool can see that. No one escapes being a jerk somewhere.


It’s the people who think they’re never jerks that are the real jerks. If you look at your life, you’ve had half a dozen real friends, some acquaintances and then there’s the vast sea of jerks. You’ve befriended those who try to overcome their jerkitude, rather than deny it. Heaven preserve us from the rigid and judgmental righteous.


We live in the Age Of The Jerk. Modern society is so fragmented, that we don’t have shared values anymore. Many elderly English people remember the Blitz and the bombing of London with nostalgia. Everyone was in the same boat, united by a common purpose of vanquishing the evil Hun. No such shared destiny today.


And it pays to be a jerk - there wouldn‘t be so many if it didn‘t. The boys of Enron probably chuckled when they ordered blackouts for California while stealing their electricity. One or two of them went to jail, the rest went on to bigger and better jobs - there’s always room for jerks in the corporate world. When a regular Joe is caught stealing, he goes to jail. When Goldman Sachs is caught defrauding investors and bringing down the economy, they get a bailout and bigger bonuses on the taxpayer dime.


Donald Trump is a major jerk. In a normal society, he’d be shunned for the vulgarian he is, if only for his hair-do. In reality, he’s a bad businessman who protected himself from having to pay his contractors (the little people) by declaring bankruptcy many times over. And now he’s a big TV star. Maybe being an jerk is not so bad.

The jerky business card of a jerk.

The Bitch Tattoo And That Prick Stefano

I'm not ashamed to say it. My lovely wife has me hooked on, "Days of our Lives." Even if I only see one episode once a month, I know what is going on. It's an amazing formula. The shows on HBO are the exact opposite. Miss one episode of, "Boardwalk Empire" or "Game of Thrones" and I'm totally lost. What's going to happen if Nikki tries to keep EJ away from his baby? And Sami and EJ have a history. Does she love him? And Stefano, what a lovable prick!

And you can't beat the hilarity of product placement. Here is a scene where they subtly push Cheerios, which are not just for breakfast anymore:

It started with, "Dark Shadows." We watched one episode on Netflix, and that was it. A week later and we had watched every episode. Barnabas Collins is one sexy fellow at 175 years of age. Check him out:

As a vampire, he has no qualms about killing you, but he's more likely to look at you like that. Slow burn. And nobody ever asks why he has candles all over the house instead of getting some light bulbs.

Anyway, I got Nancy a subscription to, "Bitch" magazine for her birthday, and for some reason they sent along a rub-on tattoo. Like the ones they used to put in Cracker Jack boxes. It's a really good fake tattoo that only came off after a liberal application of alcohol and a bit of scrubbing. It looked like this, before it started to make me feel like "Bombshell" McGee and had to go:

That's all for tonight. I'm watching, "SoapNet" and Stefano just told Gina to go get his egg and bring it to him. Some kind of jewel-encrusted Fabergé thing, the stuff that dreams are made of. Gotta go!

Ode to a Dog Named, "Beau," For Leah, Who Just Lost Her Beloved, "Tala."

Losing a pet can be as hard as losing a close friend, because for many of us, that is just what they are, close friends. This is for Leah and Tala...

"Beau" by Jimmy Stewart

He never came to me when I would call
Unless I had a tennis ball,
Or he felt like it,
But mostly he didn't come at all.

When he was young
He never learned to heel
Or sit or stay,
He did things his way.

Discipline was not his bag
But when you were with him things sure didn't drag.
He'd dig up a rosebush just to spite me,
And when I'd grab him, he'd turn and bite me.

He bit lots of folks from day to day,
The delivery boy was his favorite prey.
The gas man wouldn't read our meter,
He said we owned a real man-eater.

He set the house on fire
But the story's long to tell.
Suffice it to say that he survived
And the house survived as well.

On the evening walks, and Gloria took him,
He was always first out the door.
The Old One and I brought up the rear
Because our bones were sore.

We would charge up the street with Mom hanging on,
What a beautiful pair they were!
And it if was still light and the tourists were out,
They created a bit of a stir.

But every once in awhile, he would stop in his tracks
And with a frown on his face look around.
It was just to make sure that the Old One was there
And would follow him where he was bound.

We are early-to-bedders at our house --
I guess I'm the first to retire.
And as I'd leave the room he'd look at me
And get up from his place by the fire.

He knew where the tennis balls were upstairs
And I'd give him one for awhile.
He would push it under the bed with his nose
And I'd fish it out with a smile.

And before very long
He'd tire of the ball
And be asleep in his corner
In no time at all.

And there were nights when I'd feel him
Climb upon our bed
And lie between us,
And I'd pat his head.

And there were nights when I'd feel this stare
And I'd wake up and he'd be sitting there
And I'd reach out my hand and stroke his hair.
And sometimes I'd feel him sigh
and I think I know the reason why.

He would wake up at night
And he would have this fear
Of the dark, of life, of lots of things,
And he'd be glad to have me near.

And now he's dead.
And there are nights when I think I feel him
Climb upon our bed and lie between us,
And I pat his head.

And there are nights when I think
I feel that stare
And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair,
But he's not there.

Oh, how I wish that wasn't so,
I'll always love a dog named Beau.

Jimmy Stewart 1908-7/2/97

He never came to me when I would call
Unless I had a tennis ball,
Or he felt like it,
But mostly he didn't come at all.

When he was young

He never learned to heel
Or sit or stay,
He did things his way.

Social Security Advocates Launch Campaigns To Pressure AARP

Two separate campaigns have been launched to pressure AARP to stand firm against cuts in Social Security and Medicare benefits. The campaigns follow a report by HuffPost that the influential senior citizens lobby will soon be holding a private, principals-only "salon-style conversation" with a host of advocates of entitlement cuts.

"Once again, AARP is working behind the scenes to build support for benefit cuts while masquerading about as an ardent defender of the safety net to its massive, dues-paying membership," reads a petition from the progressive blog FireDogLake.com. "This is outrageous, and AARP should immediately call off the event and disavow this shameful attempt to throw its weight behind benefit cuts."

Credo Action, an online progressive advocacy group, asked its members to reach out to AARP. "Ironically, while the CEO of AARP is set to hold a private meeting with people who want to cut Social Security and Medicare benefits, the organization has also just launched a national listening tour on the future of Social Security and Medicare. So if there's ever a time to speak out to AARP, it's now," reads a letter to the group's membership. "We are joining with other groups including our friends at Social Security Works in making sure AARP hears that everyday Americans don't want cuts to Social Security benefits. We need to make sure AARP gets this message loud and clear."

AARP's listening tour officially launches on Monday and is dubbed "You've Earned a Say and We're Listening."

One AARP volunteer who attended a two-day training last week wrote HuffPost to say that the listening tour appeared to be aimed at shifting AARP policy in favor of cuts to benefits. "We were explicitly told NOT to provide any education; furthermore, they want us to urge participants to fill out the surveys at the beginning of the gathering, then as time permits, allow people one by one to express their opinions," the volunteer wrote. "I am wondering if all of this fanfare with the surveys will just be a smokescreen for the AARP backing cuts in Social Security and Medicare and using the opinions gathered in the 'You've Earned a Say' sessions as the basis for their EVOLVING policy."

"AARP is not pursuing any closed door deals or grand bargains," said an AARP spokeswoman. "Our main focus is hearing from our members, and all Americans, what they think about ways to strengthen Social Security and Medicare. That's precisely why we're launching 'You've Earned a Say.' We are interested in hearing from all sides and having civil discourse on these issues."

The nearly 54 million people drawing Social Security benefits receive, on average, $1,073.80 per month, according to the Social Security Administration, as HuffPost previously reported. The Center on Budget and Policy Priorities estimates the program keeps some 20 million people out of poverty, including 13 million elderly Americans.

Gary Engelhardt and Jonathan Gruber, in a rigorous 2004 National Bureau of Economic Research report on the program, calculated that each 10 percent cut in benefits would lead to a 7.2 percent increase in poverty. Such cuts are beginning to seem likely, despite the robust state of the program's finances, which can cover full benefits through 2037 and boasts a surplus trust fund of $2.6 trillion as of this past fall. Reversing that trend and increasing Social Security payments would likely lead to a reduction in elderly poverty, if past history is any guide.

AARP has expressed an openness to benefit cuts in the past, only to backtrack under pressure from its membership. The organization, in recent years, has become increasingly entangled with its growing insurance operation.

Isaiah Poole at the progressive group Campaign for America's Future also criticized AARP for hosting the salon:

Here's a message from one AARP member: You've done enough listening. For years now, we've had a "debate" about how to make Social Security sustainable for the next 75 years. One side of that debate is using fear-mongering and deception to make the case for dismantling a public vehicle for economic security that many of the people on that side of the debate never believed should exist to begin with. Their dream remains replacing Social Security with a private insurance system that would be a playground for the same Wall Street gamblers and predators whose behavior trashed the value of our 401(k)s during the 2008 financial crash.

The other side has consistently spoken the plain truth: Social Security is not in crisis, and the long-term liquidity issues that do indeed need to be addressed are not because benefits are too generous. In fact, they are not generous enough. We should strengthen Social Security, and a simple step we could take today is to lift the payroll tax cap, so that people earning six- and seven-figure incomes can pay more of their fair share into the system.