A couple of year’s ago during a master’s class in sociology, the discussion focused on traits of certain socio-economic classes. Soon, the dialogue turned, quite innocently, to rudimentary stereotypes. A particular student, for whom I considered to be enlightened and well-informed, began to list what type of individual played the lottery. Urban poor, rural poor, lower middle-class to middle class all played for the obvious reasons. To get out of their various level of indebtedness, to escape whatever predicament they found themselves in brought on by financial circumstance, to obtain all the things associated with success. She pointed to the lack of education “most” members of these classes had for their frivolous spending. Not once did she note that this affinity for playing games of chance could have been an addiction. Not once did she refer to the possibility that this characteristic had been cultivated over many generations.
While she pompously, with an air of pretention never before exhibited, droned on with her supposed deep, meaningful analysis, the rest of the class snickered in agreement, everyone but me. I nodded politely at her observations, while inside I seethed at the thought of being so neatly categorized by someone who I thought was at least their intellectual equal. And now I was being summarily dismissed to a lower cerebral rung because of my penchant for games of chance. I could have sat there in silent approval, cowering under peer pressure. But that’s not me. So…I raised my hand, and told my story of lottery play.
Quietly, I said “I play the lottery.” The young woman looked as though I had slapped her with a newspaper for peeing on the floor. Her face turned a nice crimson color, and before she could unhinge the one foot that was firmly embedded inside her mouth, I explained to her my reasons which she, in her wildest dreams, and those of my classmates as well, never could possibly have fathomed.
“Look,” I said. “How many amputees do any of you know?” No one out of a class of fifteen said they had ever met, much less knew another besides myself. “Pretty long odds to become one don’t you think?” Next, I asked what were the odds of getting primary custody of a child back in the ‘80s? Again, expressions of bewilderment crossed their faces. “Now” I went on, “what are the chances of an amputee, alcoholic, drug addict, convicted felon, not just getting custody, but raising a child who’d become co-captain of his high school baseball team, and a 100% Bright Futures Academic Scholar?” Silence. I saved the best for last. “What are the odds, the father of that child, cleaning his act up, returning to school, and graduate Magna Cum Laude?” A long shot at best, I asserted. “Put all those odds, of all those things, happening to one person, phenomenal eh?” “That’s why I play the lottery. The odds of winning Fantasy 5 are around 1-400,000, Mega Money, 1-3,000,000, Lotto, 1-23,000,000.” (There was no Powerball yet. In case you’re interested the odds there are about 1-195,000,000.) “All things considered, I’ll take those odds over the other stuff that has happened.” Not one soul in the room argued with my reasoning, though it did elicit some good natured chuckles. But there’s more to it than that.
I had a rather serious gambling problem at one time. I’m an addictive personality, what can I say? Years ago I went to the casino in Atlantic City with $200, been up $3500, and lost it all, so utterly wiped out that I had to stop at toll booths to scrounge the ground for quarters to pay the tolls. During the same period, I’ve gambled a few large on a football game, with no means to pay if I lost, and lost I did. You get the idea. Playing the lottery, participating in my wife’s office football pool, picking a couple of boxes on Super Bowl boards, fill the void from my youth quite nicely thank you. Sometimes there even has been a modest payoff.
Back in the late ‘80s while still living in New Jersey, I got 5 of 6 numbers twice in thirty-five days, in that state’s version of Lotto called Pick Six. I won around 9 G’s. I have yet to be that fortunate here in Florida, but I’m not dead yet.
On each drawing date I approximate what the payout will be for any of the games I wager on, and plan accordingly. If the day ever comes, I want to be prepared. There will first be phone calls to a good tax attorney, an accountant, and an investment house that specializes in annuities. No squandering of a windfall for me. There are donations to institutions of higher learning to be made, and trust funds to be set up for family members. You won’t be reading about how I went off the deep end, bought multiple houses, boats, cars, and the like. So much good can be done with something as sizable as a Lotto pool, or better yet, a Powerball pot. Like the line from Forrest Gump, you can only be so rich, the rest is just for showing off, or something like that.
I’m curious whether any of my former classmates were still in school when a young lady I was in a master’s French class with won. She and her husband were not Lotto savvy. Rather than take a lump sum payment of $11 million, they opted for $770,000 a year for 30 years. The interest alone, had they been careful with their initial spending, in five years time, would far exceed their yearly installment. I guess the lottery commission counts on people to not think things through; otherwise, I don’t believe the payout amounts would regularly be as high as they are. By the way, the husband of the young lady from French class was an accountant. He’ll never get my business that’s for sure. Also, she quit school six credits shy of obtaining her master’s degree. The rest of the class discussed this decision, and we all agreed, we’d never leave school with that kind of income. The young lady claimed she’d be harassed by her fellow students begging for handouts, a little too full of herself I think.
Besides myself, there are other unlikely participants in the weekly Florida Lotto and Powerball drawings. My ex-wife’s father, who has been rather prudent with his money throughout his life, giving him quite a sizable nest egg, plays when the pool is over $10 million. I guess he considers $3 million (the minimum pot) not worth the effort. I am not trying to justify what many, my former sociology classmate being one, consider to be a wasteful expenditure. I’m just saying, to me, it’s not wasteful. As I see it, I’ve already beaten more unlikely odds.
I don’t sit around waiting for Publishers Clearing House to call, nor do I use up my valuable time entering any and all contests that claim riches await me. Superstition dictates that I buy my lottery tickets from the same business establishment everyday. It’s located across the street from my house. If I ever win, Abdul (of course) the store owner, and his family will benefit handsomely, got to pay the vig you know. Besides, it’s the right thing to do. The winnings will do so much for so many others, that’s the real payoff, not what the money would do for me. Well, I’ve got to go. It’s Wednesday, that means Lotto and Powerball. Maybe they’ll be a neat follow-up blog next week. If not, I’ll keep trying to get published, keep trying to secure the next speaking engagement, and keep taking on other assorted jobs that require my expertise. It’s always good to have a back up plan.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Glorious and Victorious
It’s that time of year again when I make my annual trek to Gainesville to see Cory. Oh yeah, I get to go to a University of Florida Gator football game while I’m there. Wait, that didn’t sound right. Let’s start this over.
As soon as the football schedule for the upcoming season is posted on the UF website I pick which game I would like to attend. Don’t get me wrong, I go to spend time with my son. However, when I get to spend that time at a sporting event with him, well, there’s nothing that equals that, unless it’s spending the weekend, and attending said sporting event with a dozen or so of his closest friends. That’s what this past weekend was all about. If it were a beer ad it would have been an old Lowenbrau commercial. On the other hand, that commercial never made me feel the way I felt last weekend. Indulge me if you will, and let me tell you about it, no homo.
Cory thinks I can be a big emotional pussy sometimes. I can’t blame him. I do apple up every now and again. Not as much as I used to when I drank, but still from time to time. I think it started after I had my motorcycle accident, which resulted in the loss of my left leg. The outpouring of kindness from everyone I knew overwhelmed me, thus tapping into new depths of my emotional well. I was unfamiliar with this uncharted territory, and it showed in my outward displays. I like to think now I just experience things more fully than before. There doesn’t have to be tears shed to get emotional. There can be times when my heart beats faster, or my insides swell. Besides, it had been building for months.
Lane Kiffin is the head coach of the University of Tennessee football team. He replaced Philip Fullmer, after a distinguished run that ended rather ignominiously last season. Kiffin was recently fired as head coach of the Oakland Raiders, which made him available to coach in the college ranks. He was obviously unprepared to head a professional program. At the press conference announcing his hiring, Kiffin made it a point to declare the pleasure he was going to get out of singing “Rocky Top,” (the Tennessee fight song) all night after beating Florida. Not too long before this proclamation, Florida had been crowned National Champion. The Gators were returning eleven starters on defense. They still have a stacked running attack. They still had Tim Tebow, and this guy is predicting victory? I was furious. How dare he! I knew then which game I wanted to attend. Shortly after, Kiffin added insult to injury in an address to Tennessee alumni, when he inferred Urban Meyer, the head coach of Florida, cheated. I don’t know Lane Kiffin personally, but his behavior thus far indicated to me the man was a bit of a douchebag. Now I had to be at that game. I was aware of the chaos that would ensue that particular football weekend. I was there for the LSU game last year. I waited for the announcing of the Gator schedule.
Meanwhile, I followed the rantings of the Gator faithful on Facebook, each responding as if personally affronted by Kiffin’s utterances. The day the football schedule was posted I made my motel reservations. Tom Bodett always leaves the light on whenever I go to Gainesville, though he does price gouge me on football weekends. While many of you may turn your nose up at Motel 6, consider this. I spend a maximum of fourteen hours over three days in my room. Why on earth would I spend $300 plus a night at a frillier establishment? All I need is a bed, a shower, and Sportscenter, and I’m good to go. I couldn’t wait.
Many of Cory’s friends who’d graduated would be there. Dan Linden was flying in from New York. A contingent from Tampa that included another Cory, P. Scott and Fera, were coming. Will Pelzer, and his brother Cole were coming. Rob McCoy, the senior member of The Brothers McCoy would make the duo whole. Jarrod Hess, and his brother Jordan- do you sense a trend here- were driving up. Devin and John Domm, Meredith, now over her bout with the swine flu, would join in the festivities. Wilhelm, and his significant other Berkley, the Leaning Tower of Perez, who secured his mention after National Championship. In addition, new roommates of Cory’s would befriend me, emphasis on befriend. The mental defective league, great individuals all, was called to order, with the Tennessee football game serving as the impetus. Everyone being assembled to share a common bond made me grateful to be part of it. Let the games begin.
I have seen the Gators play Arkansas, Kentucky, Vanderbilt, Alabama, Florida Atlantic (my alma mater), LSU, Oklahoma (National Championship), and never before have I ever left so early in the morning. At 6:00AM on Florida’s Turnpike was a seen directly out of Stephan King’s The Langoliers. I hit a straight, flat, stretch of road where I was the lone vehicle for as far as I could see. I did not take this opportunity to test the auto- fuel shut off mechanism, you never know where 5-0 could be lurking...out there…in the dark. I did have a fleeting thought about how I would be the first to arrive, and that got my heart pumping. Eventually, others Gainesville-bound would join the solitary caravan.
There wasn’t much to see once the sun came up, save the Red Bull energy drink delivery truck whose rate of speed was less than that of what was posted. It felt wrong. It was like something out of a living Salvatore Dali painting. An armadillo that was on the losing end of a confrontation with a moving vehicle, laid dormant on the roadside. One of its brethren suffered a similar fate several miles away. No dead raccoons. No dead possums. No dead cats, dogs, snakes, turtles, or iguanas, just armadillos. I thought of the efficient clean up job done by some of Florida’s prison population.
As I pulled off the Archer Road exit of Interstate 75, I glanced at my dashboard clock. The normally four and half hour drive was completed in three hours fifty-eight minutes, with the aid of an on-board wide mouth.
After the requisite checking in, meeting with the University Athletic Association in the continued hope of them one day booking me to speak, purchasing a new Gator hat, and acquiring a fresh bottle of Dr. Bronner’s Original Peppermint Soap, the festivities truly began. They arrived to Trip Deuce alone, and in pairs, these loyal friends of Cory’s, and I’ve come to believe of me as well. Friendship by association; I’ll take it. Once assembled, we made our way to Gator City, a favorite drinking establishment of the Midtown Mafia. One by one more of the delegation arrived. My National Championship saviors Danny and Sara were there which delighted me no end. All were appropriately hailed with handshakes and hugs. A special tribute to Fera when he graced us with his presence gave me chills. Oh, to be welcomed with such unbridled enthusiasm! I hope he never forgets that moment, I surely won’t.
There was no closing of the bar this time, my beat up body only going twenty hours without sleep, I was operating on adrenalin and the caffeine in the numerous Diet Pepsis I’d consumed for the final three. I needed to get some rest, there was an ass kicking to watch the next day.
Gameday! Weeks of hubris and bravado peppered the Facebook pages, and now the day was here! Tailgate preparations were made the previous evening, unbeknownst to me. More familiar faces appeared at the designated tent area. Though I did not engage in the consumption of potables, I was a very interested observer of the camaraderie on display. Many of the throng engaged me, not out of sympathy or obligation as I used to think, but because they were genuinely interested in what I had to say. Talk about being made to feel a part of! As game time approached we made our way to “The Swamp.”
Like the National Championship game, I did not sit with Cory and the others I’ve come to know. My saviors this year, The Pelzers, provided me with one of the hardest to come by tickets around. Let me publically express my gratitude here. Just like the game last January, once inside the stadium, there are no strangers, only Gator fans you haven’t met, to paraphrase.
There would be no systematic annihilation this day. I dutifully stood most of the game even after the mechanism on my prosthetic limb broke, making it rather unpleasant to get around during, and after the game. I scrambled to stand at the end of the third quarter to participate in the “We Are the Boys” tradition. Arm in arm I stood, sang (badly) and swayed, thinking of what the University means to my son and his cohorts. A tear did escape…as usual, shame on me, but I wasn’t the only one. At the conclusion of the well fought contest, the Orange and Blue came out Victorious, 23-13. After, the majority of the record crowd stayed to sing the Alma Mater (a couple more tears). Exiting “The Swamp” Grumblings were heard throughout the melancholy horde. A victory was not enough, pity the pressure those student-athletes must endure; their following only satisfied only if the head of each Tennessee Volunteer were displayed on a pike, and paraded across campus. Me? A victory is a victory. The Gators, who did not play their best football (if you watched), remain atop the polls undefeated.
The following day Cory and I spent some alone time watching my Cincinnati Bengals play. I only stayed for the first half. I would listen to the remainder of the game on the way home in the car, trying hard to focus while the weekend’s events replayed over in my head. My weekend? Its true value and meaning was felt during the long drive.
I thought of those who made sure I was comfortable. I thought of those whose company I so enjoy. I thought of Cory, who goes to any length to make each and every visit so special. And I thought of his friends, many who I’ve known for the last six years. A tear, maybe two, slowly rolled down my face outside of Ocala. My weekend? Glorious! The memories of these football weekends shared with, and because of my son, I will carry with me for the rest of my days.
Florida, our Alma Mater, thy glorious name we praise
All thy loyal sons and daughters, a joyous song shall raise.
Where palm and pine are blowing, where southern seas as flowing,
Shine forth thy noble gothic walls, thy lovely vine clad halls!
Neath the orange and blue victorious, our love shall never fail,
There's no other name so glorious, all hail, FLORIDA HAIL!
As soon as the football schedule for the upcoming season is posted on the UF website I pick which game I would like to attend. Don’t get me wrong, I go to spend time with my son. However, when I get to spend that time at a sporting event with him, well, there’s nothing that equals that, unless it’s spending the weekend, and attending said sporting event with a dozen or so of his closest friends. That’s what this past weekend was all about. If it were a beer ad it would have been an old Lowenbrau commercial. On the other hand, that commercial never made me feel the way I felt last weekend. Indulge me if you will, and let me tell you about it, no homo.
Cory thinks I can be a big emotional pussy sometimes. I can’t blame him. I do apple up every now and again. Not as much as I used to when I drank, but still from time to time. I think it started after I had my motorcycle accident, which resulted in the loss of my left leg. The outpouring of kindness from everyone I knew overwhelmed me, thus tapping into new depths of my emotional well. I was unfamiliar with this uncharted territory, and it showed in my outward displays. I like to think now I just experience things more fully than before. There doesn’t have to be tears shed to get emotional. There can be times when my heart beats faster, or my insides swell. Besides, it had been building for months.
Lane Kiffin is the head coach of the University of Tennessee football team. He replaced Philip Fullmer, after a distinguished run that ended rather ignominiously last season. Kiffin was recently fired as head coach of the Oakland Raiders, which made him available to coach in the college ranks. He was obviously unprepared to head a professional program. At the press conference announcing his hiring, Kiffin made it a point to declare the pleasure he was going to get out of singing “Rocky Top,” (the Tennessee fight song) all night after beating Florida. Not too long before this proclamation, Florida had been crowned National Champion. The Gators were returning eleven starters on defense. They still have a stacked running attack. They still had Tim Tebow, and this guy is predicting victory? I was furious. How dare he! I knew then which game I wanted to attend. Shortly after, Kiffin added insult to injury in an address to Tennessee alumni, when he inferred Urban Meyer, the head coach of Florida, cheated. I don’t know Lane Kiffin personally, but his behavior thus far indicated to me the man was a bit of a douchebag. Now I had to be at that game. I was aware of the chaos that would ensue that particular football weekend. I was there for the LSU game last year. I waited for the announcing of the Gator schedule.
Meanwhile, I followed the rantings of the Gator faithful on Facebook, each responding as if personally affronted by Kiffin’s utterances. The day the football schedule was posted I made my motel reservations. Tom Bodett always leaves the light on whenever I go to Gainesville, though he does price gouge me on football weekends. While many of you may turn your nose up at Motel 6, consider this. I spend a maximum of fourteen hours over three days in my room. Why on earth would I spend $300 plus a night at a frillier establishment? All I need is a bed, a shower, and Sportscenter, and I’m good to go. I couldn’t wait.
Many of Cory’s friends who’d graduated would be there. Dan Linden was flying in from New York. A contingent from Tampa that included another Cory, P. Scott and Fera, were coming. Will Pelzer, and his brother Cole were coming. Rob McCoy, the senior member of The Brothers McCoy would make the duo whole. Jarrod Hess, and his brother Jordan- do you sense a trend here- were driving up. Devin and John Domm, Meredith, now over her bout with the swine flu, would join in the festivities. Wilhelm, and his significant other Berkley, the Leaning Tower of Perez, who secured his mention after National Championship. In addition, new roommates of Cory’s would befriend me, emphasis on befriend. The mental defective league, great individuals all, was called to order, with the Tennessee football game serving as the impetus. Everyone being assembled to share a common bond made me grateful to be part of it. Let the games begin.
I have seen the Gators play Arkansas, Kentucky, Vanderbilt, Alabama, Florida Atlantic (my alma mater), LSU, Oklahoma (National Championship), and never before have I ever left so early in the morning. At 6:00AM on Florida’s Turnpike was a seen directly out of Stephan King’s The Langoliers. I hit a straight, flat, stretch of road where I was the lone vehicle for as far as I could see. I did not take this opportunity to test the auto- fuel shut off mechanism, you never know where 5-0 could be lurking...out there…in the dark. I did have a fleeting thought about how I would be the first to arrive, and that got my heart pumping. Eventually, others Gainesville-bound would join the solitary caravan.
There wasn’t much to see once the sun came up, save the Red Bull energy drink delivery truck whose rate of speed was less than that of what was posted. It felt wrong. It was like something out of a living Salvatore Dali painting. An armadillo that was on the losing end of a confrontation with a moving vehicle, laid dormant on the roadside. One of its brethren suffered a similar fate several miles away. No dead raccoons. No dead possums. No dead cats, dogs, snakes, turtles, or iguanas, just armadillos. I thought of the efficient clean up job done by some of Florida’s prison population.
As I pulled off the Archer Road exit of Interstate 75, I glanced at my dashboard clock. The normally four and half hour drive was completed in three hours fifty-eight minutes, with the aid of an on-board wide mouth.
After the requisite checking in, meeting with the University Athletic Association in the continued hope of them one day booking me to speak, purchasing a new Gator hat, and acquiring a fresh bottle of Dr. Bronner’s Original Peppermint Soap, the festivities truly began. They arrived to Trip Deuce alone, and in pairs, these loyal friends of Cory’s, and I’ve come to believe of me as well. Friendship by association; I’ll take it. Once assembled, we made our way to Gator City, a favorite drinking establishment of the Midtown Mafia. One by one more of the delegation arrived. My National Championship saviors Danny and Sara were there which delighted me no end. All were appropriately hailed with handshakes and hugs. A special tribute to Fera when he graced us with his presence gave me chills. Oh, to be welcomed with such unbridled enthusiasm! I hope he never forgets that moment, I surely won’t.
There was no closing of the bar this time, my beat up body only going twenty hours without sleep, I was operating on adrenalin and the caffeine in the numerous Diet Pepsis I’d consumed for the final three. I needed to get some rest, there was an ass kicking to watch the next day.
Gameday! Weeks of hubris and bravado peppered the Facebook pages, and now the day was here! Tailgate preparations were made the previous evening, unbeknownst to me. More familiar faces appeared at the designated tent area. Though I did not engage in the consumption of potables, I was a very interested observer of the camaraderie on display. Many of the throng engaged me, not out of sympathy or obligation as I used to think, but because they were genuinely interested in what I had to say. Talk about being made to feel a part of! As game time approached we made our way to “The Swamp.”
Like the National Championship game, I did not sit with Cory and the others I’ve come to know. My saviors this year, The Pelzers, provided me with one of the hardest to come by tickets around. Let me publically express my gratitude here. Just like the game last January, once inside the stadium, there are no strangers, only Gator fans you haven’t met, to paraphrase.
There would be no systematic annihilation this day. I dutifully stood most of the game even after the mechanism on my prosthetic limb broke, making it rather unpleasant to get around during, and after the game. I scrambled to stand at the end of the third quarter to participate in the “We Are the Boys” tradition. Arm in arm I stood, sang (badly) and swayed, thinking of what the University means to my son and his cohorts. A tear did escape…as usual, shame on me, but I wasn’t the only one. At the conclusion of the well fought contest, the Orange and Blue came out Victorious, 23-13. After, the majority of the record crowd stayed to sing the Alma Mater (a couple more tears). Exiting “The Swamp” Grumblings were heard throughout the melancholy horde. A victory was not enough, pity the pressure those student-athletes must endure; their following only satisfied only if the head of each Tennessee Volunteer were displayed on a pike, and paraded across campus. Me? A victory is a victory. The Gators, who did not play their best football (if you watched), remain atop the polls undefeated.
The following day Cory and I spent some alone time watching my Cincinnati Bengals play. I only stayed for the first half. I would listen to the remainder of the game on the way home in the car, trying hard to focus while the weekend’s events replayed over in my head. My weekend? Its true value and meaning was felt during the long drive.
I thought of those who made sure I was comfortable. I thought of those whose company I so enjoy. I thought of Cory, who goes to any length to make each and every visit so special. And I thought of his friends, many who I’ve known for the last six years. A tear, maybe two, slowly rolled down my face outside of Ocala. My weekend? Glorious! The memories of these football weekends shared with, and because of my son, I will carry with me for the rest of my days.
Florida, our Alma Mater, thy glorious name we praise
All thy loyal sons and daughters, a joyous song shall raise.
Where palm and pine are blowing, where southern seas as flowing,
Shine forth thy noble gothic walls, thy lovely vine clad halls!
Neath the orange and blue victorious, our love shall never fail,
There's no other name so glorious, all hail, FLORIDA HAIL!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Glass House
Rude [rood] >adj. 1 offensively impolite or ill-mannered: she had been rude to her boss [with infinitive] it’s rude to ask a lady her age.
Referring to a taboo subject such as sex in a way considered improper and offensive: he made a rude gesture. [attrib.] having startling abruptness: the war came as a very rude awakening.2 roughly made or done; lacking subtlety or sophistication: a rude coffin.
archaic, ignorant and uneducated: the new religion was first promulgated by rude men.
3 [attrib.] chiefly Brit. Vigorous or hearty: Isabel had always been in rude health.
-DERIVATIVES rude-ly adv.; rude-ness n.; ru-der-y n.
-ORIGIN Middle English (in sense 2, also ‘uncultured’): from Old French, from Latin rudis ‘unwrought’ (referring to handicraft), figuratively ‘uncultivated’; related to rudus ‘broken stone.’
Dominating the headlines this week have been several high profile cases of indecorous public behavior. In this age of around the clock “news” coverage, in competition for ratings, all forms of media have latched onto this topic with both claws. Like the old wives’ tale of celebrity deaths coming in threes, so to are the most recent Miss Manners felons. Joe Wilson, Republican Congressional Representative from South Carolina, Kanye West, inarticulate egomaniacal pop star, and tennis great Serena Williams, all find themselves amid a maelstrom of public outcry led by those who are acting as today’s moral entrepreneurs. Is this really news, and do we need everyone weighing in with their opinion on proper decorum?
In 1922, Emily Post published her world renowned best seller on proper etiquette. The timing of this publication couldn’t have been better; the Roaring 20’s weren’t called “roaring” for nothing. America was coming out of the period of strict Victorian morals. It was time for society to finally let its collective hair down. The finishing school contingent was appalled at the deprivation of societal norms as they new them. Most of these young ladies of “old money” wealth and privilege wanted to remind the nouveau riche a certain moral respectability comes with affluence; a message which many ignored. Post’s book has remained the standard for the last eighty-seven years and seventeen printings. It is this same set of manners the hoity-toity of today refer. Antiquated yes; needed, in some cases, but not enough to warrant the overblown, overhyped scrutiny that is prevailing in the previously mentioned cases. Let’s take a look at each scenario.
Congressman Wilson, who shouted “You lie!” at the President during his speech to Congress concerning health care, represents the great state of South Carolina, home of Preston Brooks. Who is Preston Brooks you say? In 1856, Preston Brooks beat the living shit out of Charles Sumner with a gold tipped cane right on the Senate floor. Over what? In today’s vernacular, Sumner ‘dissed his uncle, A.P. Butler and his views on slavery. Though Brooks was censured for this little fiasco, his constituents re-elected him, and sent him numerous gold-tipped canes to boot. When Congress reconvened after the summer break, most members came armed. Needless to say, they had to check their weapons at the door. Wilson’s constituents love him as well or they wouldn’t have elected him for his forth consecutive term.
The Congressman is so far to the right, he voted for keeping the Confederate flag flying over his states Capital building. Found out this bit of news at a website called thinkprogress.org., isn’t that an oxymoron? Several news sources have made reference to Wilson’s stance, alluding to his overt racism as the cause for his behavior. Wilson claims it was just a “spontaneous outburst” during an emotionally charged moment. Wilson apologized to the President, who readily accepted. It did not matter one iota whether the apology was sincere or not. The President was quick to put the matter behind him, and focus on the health care issue, going so far as to instruct Congress not to sanction Representative Wilson. It is the media who keeps fanning the flames of discord. The same may be said in the case of Serena Williams.
Williams went into a profanity laced tirade at the U.S. Open tennis championships recently. She forfeited the match, was fined, and made a contrite apology. The media and the USTA won’t put the matter to bed. Williams’ apology wasn’t timely. It wasn’t sincere. Her behavior deemed deplorable. The USTA is going to form a committee to investigate the matter further to see if perhaps Williams should forfeit her winnings from her and her sister Venus capturing the doubles title. This committee is going to consider whether Serena should possibly be banned from participating in future Grand Slam events. Why don’t we just draw and quarter her, and be done with it. Don’t these people remember John McEnroe, Ivan Tirilac, Ilie Nastasie, or Jimmy Connors? Can you imagine the USGA fining or suspending Tiger Woods from competition for all the expletives he spews after bad shots? The rest of the world would think the Americans have finally gone off the deep end. The PGA Tour would suffer tremendously, as would its current global appeal. The continual media glare has done the trick. The holier than thou have had their say. Now let Serena Williams get back to playing tennis, instead of explaining her demeanor. As for Kanye West, well, he’s just a “jackass.”
That’s what the President called West during what he believed was an “off the record” moment. And now the President is under fire. Jesus Christ! Can you imagine what a field day the press would have had if they were all vying for soundbites from Presidents Lyndon B. Johnson and Richard Nixon, pottymouths both!? And besides, Kanye West did behave like a jackass at the MTV video music awards. (they still show videos on MTV?). Does anyone want to disagree? I didn’t think so. The thing that galls me the most is now, everyone and their brother are examining why all this rude behavior.
It couldn’t possibly be that we’ve become a culture so permissive that “shit” was uttered on the mainstream program ER. Maybe it’s because we’ve stretched the boundaries of propriety so far, and now a couple of incidents bring to our attention that maybe this isn’t such a good thing. Maybe we just haven’t caught up with the rest of the world about not taking everything so goddamn seriously.
We as a society have allowed the moral self-righteous to become so preoccupied with how others are behaving that they forgot to examine their motives. Like the politicians who rail on behalf of some cause, only to be accused of what they’re railing against. (See Mark Foley, Eliot Spitzer, and South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford, what’s up with these South Carolina folk?) When did those in the media become the shining stars of moral purity? They cast aspersions in the same tone of voice that Alex Trebek uses when he tells the correct answer to a contestant who has erred. Trebek always acts as though he knew the answer, and makes the person feel as if their fly is down.
When you come right down to it, I’m with Emily Post. Stuff like keep your elbows off the table, chew with your mouth closed, no double dipping at the veggie platter, don’t fart in front of strangers, don’t use your fork as if it were a steam shovel, and open doors for others. If they don’t thank me, I’ll let them know about it. But when they return the favor, I will say thank you.
Those in the media better take a long hard look in the mirror, and make sure their demeanor is flawless enough to cast stones. Let’s get a thicker skin, and lighten up. There are much more serious matters that deserve our attention. I don’t know about you, but I have enough concerns with my own behavior; I really don’t give a shit about someone else’s crassness. Maybe that’s because I say “fuck” a lot.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The Sky is Falling
There are two characteristics which I believe plague our society today, self-absorption and immediate gratification. Examples of these cultural toxins have been emphasized periodically in blogs past. The hot topic these past couple of weeks, for whatever reactionary fueled reason, has been yesterday’s address to students by this country’s President. There was, and still lingering, public outcry over said address, by a segment of the neo-conservative faction that isn’t so neo. The biggest difference between the far right wing of yesteryear and today is what motivates them.
What was the big goddamn deal about a President speaking to a school age audience? It’s not like it never occurred before, and why would anyone give a forum to those so devoid of reason; which is what’s separates us from the other animals, but you could’ve fooled me by what fell out of some folks mouths. Can’t these people think for themselves instead of regurgitating whatever the Rush Limbaugh’s, Sean Hannrity’s, and Bill O’Reilly’s of the world spew forth? They seem to be as misguided as the Black Panthers, and The Weathermen were in the 1960’s. I'm surprised there hasn't been talk of impeachment yet, groundless yes, but no doubt coming.
Nothing our President said yesterday had anything to do with a political agenda, indoctrination, or brainwashing, as some claimed was his intent. Are you fucking kidding me? Maybe he had some subliminal message written on his eyelids like the girl in Indiana Jones archeology class did, and every time our President blinked, children across the country turned into socialist zombies similar to Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Maybe our President was going to say something truly seditious like “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” Or, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Both statements by Presidents the far right believed had socialist leanings. We don’t want our youth taking things like that to heart! That said, okay boys and girls, it’s history lesson time!
Franklin Delano Roosevelt, following his election in 1932, was once labeled a socialist for the government programs he pushed through Congress to combat the Great Depression. Al Smith, the Republican Party candidate compared Roosevelt to Karl Marx and Vladimir Lenin for his policies. It took The New Deal, followed by another New Deal in 1934, nine years of legislation at work, and a war, before America could begin to see the economic light of day. It wasn’t until the 1952, and the election of Dwight Eisenhower, before America was once again prosperous. The economy has been, and always will be, cyclical. Due to the industrial boom of the Roaring Twenties, and the subsequent Crash of ’29, the cycle was expedited, then prolonged. The current predicament America finds itself mired in began toward the end of Bill Clinton’s term in office. Warning signs went unheeded, and 9-11 sped up an already deteriorating situation. Did we take stock in the economic indicators, no. George W. Bush made a half trillion dollar budget surplus evaporate (Woo-hoo! I got $300, how about you?), thought a war in the Middle East was a good idea, big business went unchecked, and voila, welcome to the world as we now know it. Along comes a guy who understands desperate times call for desperate measures, and conservatives are clamoring for his head after nine months. There’s that immediate gratification thing kicking in.
So our President wants to tell kids about the value of an education, and the responsibility they have to be the very best they can be. How dare he ask these kids to hold themselves accountable for their own actions! Let’s keep them from hearing this subversive message. Let’s keep handing out trophies to those who finish last. Let’s keep rewarding straight C’s with a new Sony PS3. Let’s keep allowing some parents to blame teachers for their child’s inadequacies because these very same parents haven’t done their jobs at home. Let’s keep ignoring what benefits the greater good, because, don’t you know, molly-coddling is a birthright. It’s not about the classroom performance; it’s all about today’s kids feeling good about themselves. Pardon me while I vomit.
Parents wanted to keep their kids out of school to show their displeasure with the current administration’s policies. Does this mean they can keep their kids home because they don’t like what’s being taught their kids? Does it mean these kids get to stay home because the parents don’t like the teacher, the school, the school uniform colors? Where does it end? How come no one said anything when either George Bush, or Lyndon Johnson, or Ronald Reagan, or, well, you get the idea, spoke to classrooms of kids? Howard Stern, the notorious talk radio host, cites that racism is at the root of this parental uproar. I don’t know if I agree with that, but I do believe the irate parents intentions were not only ill conceived, but damaging to the child’s perspective.
What kind of message are the kids of these narrow-minded parents receiving? If they disagree with something, just take your ball and go home? Remember parents, it wasn’t just about your kid, if you can wrap your brains around that concept. I’m sure they can’t, because, don’t you know, everything is about them. Why didn’t these parents sit down with their children and explain the differences in the Republican and Democratic elucidation of the Constitution? Tell them there have been two distinct interpretations since, well, for-ev-er. The Republicans have always believed in a liberal interpretation of the wording of the Constitution, while the Democrats have always believed in a literal version, except when it suits either one to have the opposite view.
“Mommy and Daddy don’t agree with what our President is doing, but he is still our President.” Couldn’t they have spoken to their children like that instead of bringing their form of McCarthyism into the 21st century? Oh that’s right, this very same generation of parents whine that they can’t get their kids to listen to them, or do what they say. Is that because they do everything for these kids, and they don’t hold them accountable for anything?
I wish I had the opportunity our President had. I’d have told the kids it’s time to put on your big boy and girl pants. The days of entitlement are over. You are not god’s gift to mankind regardless of what smoke your parents continue to blow up your ass. Contrary to popular belief, none of you are the second coming. You do not get everything your way just because you exist. Maximize your potential, shut up, and get cracking. If you think anybody owes you anything, you are sadly mistaken. If you think your Mommies and Daddies are going to continue to wipe your asses until you graduate college, for those that go, for some, even longer, you’ll get exactly what’s coming to you! Now everyone close their eyes, and tell me what you see. Exactly.
What was the big goddamn deal about a President speaking to a school age audience? It’s not like it never occurred before, and why would anyone give a forum to those so devoid of reason; which is what’s separates us from the other animals, but you could’ve fooled me by what fell out of some folks mouths. Can’t these people think for themselves instead of regurgitating whatever the Rush Limbaugh’s, Sean Hannrity’s, and Bill O’Reilly’s of the world spew forth? They seem to be as misguided as the Black Panthers, and The Weathermen were in the 1960’s. I'm surprised there hasn't been talk of impeachment yet, groundless yes, but no doubt coming.
Nothing our President said yesterday had anything to do with a political agenda, indoctrination, or brainwashing, as some claimed was his intent. Are you fucking kidding me? Maybe he had some subliminal message written on his eyelids like the girl in Indiana Jones archeology class did, and every time our President blinked, children across the country turned into socialist zombies similar to Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Maybe our President was going to say something truly seditious like “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” Or, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Both statements by Presidents the far right believed had socialist leanings. We don’t want our youth taking things like that to heart! That said, okay boys and girls, it’s history lesson time!
Franklin Delano Roosevelt, following his election in 1932, was once labeled a socialist for the government programs he pushed through Congress to combat the Great Depression. Al Smith, the Republican Party candidate compared Roosevelt to Karl Marx and Vladimir Lenin for his policies. It took The New Deal, followed by another New Deal in 1934, nine years of legislation at work, and a war, before America could begin to see the economic light of day. It wasn’t until the 1952, and the election of Dwight Eisenhower, before America was once again prosperous. The economy has been, and always will be, cyclical. Due to the industrial boom of the Roaring Twenties, and the subsequent Crash of ’29, the cycle was expedited, then prolonged. The current predicament America finds itself mired in began toward the end of Bill Clinton’s term in office. Warning signs went unheeded, and 9-11 sped up an already deteriorating situation. Did we take stock in the economic indicators, no. George W. Bush made a half trillion dollar budget surplus evaporate (Woo-hoo! I got $300, how about you?), thought a war in the Middle East was a good idea, big business went unchecked, and voila, welcome to the world as we now know it. Along comes a guy who understands desperate times call for desperate measures, and conservatives are clamoring for his head after nine months. There’s that immediate gratification thing kicking in.
So our President wants to tell kids about the value of an education, and the responsibility they have to be the very best they can be. How dare he ask these kids to hold themselves accountable for their own actions! Let’s keep them from hearing this subversive message. Let’s keep handing out trophies to those who finish last. Let’s keep rewarding straight C’s with a new Sony PS3. Let’s keep allowing some parents to blame teachers for their child’s inadequacies because these very same parents haven’t done their jobs at home. Let’s keep ignoring what benefits the greater good, because, don’t you know, molly-coddling is a birthright. It’s not about the classroom performance; it’s all about today’s kids feeling good about themselves. Pardon me while I vomit.
Parents wanted to keep their kids out of school to show their displeasure with the current administration’s policies. Does this mean they can keep their kids home because they don’t like what’s being taught their kids? Does it mean these kids get to stay home because the parents don’t like the teacher, the school, the school uniform colors? Where does it end? How come no one said anything when either George Bush, or Lyndon Johnson, or Ronald Reagan, or, well, you get the idea, spoke to classrooms of kids? Howard Stern, the notorious talk radio host, cites that racism is at the root of this parental uproar. I don’t know if I agree with that, but I do believe the irate parents intentions were not only ill conceived, but damaging to the child’s perspective.
What kind of message are the kids of these narrow-minded parents receiving? If they disagree with something, just take your ball and go home? Remember parents, it wasn’t just about your kid, if you can wrap your brains around that concept. I’m sure they can’t, because, don’t you know, everything is about them. Why didn’t these parents sit down with their children and explain the differences in the Republican and Democratic elucidation of the Constitution? Tell them there have been two distinct interpretations since, well, for-ev-er. The Republicans have always believed in a liberal interpretation of the wording of the Constitution, while the Democrats have always believed in a literal version, except when it suits either one to have the opposite view.
“Mommy and Daddy don’t agree with what our President is doing, but he is still our President.” Couldn’t they have spoken to their children like that instead of bringing their form of McCarthyism into the 21st century? Oh that’s right, this very same generation of parents whine that they can’t get their kids to listen to them, or do what they say. Is that because they do everything for these kids, and they don’t hold them accountable for anything?
I wish I had the opportunity our President had. I’d have told the kids it’s time to put on your big boy and girl pants. The days of entitlement are over. You are not god’s gift to mankind regardless of what smoke your parents continue to blow up your ass. Contrary to popular belief, none of you are the second coming. You do not get everything your way just because you exist. Maximize your potential, shut up, and get cracking. If you think anybody owes you anything, you are sadly mistaken. If you think your Mommies and Daddies are going to continue to wipe your asses until you graduate college, for those that go, for some, even longer, you’ll get exactly what’s coming to you! Now everyone close their eyes, and tell me what you see. Exactly.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Cats Have a Purrpose
The inspiration for this week’s blog comes by Cynn Chadwick, an accomplished writer and professor, as well as a friend of mine from high school. She recently shared her thoughts concerning the passing of a beloved or not so much -depending on what you get out of the piece- family pet, specifically a cat. Dog lover’s stifle your gag reflexes. This piece is not some sort of literary equivalent similar to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Sweet Home Alabama to Neil Young’s Southern Man. What Cynn’s essay did was give me pause, evoking thoughts of son/father/cat relationships. The treatise also struck a nerve. Shea, my son’s cat who resides with my wife and I while my son is away at school, is getting on in years. Though spirited, and in fine health, I know what the future holds.
Shea, like the stadium, is not my son’s first cat. That would be Ramone, like the band where everyone was clad in black. Ramone was a present to my son for his first birthday. The reasons for a cat instead of a dog were numerous. A dog requires walking. My son was one year old; he couldn’t very well do it. Still recovering from a rather severe motorcycle accident, I had enogh trouble walking myself, much less a dog. My future ex-wife worked full time, walking the dog would be just an added unnecessary burden. Sure, she or I could have just let the dog out into our ample backyard to do its business. The problem with that, I would have been assigned poop pickup duty. I had been cleaning up dogshit since I was six, if I didn’t have to, I wasn’t going to. Therefore, we settled on a cat. Cats can be pretty much maintenance-free. Give them food, water, a couple of toys, and a cat box, and they’re good to go. Some are so aloof, there is no need for any interaction with humans. I suspected the frenetic behavior of a toddler would surely test the patience of the most stoic of felines. It was a risk I was willing to take.
On January 10th,1986, my son’s mother and I stopped by a locale animal shelter to see what was available. There was the usual selection of older, probably abandoned, full grown cats. There were full litters of eight week old kittens. Then there was a lone twelve week old black kitten. We surmised that an eight week old was too small. A full grown would be too set in its ways. Ramone was our Goldilocks.
As we approached the cage, the black generic kitten immediately awoke from its slumber to greet us. I pushed my face near the cage for a closer look, the stray purred loudly, reaching its paw through the small opening to gently bat at my face. We asked the volunteer if we could hold him, she obliged. The little kitten seemed thrilled at the attention. It licked my hand, my face, my chin, purring madly the entire time. We were sold, with Ramone in hand, home we went.
Ramone and my son hit it off immediately. Adult one word reminders of “gentle,” “easy,” and “careful” were plentiful for the first couple of hours. My son was quick on the uptake after that. Guests began to arrive for my son’s inaugural celebration. Ramone selected a comfy spot in the middle of the living room floor to nap while the adult humans negotiated around him. Through the tearing of wrapping paper, and much frivolity, Ramone remained sleeping. He had adapted well.
Ramone got into the usual amount of scrapes, with raccoons, opossums, and even other cats, but he always seemed to come out these skirmishes with only minor damage. When it came time for my son to attend school, Ramone would occasionally escort to the end of the driveway, wait for the bus, then cross the street after the coast was clear. In 1993, my son and I moved to Florida. For one month prior to the move, we groomed our next door neighbors who loved Ramone, to take care of him until we got settled, and then we’d send for him. I left behind enough cash for the shipping, and my vinyl classic LP collection. We haven’t seen either since.
When I informed my son that Ramone had run away, he was devastated. I tried to soothe him by promising to make good one day. After our first year in Florida was nearly complete, a co-worker of mine informed me that her cat was having kittens, and was I interested. Bingo! The time had come for a new pet to enhance our lives. I say enhance because studies have shown that people live longer who own cats. See, they’re good for more than visual amusement for humans who are stoned.
My son spent summers with his mother in New Jersey. He was due back the week before school started at the end of August. The kittens were born on the forth of July. Exactly eight weeks, the recommended adopting age, passed when he returned home. The number one priority was not buying school clothes or school supplies that first day back; it was to drive to Kendall to pick out a new kitten.
Only four kittens were in the litter. I received daily updates from my co-worker as to their progress and health. She had given them all temporary names. This woman was obviously a lunatic. I had heard of cat lover’s before, but this was ridiculous. I couldn’t wait for my son to get home so we could put an end to this non-stop barrage of insignificant feline information she alone found so enthralling. She would giggle with glee regaling me with anecdotes about “Holstein,” the lone female in the litter. She told me the kitten had the markings “exactly like a cow, wait till you see it!” She seemed disappointed when I did not share her zeal. She periodically would query me about our living environment, making sure her “babies” were all going to proper homes. I was sure she was loony now. My son would get to witness her eccentricity first hand.
When we arrived at my co-worker’s apartment, my son decided to sit on the floor. I asked why, he said he could better judge the kittens from there. Who’s to argue with a nine-year old? The kittens were all let out at the same time. Within minutes, “Holstein” had made her way upon my son’s lap, and was licking his chin. He declared this is the one. No need to check your tickets ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! “Shea,” he had decided on the name weeks ago when I told him he was getting a kitten; rode home in the car carrier-less, asleep on the back seat.
Unlike Ramone, Shea would be an indoor cat. The rural expanse of Long Valley, may have been fine for Ramone; but the growing ever more congested, zero lot line, call me when done doing five to ten, firecracker up the bunghole when no one is looking, Hitler youth of Pembroke Pines, is no place for an easy going cat like Shea. Yes, that’s right, I said easy going. A stark contrast to my friend’s Jet, the pissy, pissing machine, though they do share some of the same annoying traits.
It is my wife and son that Shea enjoys taking a swipe at, claws out, when either of them walk by, just because she can, without fear of retribution. She wouldn’t dare pull this stunt with me. Why? Because I’m the designated head scratcher. If she wants any of that ever again, she’ll leave my foot and ankles alone. I also change her litter box. She knows which side her bread is buttered on.
If her water or food dish is empty regardless of hour, she let’s out a “meow” that I swear has caused fluid to leak from my ears. She flops, anywhere, at any time, in front of where you are walking. This could cause a wee bit of trouble were my wife and I twenty years older. Then Shea has the audacity to get pissed if you step on her. And if you scold her, she’ll turn her back to you, with her ears laying down, telling “in cat” to whoever is speaking about her, to kiss her ass. She assumes the same position in front of her food dish if what’s in there is not fresh enough to suit her. I did mention cats can be aloof.
She was once fat, a live version of the Kliban Cat, big body, little head. Shea’s motto might as well be “All are welcome ye who enter here!” A visitor, be it a neighbor, close friend, work associate, the UPS driver, an unwelcome solicitor, trips Shea’s inner radar signaling a new arrival. She makes a beeline to said victim, making her figure eight around the legs of the former stranger, her face saying “please pet me, scratch my head, anything but ignore me, because I’m not going away.” Once her mission is accomplished, a firm “Shea that’s enough,” usually sends her on her way, nose in the air, as if scorned. Shea has never had to play second fiddle to anyone or anything. She has been queen of the castle for the last fifteen years.
When it came time for my son to go off to college, he contemplated taking Shea with him. That thought passed rather quickly, and for a myriad of good reasons, I’ll let you think of several. However, I will give him credit for thinking of her. Shea has been “his cat” in title only for quite some time. I don’t think he has ever changed her litter box. Since my son began high school, he has rarely fed or watered her. But, when he comes home for a visit, Shea is on him like white on rice.
Shea has never been one to get on the furniture, save the two beds my son has used over the years. Her favorite spot is upstairs on the former bed in the loft. Shea no longer navigates the steep stairs the way she once did. She has on occasion fallen down, descending those treacherous stairs. When she goes outdoors, she no longer chases the tiny lizards that are so numerous here in South Florida. She sleeps more now, and also drinks more water. She has become more vocal, maybe it’s their version of nagging. All these telltale signs caused my son some consternation this last trip home for the summer.
When it came time for him to make his way back up to Gainesville, he said, “I guess I’d better say good-bye to Shea” as he sideways glanced in my direction. I knew what the look meant. It was the same feeling we shared our last visit to Ohio to see my father. My boy, now a man, might be saying good-bye for the final time to one of the last living remnants of his childhood. He was relived that Shea did not pass while he was home. The day is coming when my son will visit, and he won’t be greeted at the door by “his” cat. I will cry when Shea goes. I will cry alone, with my son, and for him; both of us helpless children that day, coping with the inevitable.
Shea, like the stadium, is not my son’s first cat. That would be Ramone, like the band where everyone was clad in black. Ramone was a present to my son for his first birthday. The reasons for a cat instead of a dog were numerous. A dog requires walking. My son was one year old; he couldn’t very well do it. Still recovering from a rather severe motorcycle accident, I had enogh trouble walking myself, much less a dog. My future ex-wife worked full time, walking the dog would be just an added unnecessary burden. Sure, she or I could have just let the dog out into our ample backyard to do its business. The problem with that, I would have been assigned poop pickup duty. I had been cleaning up dogshit since I was six, if I didn’t have to, I wasn’t going to. Therefore, we settled on a cat. Cats can be pretty much maintenance-free. Give them food, water, a couple of toys, and a cat box, and they’re good to go. Some are so aloof, there is no need for any interaction with humans. I suspected the frenetic behavior of a toddler would surely test the patience of the most stoic of felines. It was a risk I was willing to take.
On January 10th,1986, my son’s mother and I stopped by a locale animal shelter to see what was available. There was the usual selection of older, probably abandoned, full grown cats. There were full litters of eight week old kittens. Then there was a lone twelve week old black kitten. We surmised that an eight week old was too small. A full grown would be too set in its ways. Ramone was our Goldilocks.
As we approached the cage, the black generic kitten immediately awoke from its slumber to greet us. I pushed my face near the cage for a closer look, the stray purred loudly, reaching its paw through the small opening to gently bat at my face. We asked the volunteer if we could hold him, she obliged. The little kitten seemed thrilled at the attention. It licked my hand, my face, my chin, purring madly the entire time. We were sold, with Ramone in hand, home we went.
Ramone and my son hit it off immediately. Adult one word reminders of “gentle,” “easy,” and “careful” were plentiful for the first couple of hours. My son was quick on the uptake after that. Guests began to arrive for my son’s inaugural celebration. Ramone selected a comfy spot in the middle of the living room floor to nap while the adult humans negotiated around him. Through the tearing of wrapping paper, and much frivolity, Ramone remained sleeping. He had adapted well.
Ramone got into the usual amount of scrapes, with raccoons, opossums, and even other cats, but he always seemed to come out these skirmishes with only minor damage. When it came time for my son to attend school, Ramone would occasionally escort to the end of the driveway, wait for the bus, then cross the street after the coast was clear. In 1993, my son and I moved to Florida. For one month prior to the move, we groomed our next door neighbors who loved Ramone, to take care of him until we got settled, and then we’d send for him. I left behind enough cash for the shipping, and my vinyl classic LP collection. We haven’t seen either since.
When I informed my son that Ramone had run away, he was devastated. I tried to soothe him by promising to make good one day. After our first year in Florida was nearly complete, a co-worker of mine informed me that her cat was having kittens, and was I interested. Bingo! The time had come for a new pet to enhance our lives. I say enhance because studies have shown that people live longer who own cats. See, they’re good for more than visual amusement for humans who are stoned.
My son spent summers with his mother in New Jersey. He was due back the week before school started at the end of August. The kittens were born on the forth of July. Exactly eight weeks, the recommended adopting age, passed when he returned home. The number one priority was not buying school clothes or school supplies that first day back; it was to drive to Kendall to pick out a new kitten.
Only four kittens were in the litter. I received daily updates from my co-worker as to their progress and health. She had given them all temporary names. This woman was obviously a lunatic. I had heard of cat lover’s before, but this was ridiculous. I couldn’t wait for my son to get home so we could put an end to this non-stop barrage of insignificant feline information she alone found so enthralling. She would giggle with glee regaling me with anecdotes about “Holstein,” the lone female in the litter. She told me the kitten had the markings “exactly like a cow, wait till you see it!” She seemed disappointed when I did not share her zeal. She periodically would query me about our living environment, making sure her “babies” were all going to proper homes. I was sure she was loony now. My son would get to witness her eccentricity first hand.
When we arrived at my co-worker’s apartment, my son decided to sit on the floor. I asked why, he said he could better judge the kittens from there. Who’s to argue with a nine-year old? The kittens were all let out at the same time. Within minutes, “Holstein” had made her way upon my son’s lap, and was licking his chin. He declared this is the one. No need to check your tickets ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! “Shea,” he had decided on the name weeks ago when I told him he was getting a kitten; rode home in the car carrier-less, asleep on the back seat.
Unlike Ramone, Shea would be an indoor cat. The rural expanse of Long Valley, may have been fine for Ramone; but the growing ever more congested, zero lot line, call me when done doing five to ten, firecracker up the bunghole when no one is looking, Hitler youth of Pembroke Pines, is no place for an easy going cat like Shea. Yes, that’s right, I said easy going. A stark contrast to my friend’s Jet, the pissy, pissing machine, though they do share some of the same annoying traits.
It is my wife and son that Shea enjoys taking a swipe at, claws out, when either of them walk by, just because she can, without fear of retribution. She wouldn’t dare pull this stunt with me. Why? Because I’m the designated head scratcher. If she wants any of that ever again, she’ll leave my foot and ankles alone. I also change her litter box. She knows which side her bread is buttered on.
If her water or food dish is empty regardless of hour, she let’s out a “meow” that I swear has caused fluid to leak from my ears. She flops, anywhere, at any time, in front of where you are walking. This could cause a wee bit of trouble were my wife and I twenty years older. Then Shea has the audacity to get pissed if you step on her. And if you scold her, she’ll turn her back to you, with her ears laying down, telling “in cat” to whoever is speaking about her, to kiss her ass. She assumes the same position in front of her food dish if what’s in there is not fresh enough to suit her. I did mention cats can be aloof.
She was once fat, a live version of the Kliban Cat, big body, little head. Shea’s motto might as well be “All are welcome ye who enter here!” A visitor, be it a neighbor, close friend, work associate, the UPS driver, an unwelcome solicitor, trips Shea’s inner radar signaling a new arrival. She makes a beeline to said victim, making her figure eight around the legs of the former stranger, her face saying “please pet me, scratch my head, anything but ignore me, because I’m not going away.” Once her mission is accomplished, a firm “Shea that’s enough,” usually sends her on her way, nose in the air, as if scorned. Shea has never had to play second fiddle to anyone or anything. She has been queen of the castle for the last fifteen years.
When it came time for my son to go off to college, he contemplated taking Shea with him. That thought passed rather quickly, and for a myriad of good reasons, I’ll let you think of several. However, I will give him credit for thinking of her. Shea has been “his cat” in title only for quite some time. I don’t think he has ever changed her litter box. Since my son began high school, he has rarely fed or watered her. But, when he comes home for a visit, Shea is on him like white on rice.
Shea has never been one to get on the furniture, save the two beds my son has used over the years. Her favorite spot is upstairs on the former bed in the loft. Shea no longer navigates the steep stairs the way she once did. She has on occasion fallen down, descending those treacherous stairs. When she goes outdoors, she no longer chases the tiny lizards that are so numerous here in South Florida. She sleeps more now, and also drinks more water. She has become more vocal, maybe it’s their version of nagging. All these telltale signs caused my son some consternation this last trip home for the summer.
When it came time for him to make his way back up to Gainesville, he said, “I guess I’d better say good-bye to Shea” as he sideways glanced in my direction. I knew what the look meant. It was the same feeling we shared our last visit to Ohio to see my father. My boy, now a man, might be saying good-bye for the final time to one of the last living remnants of his childhood. He was relived that Shea did not pass while he was home. The day is coming when my son will visit, and he won’t be greeted at the door by “his” cat. I will cry when Shea goes. I will cry alone, with my son, and for him; both of us helpless children that day, coping with the inevitable.
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