THE ENTIRE TEXT OF the Constitution many times — even memorized certain parts of it.
Nowhere therein have I found a clause stating “except when the state determines that the people have overreached.”
THE ENTIRE TEXT OF the Constitution many times — even memorized certain parts of it.
Nowhere therein have I found a clause stating “except when the state determines that the people have overreached.”
The impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful, it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe and find ashes.
This is in keeping with my belief that non-profit and not-for-profit are some of the filthiest concepts in human history. You have to increase your inheritance or you waste it away. Take the Parable of the Talents.
GETTING BEHAVIOR. My style is more wallflower than Venus fly trap. But I am painfully aware of the need to put myself out there, if I’m going to sell books. I habitually assert that I’m far more happy making things than I am selling them. And, if I have to be selling, I’d rather it be something I made. But I need to find sources of reinforcement. This book and its companion volume are on my Amazon wish list fer sher. I’m a firm believer in Show-your-work. I see the existence of this work as being permission to share with my readers all the need stuff I discover along the way to telling Dolly’s stories. I’ve just started using the robber-bird/pack rat software, Evernote, and I expect that I’ll be blogging research and process a lot more. Possibly more over at my writer’s blog — markphilipalger.com (which serves the purpose this blog was originally intended to serve) than here.
A DEMOCRAT STARTS OUT acting in bad faith. Why? Because the choice of ideologies indicates an intent to subvert the country’s governing charter. That is treason, in fact, if not in law. The link is to a story summing up the perfidy of those democrats as exercised in the year just passed. Yes, I am one of those paranoid libertarians.
As we put it, if you’re not paranoid, you haven’t been paying attention.
SOME TIME AGO, I recall reading a fascinating article about a German aristocrat who was personally instrumental in a movement to realize a vision of empire that would have split Eurasia between Germany and Japan, starting back in the early years of the 20th Century. As I remember the story, he was in Japan either just before or during or just after WWI and met and developed a relationship with young militarists — possibly including Tojo and company. He was a national socialist, and was a foundational figure in the Nazi party and its rise to power in the ’30s. He remained high in the Nazi power structure through most of WWII and became disillusioned with Hitler late in the war. Unfortunately, I seem to have mislaid the saved file/link. Can anybody put a name to this description? Tam?
It’s been a long time since I did one of these for real. The one from a couple of weeks ago was — despite its length — somewhat of a fake-out. With little real content to convey, I have to fall back on pictures. I had long been unhappy with what I was getting out of the CoolPix. The inability to shoot in low light (why have a CCD that’s unable to better the response curve of film?) coupled with the shutter delay (press button, wait for picture to be snapped) made photographing cats impossible. you either got a brown-gray blur every time, or a flat, washed-out picture of a cat squinting against the flash. Then I got this new camera phone — a Nokia Lumia 1020, if you must know, with the ability to shoot, without flash, at iso ratings up to 4,000 — two stops beyond pushed Tri-X. Or pushed Ektachrome. and all out of the possible range of Kodachrome. Allofasudden, I’m able to get gorgeous shots in afternoon light in our bedroom with the curtains drawn. Saturated color. A play of light way too subtle for the CoolPix. And a zoom ability (at 41Mpx, it doesn’t matter whether it’s optical or digital; whether you’re actually zooming or just blowing up and cropping a smaller area of the image field. Like this one. I’m standing eight feet away from Loki — he’s lying on pillows at the head of the bed; I’m standing at the foot of the bed. I “zoomed” in on him by pinching my fingers together against the screen of my phone. Magic elf box, indeed!
Toni said, “He looks so tiny, there.” We always knew he was going to be petite.
So… This is me grabbing the wheel from Dolly to write a major post-of-the-day.
CATS ARE TERRIBLE, DEADLY TO a writer’s momentum. For one thing they’re heat-seekers. They like to be where it’s warm: your lap. Your computer. Your bed (with you in it). In front of a space heater. In the sun, where it pours through a window or a storm door.
And they sleep 20 hours a day. In piles. Most cat lovers know the story of the one-sleeved Mandarin and his attitude toward disturbing sleeping cats. I’d wager most of us agree with One-Sleeve’s take on the subject.
Catpile starring Loki, Rommie, and Siamon.
This morning, when I was supposed to be done with breakfast and having put a load of laundry in the washer, (I meant to do my work today.), Earnie gave out with his usual Mrrraou! and came up on my chest and curled up to nap.
I have to put together tax data for the danegeld. And I wanted to get some serious wordage in on the current WiP, which I still intend to do this weekend. Meantime, here’s another of Loki, settling in for an afternoon nap.
These badges were praised by all and sundry and so popular that, we were told, the band were giving them away “like candy.” Lagniappes during a Mardi Gras parade. We did a replacement order and redesign, which — shown here — became our favorite design of the year.
WE HAVE NEGLECTED TO prepare a post wishing Dolly a Happy Birthday.
Congratulations, Birthday Girl!
The other eye-popper here is that indie authors are outselling the Big Five. That’s the entire Big Five. Combined. Indie and small-press books account for half of the e-book sales in the most popular and bestselling genres on Amazon.
SEEMS TO ME THAT somebody needs to grow a pair.
Sack up, ladies! You betray your sex with this wilting-flower routine.
IS FROM THE BOOK of Psalms. Turn in your Bibles, please, to Psalm 94, verses 20-23.
20 Shall the throne of iniquity, which devises evil by law,
Have fellowship with You?
21 They gather together against the life of the righteous,
And condemn innocent blood.
22 But the LORD has been my defense,
And my God the rock of my refuge.
23 He has brought on them their own iniquity,
And shall cut them off in their own wickedness;
The LORD our God shall cut them off.
YOUR ADVERTISING AGENCY is wasting your money by tracking me and pushing ads for your phones on me. I already have the phone. We already use the service. It was a recent upgrade. I don’t need to be urged to get a new one. The ads will only serve to piss me off by reminding me how egregiously you’re invading my privacy and make me LESS likely to buy your products NEXT time.
BEING AS HOW we here at BTB consider employer-paid health coverage and the market distortions induced by the jiggering of the tax code for the encouragement of it to be an abominable perversion of free markets, we have trouble seeing this next as a BAD thing.
“As a result of the ACA, between 6 million and 7 million fewer people will have employment-based insurance coverage each year from 2016 through 2024 than would be the case in the absence of the ACA.” — The CBO
THAT THE TECHNICAL ASPECTS of the Obamacare rollout have been so ineptly screwed up. It’s allowing Democrats and others to elide the central fact that the arrogant imposition of the program on the people is wrong in the first place and that fact alone ought to be dispositive.
LOOK DOWN YOUR SHIRT and count to ten.
Really? Most people only have two.
Dolly, you do have a low sense of humor.
Really? I’m just the mailman.
You write ’em; I deliver ’em
SO THE RACE HUSTLERS AND poverty pimps object to gentrification because … They want their people to live in rat-infested slums the gentrification would replace?
The idea that a first floor classroom filled with children, with no lock on the door and no reasonable means of defense are simply supposed to wait for death to arrive is barbaric and sadistic.
PHILLIP OF PUNXATAWNEY predicts (this Sunday passed) six more weeks of winter.
Let’s take a look at the calendar. From February 2, go forward six weeks. And you find yourself at… The first day of Spring!
This, ladies and gentlemen, is known as a tautology.
WHEN TONI AND I first set up housekeeping, we had between us three cats. I was owned by a dainty tricolor lady a tortie named Mnarra. (That’s how she said it. My last adolescent girlfriend called her “That little creep,” and so her use-name was Creep.) Toni had a pair of fine gentlemen a black shorthair named Smokey, who as legend has it saved her life when her apartment caught fire one night. He woke her up. and a Russian Blue named Lester Pedunk.
The first loss came when Smokey developed kidney issues. It’s possible (he was an outside cat no keeping him in; he was capable of opening a heavy, sliding glass patio door and jumping down one storey to ground) that he got hold of some antifreeze. No knowing. But it was a hard loss broke Toni’s heart. We had to have him put down. The vet said he would have had a hard, hard death, lingering in great suffering as his organs shut down.
Looked in the paper and came across a guy who had a litter and was willing to part with some. And Smokey’s successor was Bandit a gray-and-white moose with a Maine Coon-like coat. He came home with us in the pocket of my army-surplus field jacket. He and Creep developed a relationship of spare tolerance. When we moved to The Lane in ’85, he, Creep, and Lester all went out more-or-less on-demand. They all came when called, thank God. But Bandit had a practice of perching outside the kitchen window on the side stair where he could peer in the window and be seen. We kept and keep a roll of paper towels on a metal spindle just where it’s reflected in the window glass and you could be fooled into thinking he was at the window, wanting to come in, when it was just the paper towels.
At the time, Toni worked downtown and drove, while I worked downtown and rode the bus. One morning, she had headed out and I was eating breakfast when I heard a panic-stricken call from the front door and ran to find Toni standing there, horrified. Creep, she said, was lying, dead, on the Parkway that runs behind the house. I raced out and down there and scooped up the still form from the pavement and carried her into the back yard. We had just had a sassafras tree cut down and I buried her amid the rotting roots of it. Many tears shed that day.
Then it becomes a little blurry for me. I’m sure Toni could correct the sequence here. I’m pretty sure that thenext cat in the seniority was Annie — a black shorthair who was skinny as a rail until she died. Thus the name: Annie Rexic. Then, in quick succession: Max (named after a character Glenn Close played in the movie Maxie), a ginger tabby, Alex a gray tabby, Finnegan a gray tabby longhair (who did a very good impression of a dustmop when given a half a Valium once), and Charlie (Finnegan’s sister). Somehow, I remember that Max and Alex were left in a box on our front porch (or a neighbor’s — I’m not clear on the details), and that, when Toni called me at work to ask “Can I keep her?” my response was the canonical “Is she cute?” which has subsequently become our primary selection criterion for kittens.
Then, all too quickly, Lester, the much-beloved Russian Blue made a dash across the Parkway and lost a race with some asshole coming up the hill at 15-25MPH over the limit. He managed to make it to the sidewalk, but no farther and we found him there.
Fast forward a year or three (remembering that all of the cats in this period were permitted to go outside, but were kept indoors at night, when cat-killing racoons are about). Max got out or went out but didn’t come back in and didn’t respond when called. So she was posted as MIA (Missing In Action) for the time being.
Toni haunted the county ASPCA animal shelter, looking to find Max if she’d been picked up by animal control officers or had been brought in by a kindly citizen. She didn’t meet with success. But she did meet a fine young fellow, a white-and-gray short-hair in an isolation-ward cage where she had to pass by to check the runs. (She was such a fixture there that the staff gave her the run of the place.) He would reach out paw to catch at her arm in supplication in a manner that we took to calling Aggressively Friendly. She never did find Max, but she did feel it incumbent upon her to reward the little guy’s assertiveness, so she adopted him and brought him home.
When he got to Casa d’Alger and was given free rein to explore as he listed, he immediately made himself at home and free of the place. When Toni requested suggestions for name, I put in, “Jake,” because everything was just jake with him. And that was his name.
Then, some time later (might have been a week or a month; I’m not sure), Toni was lying in bed and got taken with a sneezing fit. Once it died off, she could hear an inquiring note in a “Meow” from under the neighbor’s porch and went to investigate.
Max. She’d been outside all that time. Scrawny and skittish as hell, she was dehydrated and had sniffles, but was otherwise little worse for the wear.
So, at that time, we were owned by Bandit, Annie, Alex, Charlie, Max, Finnegan, and Jake, and the number of “our” cats were seven. And, for a time, that was the most.
Then Finnegan had to be put down and Charlie went to live on a farm as a barn cat (if I’m not mistaken) and we inherited Emily, a tortie (Top, Right, click to embiggen), who resembled Creep only in the Little Half-face markings, but without the nasty tortie temper. She was, however, The Cat Who Walked by Herself and didn’t really get along too well with the others. This seems to be a characteristic of tri-color females; they want to be the queen of the clowder and don’t suffer usurpers-of-the-throne too damned gladly.
Emily is also the first of our cats of whom I have more than a handful of digital pictures — albeit scanned prints. Yes, I have a lot of shots of Murphy, Kane, and Indo, but most of those are genuine digital-camera shots. Emily’s pix all started on film, though I have a painting of Em done by Toni’s friend Taylor Johannigman.
Right about this time, Number One Daughter moved out, taking with her Number One Grandson and Alex. In one of the apartment complexes where she lived over the next couple of years, she (or somebody in her household) heard a plaintive meow coming from a dumpster and discovered at the other end of the cry a kitten wrapped in plastic and duct tape and abandoned there — presumably to die. At around the same or similar time, she (or householder) also found another in similar straits and of like provenance. She could not, however, keep them without breaking her lease, so they came to live with us — Kane and Indo. And the number of our cats became Nine (9), and our house was no larger, though our hearts were fuller.
As you can see, Kane (Center, above) might have been related on the distaff side to a flame-point Siamese, and he had brilliant, Tyndall blue eyes, (so we called him, variously, Old Blue Eyes, and Francis Albert Kane). Indo most certainly had, as an outfreyn relation, a walking haystack, as you can tell. Both of them were good ol’ boys, phlegmatic in temperament, gentle, and loving.
Murph’s pic is there because of his resemblance to Bandit. Bandit was with us from the early-to-late-mid ’80s until sometime around 1990. He lived with us in our apartment atop the West Tower of the Forum, where, I came to say of him (and cats in general) that there is something in a cat which cannot abide a closed door. He never tried to escape down the hall, but whenever there was activity around the hall door of our apartment, he would crowd the hinge side of it and meow most piteously into the crack. Never did seem to figure out that the OTHER side was the one that opened.
At the time that Bandit lived with us, WKRP In Cincinnati was either in first runs or saturation-level strip syndication and Toni and I watched it regularly. (Yes, I remember seeing the Turkey Drop episode when it first ran.) I took to calling Bandit “Little Guy” after the relationship between Arthur Carlson (Gordon Jump) and Herb Tarlek (Frank Bonner). Another thing he did was to, whenever I sat down to put my shoes on, he would come running and flop down on his side on the floor in front of me for a belly-rub. Never did figure out the connection between belly rubs and shoes-putting-on in his mind or how it formed, but there it is.
Bandit lived with us until, as I say, sometime around 1990. It was a Saturday night when I responded to a panicky call from Toni. She was lying on the bed reading. Bandit was on the windowsill by the head of the bed, panting — obviously in distress. His gums were pale, and his pulse rapid. We took him to the emergency veterinary hospital, where they put him in an oxygen tent and took X-rays. The diagnosis was that he had an enlarged heart, which was preventing him from getting oxygen. It was a long and fraught night. We struggled with the decision to end his life. (I pray you never have to go through that on behalf of a relative. It’s one of many reasons I’m dead set against euthenasia for humans.) I held him while the vet stuck the needle in and watched the light go out of his eyes. We buried him, in a teary-eyed non-ceremony, in our back yard.
Very shortly thereafter, a box of kittens was discovered by the local constabulary of the town near the Animal Hospital North, where Toni was working at the time. Two of them were stumpy-tailed. Not quite Manx, but related to them. One was a white-and-gray, Maine-Coon-coated fellow, whom I named Murphy Gray. That’s him above.
Then… Oh, how does this go, now? I think Belle was next. Black longhair. Street cat, tough and all BTDT, but still a real lover. She had been living rough in a vacant lot out back of Daughter’s town house in the hood. Weather was turning cold and she was observed (if I recall correctly) out in the rain and brought inside. And, of course, the household was too crowded (3-4 cats and 2-3 dogs, as well as two girl-children, a teenaged boy and a couch potato, as well as single-mom head-of-household), so cat could not stay, no matter how dire her straits. She got taken to the Animal Clinic, which Toni runs (the doctors own it and see patients there, but she runs it; just ask her clientele), and went through the usual quarantine procedure to make sure she didn’t have some disease that would run through our house like a wildfire. I met her there and, after getting spayed, she came home to live with us. She’s the queen of the house — the senior cat, now, although Earnie (no respector of personages, he) keeps trying to dominate her, with no regard for her irascible temper. (When Oliver was young and squeakier than he is now, she would body slam him against the lower kitchen cabinets when, at feeding time, she found his metrosexuality TOO tedious to bear.)
Her coat has gotten longer than thicker than it is in that pic. At the time that was taken, she’d been living — as I say — rough, and I don’t doubt having her coat trimmed for her by her environment and poor nutrition.
Shortly thereafter, Toni knocked on the door one day and handed me a longhaired tortie kitten. On seeing her, I exclaimed, “Fizzgig!” thinking of the pet animal in Jim Henson’s Dark Crystal. So that became her sietch name. But the name she was given was Rommie, after Lexa Doig’s character, Andromeda Ascendant in Gene Rodenberry’s Andromeda.
Rommie was a chest kitty. Like Earnie did after her, she came home to live with us and curled up on my chest, purred, and went to sleep. And she stayed there most of the time she lived with us. The unfortunate and sad part was that she died of FIP (I think) at under a year.
At the same time, Toni conceived a desire to have a Siamese. (Don’t ask me; I just nod and say, “Yes, Dear.” They call that being supportive.) The one whom we acquired (or who acquired us) was a blue point little guy, whom she called Simon (which I spell — being a pun-lover as I am) Siamon. If you’re on Faceplant, that’s him on my masthead shot. If you’re not, here it is. I call it Red, White, and Blue Point. Siamon was a world-champion napper exceptionally gentle and laid-back. If you love cats, and you get one like that, be suspicious. We soon discovered the reason for it was that Siamon also had a heart condition and had to be low-key because he couldn’t muster enough energy. Sadly, we lost him all too soon. It was a one-two kick to the heart, First Rommie, then Siamon: Gone — pooft!
And, very shortly thereafter, we lost Kitty Kane. His cause was kidney failure. That again.
Then Loki. I kinda forget the circumstances of it, except that he was a rescue kitty. We adopted him from creche. When he came to us, his coat was almost entirely white, with whispy tufts at ears and between his toes. Only an “M” mark on the top of his head, the backs of his ears, and the top of his tail were marked. His back has darkened since, but then, he might as well have been all-white. And his paws… You know you can tell a kitten or a puppy is going to be big by how outsized his paws are? Well, Loki’s were small and dainty, hinting that he’d be a little cat when he grew up. So, of course, he HAD to be named for a Frost Giant — Loki, the Norse trickster god. Which also proved apposite, because, as a kitten, he was the King of Getting Inta Shit. And falling on his ass behind it. He still hasn’t learned the difference between objects and surfaces, and always expects the former to provide the same footing and security as the latter. Which, of course, never works.
From the first night he lived with us, he’s slept on the bed. That first night, he clambered up and demanded rubs and scritches in his own particular croak. Since then, he follows a ritual. He hangs out in the office until he hears the lid of my laptop close and sees me dim the overheads. He hops down from his perch and trots around to stand beside me and croak urgently until I stand up and head for the bedroom. There, in the dark, he leads me along the foot of the bed, then flops over in the door to the half-bath. Then he gets up and runs along my side of the bed, jumps up on my nightstand (blocking the clock, so I can’t see the numbers), and climbs on the bed. He usually walks across Toni, who, if she’s awake, complains of it. Then, he meows at me until I get in and get settled, then he climbs onto a pillow and hangs out there, waiting for me to rub his head. He’s done that every night he’s been here since we got him.
Somewhere in here came Ollie — the original delta kitty He not only would never be an alpha cat, he would never develop the aspiration to become one. I think he was supposed to be a palliative for the loss of Kane. He’s a big, white, Japanese anime cat with a silly grin and fat cheeks. He also squeaks. In fact, his squeak, when he was young, was so annoying that Belle — the original basement cat if there ever was one — would body-slam him against the kitchen cabinets at feeding time she found his squeaky meow SO annoying. Or, at least, that’s what I imagine her motives to be. Oliver has learned to be very skittish around me and windows from the time I accidentally closed his tail in a window and cut off about an inch of the tip. He’s recovered physically, but will be in therapy for life, I suspect.
Next, Toni got her Siamese up to here. Got a set of triplets — a brother and two sisters. And they could do the Peggy Lee tune from Lady and the Tramp cold justice. They’re friendly enough to humans, but they’ll turn on another cat… Their names are Sky (the male, a seal point), Aqua (senior female, also a seal point) and Jazz (junior female, a lilac point). Jazz has bunny fur and was the first and principle ringleader in the Let’s Torment Karma club. All three of them are beefy sorts. Sky is kinda down-to-earth, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly, goodoleboy. Here they are in svelte-er days on the front windowsill in the study.
Then, we got Karma, a sweet little calico (which, according to lore, ought to be a contradiction in terms), who is the typical middle child. She ought to have the seniority to buck the Triplets, but she tends to go all “Mom! She’s TOUCHING me!” and scream like a squirrel in a caged death match with a weasel whenever Jane or the Triplets jump her in the utility room. She spends her entire time on the windowsill in there and will ONLY come down when one of us humans walks into the kitchen. Here she is doing her famous Heisenberg’s Cat routine.
And then we got another set of three. Now, on acquiring the Triplets, we were up to Seven (7) cats. Then Toni brought home two kittens, a brother and sister, we now call Chester and Jane, though Chester was earlier called Elwood.When she was a kitten, Jane had a regal reserve, which made her full name — Lady Jane Grey — seem more apposite. Now, she’s just that bloody usurper. She is the current ringleader in the Let’s Torment Poor Karma club.
And, tagging along — we weren’t going to keep him; he was being transported to Number One Daughter — was this funny little tuxedo kitten, with a pointy face and a bowlegged build, like a Boston Terrier. He climbed up on my chest and went to sleep and there was NO WAY you could have pried him out of here. At first, his name was Benjamin Butt-in-face, because he looked like a little old man, not a cute kitten. But, eventually, we realized he was aspie-earnest and SO serious all the time. So Toni called him Ernest, which would have fit with Hemmingway, but I pushed the “literary cat” another step and called him Earnest, because he realized the Importance of Being…
Anyway, he’s my buddy, Earnie. Earnie talks back to me. He’s got a teenager’s bad attitude. At the same time, he’s sweet and kind. He’s the only one of our other cats who gets along with Karma. At the same time, he’s always trying dominance games with Belle, who fights with him tooth and claw. (Neither one of them has taken wounds from it.)
Anyway, now our household includes Belle, Loki, Oliver, Aqua, Sky, Jazz, Karma, Chester, Jane, Earnie. And the number of our cats is Ten (10). Believe it or not.