Thank God We Don't Do THAT Anymore!

The other day Pkilla was regaling me with a touching story of unrequited teenage love, in which she left clues for her crush to figure out who his mystery crusher was. Either he was obtuse, or she left things like "My name does NOT rhyme with rhinoceros" and "I am female, in your grade, and you know my name." After telling her tale, there was a big sigh of relief, from her at least, when she revealed she no longer needs to go completely out of her way to impress or catch a crush. I say from her, because in many ways (ok, all ways) I still do.

I'm hoping to trick one woman who may end up being rich in a few years to move to NYC and go out with me, at which point she can support my photographic habit (tax write-off for supporting the arts!). Then there's the herb girl at the farmer's market, who has totally captivated my heart. I asked her out, but she didn't think her boyfriend would like that much and informed me I had missed the boat. When's the next boat though? I now bring her blueberries grown in my garden in an attempt to impress her, much like older men drive shiny red convertibles or bower birds decorate their nest with super pretty things. "Here's a zucchini from my yard," I'll say. "Isn't it delicious? Please, enjoy these perfectly formed blueberries from my bush." The subtext is clear; I can grow vegetables and fruit pretty well, wouldn't I make a great mate? It's always been my belief that good gardening is a mark of virility. So, ladies: be impressed by my agricultural green thumb, as I'm a good provider, and let me take you to see Hellboy 2, after which we can be amorous.

The Anti-Me

"What the hell?! I went outside to see if anything had stupidly stumbled into my trap, and found the food eaten and the gate down. Stupid cat lady swore to me the other day she was no longer feeding the cats, but I don't believe her. She admitted to me that after I caught the last cat, she cried all morning about it. I'm going to kick her head off one day, she's so stupid.

So one of two things happened. Either the cat managed to move the food from next to what trips the cage door to fall to the other side of the cage, eat all of it, leave the cage and then trip it using a tree branch or pick the lock on the other side to escape Houdini style, or Anna gave the cat the food or let it out. Or her mongoloid son did. They're both so stupid. I hate them both so much. She just straight lies to my face. If this keeps up, I'm gonna be forced to punch her in the face. When I get home, I'm going to burn her fucking wisteria down. Then I'll have to cage her son, and when I catch that last cat, I'm going to put his head on a spear as a warning to all the others and slap her with it's lifeless torso for being a moron.

Ok, maybe that's harsh, but you don't understand. She's like the anti-me. Everything she does is to undo something I've done. I try to keep the cats out of the yard so it doesn't smell like a litter box, and she leaves food for them. I got the cat trap because she never did, so she feeds the cats and also lets them out of the cage. I clean up weeds in the backyard so it's more usable, and she plants things haphazardly that became too 'ugly' for the front yard. It's all just like a giant fuck you to me. Imagine you tied your shoes, and someone immediately untied them. You brush your teeth and someone immediately throws dirt in your mouth. You eat food cause you're hungry and someone comes along and sticks their fingers down your throat to force it up. I mega-loathe her."

My mom calmly asked me if I was done ranting, then proceeded to talk to my sister about how much the hamster loves kernels of corn.

Nyet. Da. Da. Shto?

Named as secretary of the new board of directors in a secret meeting reminiscent of the kinds held by party bosses in the 30s and 40s, I had yet to see any responsibility. That all changed with the announcement of our first building meeting last night, held at 7 PM in the boiler room in the basement, with only 7 seating surfaces (not chairs) for 10 people. My first duty was to take notes at the meeting. What follows is excerpts from my notes of the meeting:

6/18/08 7:25 PM
8 people present....9. 10. 10 people present

1. New Board of Directors
Alex = President
Anna = "I will continue to be treasurer"
Larry = Secretary (of Defense)
After announcement there was silence, before one person said ok. Sounds unanimous to me.

2. Water bill has increased due to possible prostitution ring upstairs.
Alex and I discuss merits of letting prettier girls do whatever they want. Much arguing.

3. Bylaws. There are no sponsors any longer. (Shouldn't the bylaws be mentioned and then voted on, rather than just agreed that there is such a thing as "bylaws" in the world? Oh well.)

4, 5, 6, whatever...No construction early in the morning or late at night, no working in your storage room, keep plants inside balcony so they don't drip on merry bbq'ers below, no hate crimes, etc. Damn I'm hungry.

7. Why did Alex just use the word "emergency" in a Russian filled statement? Be sure to find out why there's no Russian word for emergency. You'd kind of figure there would be.

8. Common charges should be raised to...(oh hell, I didn't catch that and now everything is in Russian. Should I loudly yell out Nyet, das vidanya? Might not make sense).

9. Who cares anymore? I'm totally bored and I think we're all still arguing about the water bill and raising charges in Russian. Well, everyone but me. Now I'm being asked to chime in and yell at the guy they're all picking on, but I don't understand, and I don't wanna. I don't! They can't make me. Ha, now one of the guys is getting really pissy, comically so, about replacing the lock for 200 dollars. Haha, this is getting good. Oh, it's over? Only 1.5 hours later? Well that was well worth my time. Can't wait for the next one. The End.

Looking back, I think they may have made a mistake asking the only non-Russian speaker in the building to take notes at a meeting in which English was only used by mistake.

To Catch a Cat

For the past year and a half I've been at war with the neighborhood's feral felines, a war which I was continuously losing. No matter how many plastic forks I put down as deterrents, how many cinder blocks I used to block up holes in the fence, how many times I cursed them, these clever cats found ways to get in and fulfill what I can only assume was their dream of crapping in my raised bed garden. When they weren't accomplishing their sole mission in life, they meowed and fought loudly, forced me to buy chicken wire to cover the vegetable garden, and left behind the heads of kittens.

Yesterday I finally won a battle in this long fought war. One of the cats recently had kittens and left them unattended. I scooped up one of the clueless 3 week old kittens and put it in timeout in a paint bucket while I searched for his sibling, who had managed to scamper off into low brush. After fruitless searching, I eventually brought the kitten outside and left him on the steps to meow pitifully, thus drawing both his mother and sibling out of hiding. The mother quickly scampered off, but I had the brothers scooped up in a towel and eventually deposited in their cardboard box holding cell, along with water and milk (which they wouldn't drink until I hit on the idea of having James Cash breast feed them since they weren't yet weaned). They didn't do much except look cute. Their mother spent a large portion of the evening staring in to my apartment, no doubt hoping to get her scions back. However, she failed to understand the basic rules of hostage negotiations, and didn't offer me anything in exchange.

I brought the kittens to a shelter where they will no doubt be adopted on the strength of adorableness and saved from being one of "many kitties who die in the backyard over the winter," as my cat feeding and encouraging moron of a neighbor noted. To add to mother cat's bad luck, today she was captured in my cat trap. I was elated, but thought being too bragadocious would be in bad taste, so I merely went outside and captured my flexing on her for posterity. That'll teach you to trespass, assholes.

Birthright Israel 2: Hummus Abounds!

Morning was pretty rough, as last night I slept without a blanket again, trying and failing to cover myself with hand towels to ward off the chill from the A/C. Drinking 1/2 a bottle of wine and getting my ass kicked in water basketball didn't help the waking up process. On the 2nd night we were in Israel, we finally held ice breakers at the kibbutz's pool. Our peer leaders set up a game of Jewish bingo for us, which was mostly useless in helping me learn people's names, but I did find out who's favorite color was blue. If only I could match the name to the face. Everyone knows drinking is the best ice breaker anyway. In time, I would compare the trip to freshman year of college. Everyone starts off pretty friendly, since we're all thrown together in an unfamiliar new country, and as time goes on, you become friends with the people who you really want to be. For me, this wasn't too many, as I was often buried in my camera or not feeling great due to 5 hours of sleep, hikes, and not eating enough. I probably lost 7-10 pounds on the trip.

We visited Tzfat, birthplace of Jewish mysticism and City of Four Spellings. It was here that I received a red bracelet, which makes me a high priest of kaballah. This bracelet of destiny has been tied to my left wrist in an unbreakable knot of eternity by the hands of Fate herself. Or it was just double knotted really well by my sister. Whatever. I also learned that blue is a very significant color in the Middle East, which is why many windows are blue. I definitely know the reason behind this, but I'm gonna choose to keep it to myself. We visited some old synagogues with birds flying around inside and then a candle store which made a wax Noah's ark, Super-Rabbi, Super-Jew, and strangest of all, the Incredible Hulk.

Our first night out in Jerusalem gave us a good impression of what Israeli nightlife was like: crappy American house music mixed with lots of Americans who couldn't dance too well. Hookahs came for free with beer I think. The night was forever immortalized in the same way most nights out are for me: photos of flashing gang signs and at least one beer in my other hand.

According to my itinerary, Friday we traveled westwards to Tel Aviv and we may or may not have experienced the Mediterranean at a beach (I just remember a lot of whining towards that end). Once there, we got to see a movie on how Tel Aviv was founded that was made from stock footage in the 80s, but the rest of the experience at Independence Hall was well worth the trip. A sabra told the tale dramatically, totally nailing the David Ben Gurion gavel bang, and gave some perspective through her personal story of raising a boy and sending him off to the military. Things got even more somber at Rabin square, a memorial to Yitzhak Rabin, who was taken from Israel too soon by an assassination. The day was topped off with more local culture and me getting hissed at by an olive vendor at the Shabbat market, a raucous and fast moving food market not unlike what you'd see in a movie. Imagine hundreds of Israelis rushing about to gather food supplies and bargain before everything shuts down for the day of rest, and you'll have some idea of the chaos.

That night was really the only time on the whole trip any religion was forced on us. There was a Shabbat program consisting of a story of a man who loved a song that went "li li la li la li li" because, and here's a spoiler warning cause I'm giving away the surprise ending, his dad wrote it, but he didn't know this because he thought he was Muslim and he never knew his real father. The other story had to do with why Shabbat was special, and the answer was that all the other days had paired up. I guess getting rejected at a singles party for days of the week makes you special, though it's an interesting definition. There was also exploitation of the young passionate Jew from Brooklyn's daughter to sing songs.

Our more secular tour guide relayed his personal opinion on it afterwards, and I could really get behind the main idea. I don't buy into not using electricity on Shabbat, but liked the idea of not doing work on Saturday, using it as a day to relax and be with your family. I could even get behind it from a spiritual sense too, but found too often people took it too seriously or justified what they did or didn't do. We would find pre-ripped toilet paper at many of the kibbutzes because ultra-religious Jews couldn't do that on Shabbat. Really? Is ripping toilet paper really considered work? I like to take a nap every day, but this puts even my laziness to shame.

Birthright Israel 1: The Land of Milk and Honey and ATMs

On Memorial Day, Monday May 26, 2008, at 11:50 PM local time, I departed, along with the rest of my Taglit Birthright group, Israel Outdoors, to Israel, determined to come back tan and fabulously wealthy. Also, due to a certain friend whose name rhymes with Para and starts with a D, I was convinced I was going to hook up with at least 30 beautiful Israeli women, and also whichever American women were on the trip. "My friend came back from Israel with a girlfriend, and he's gay." The pressure was certainly on.*

After a 10 hour flight that seemed not so bad upon landing, I started what would later become a trend by separating from the group at baggage claim and waiting outside for them for 30 minutes. Oops. Another trend of not being able to eat when hungry and traveling on the bus too much began here too. We drove north to a kibbutz (not the one we stayed at), where we quickly came to learn that the food we'd be eating was going to be low quality and cafeteria style (only 1 protein each!). We also learned that Israelis have Tang with all dinners and Kool Aid with all breakfasts, along with such oddities as peppers, tomatoes and cucumbers. Avner, our tour guide, proudly bragged about how Israelis eat more salad than anyone else in the world, but failed to manage how they don't actually eat this crappy food too.

While driving north, I was struck by the landscape. Not having traveled out of the country much, I expected to be overwhelmed by the change, yet the landscape didn't feel unfamiliar. It was Mediterranean in the north, and in many ways reminded me of Italy. While impressed by the beauty, I wasn't in awe as it felt comfortable. I was completely impressed by the amount of agriculture. The northern part of the country is a veritable greenhouse, with sunflowers and rosemary and humus trees everywhere. Throughout the trip I saw some cool wildlife, mostly birds I've never seen before, but a few hyraxes, ibexes, stray lizards and wandering camels.

My Israel adventure really started the next day, when we hiked around Nimrod's Castle in Galilee, or maybe it was in or near Golan Heights. We had a fantastic view of Syria, or perhaps Lebanon. I really don't remember which it was, as I tended to wander off and take photos rather than pay as much attention to the tour guide as I should have. In any case, it was really cool, and like much of Israel, incomprehensibly old. When forts and castles and roads are a thousand or more years old, you tend to scoff at our notion of Wrigley Field being old and monumental. From here, we went to visit Banias, which is not only the largest waterfall in all of Israel, but also home to the Keebler Elves' very first flour mill. The only photographic evidence I have of kayaking on the Jordan River is a shot of a bench and a french fry vending machine that was closed up. It was probably a good idea not to bring any of my cameras on the inflatable kayak that couldn't be steered straight as young Israelis (and our tour guide) love to splash and shout mostly nonsensical things in English to us American tourists. We finished the day at what was formerly Syrian bunkers on top of Mt. Bental. Nothing like packing into a room and then finding out it was a popular location for the soldiers to relieve themselves while listening to a joke that anon means "clouds" in Hebrew and there used to be a coffee shop at the top, so it was nicknamed Coffee Anon. Yea, I don't find it that funny either.


*In this series, you will read many things. All of them are based on notes I took in my travel journal or memories recollected from photos I took, so every word will be true. As usual.

The Assassination of My Attention Span by the Coward Robert Ford

Alright, I haven't done a review in a while, but James Cash has Netflix, so a lot of movies come through here. A lot of discs of Arrested Development too, which may be why I'm a little disappointed and surprised that it's Hugh Ross narrating The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford rather than Ron Howard. I felt the movie was full of cons and sprinkled with pros, but could see how critics loved it and how it was nominated for a couple Oscars (which I don't believe in anyway).

For starters, two and a half hours is a long time for a movie, especially one without any bears. I didn't like the selective focus in many scenes, though I did love the fog and mystery in the first train robbing scene. There were too many "the clouds are moving fast to signify passing of time" moments, and too many characters with too many names. It was hard to keep things straight, and I felt like the octogenarian at the movies who has to keep asking who a character is and what's happening now. Most of my other complaints of the film come from not realizing it wasn't going to be an action movie. While watching, I couldn't help but compare it to "3:1o to Yuma," the only other Western I'd seen in quite a while. I thought Yuma was better, due to it having more action, more clip-clopping of horses and more Luke Wilson, though I know this was a more character driven plot. Also, the title kind of gave away how the movie was going to end. Imagine if the Sixth Sense had been renamed "The Sixth Sense of Being Able to See Dead People, Like Bruce Willis." Honestly, Jesse James should have had a spoiler alert in the title. The ending is a bit of a downer too.

I was only vaguely familiar with the Jesse James story, but had remembered him being completely awesome. Apparently that wasn't the case, as he was portrayed as a paranoid, violent asshole of a man. Casey Affleck was real good in the movie, but I couldn't help thinking to myself "hey, wow, Casey Affleck killed Jesse James. This on top of him being a total badass in 'Gone Baby Gone.' Casey's so much better than Ben." Robert Ford was weird as hell, seemingly in love with Jesse, and like everyone else in the movie, a horrible liar. You'd figure in the Wild West, everyone would know about poker faces and not sweating while recounting a made up story of slipping on the roof or where someone they killed was "hiding out." You'd be wrong.

On the pro side, I did pick up the use of "peckerwood" as a salutary phrase.

Adulthood Strikes Part the Second

I recently had a revelation that I missed out on my 2os. Everyone's twenties is all about uncertain living conditions, struggle for a job, hard partying, lack of responsibility, etc. Out of college, I was lucky enough to live with my parents, so it didn't matter if I had a job or not. They were kind enough to provide for me for a nominal rent fee of $100 a month when I could afford it, and I worked odd jobs like tutoring a 7th grader for the SAT to please his overbearing overachieving parents or setting up and shooting product shots for K-Mart of Orange County Choppers' cologne to get spending money. While I'd get sick of sitting around playing video games instead of applying for a full time job (I was convinced any day I'd make it as a photographer and needed to keep my options open), or frustrated that my friends were at work during the day rather than hanging out with me, I never really worried about much. People I knew were moving hundreds of miles away after college and trying to make it on their own, while I was safe and secure, if a bit stuck in adolescence, in my parents' apartment.

It's four years later, and somehow I've aged 10-15 years. At age 25, I got a yoke attached when I co-bought a condo with Human Dynamo, my close friend since I was 15. It's been great, since I have a backyard and we were able to modify the apartment as we saw fit, mostly (no fireman's pole or secret entrances and trapdoors, yet). However, most of my friends my age have moved around a couple of times since college ended, traveling and living free. Oh, and the housing market has since crashed, meaning had I waited my current castle may have been cheaper. I've become rather domestic too. Sometimes it just feels like I'm in my 30s, and I know my days of freedom, if not over, are numbered. As a man with a commitment, I can't just up and leave for Italy or California without giving serious thought to my ties here.

All this really leads up to me turning 27 today, and so far not getting the only gift I really want: a sun bear. They're the smallest of all bears, weighing in between 100 and 150 pounds as an adult at a length of 4 1/2 feet, putting them on par with a Newfoundland. Keep in mind when reading the following excerpt from the Honolulu Zoo's website that I have neither a cocoa or coconut plantation, nor are any to be found in Brooklyn. Their high reproductive rate is impressive and useful, as I could soon have an army of semi-slothful tree climbing bear-soldiers* at my beck and call.

The Malayan sun bear is the smallest member of the bear family. It is also the one with the shortest and sleekest coat - perhaps an adaptation to a lowland equatorial climate.

These animals grow to approximately four and a half feet in length and have a tiny, two-inch tail. Their average weight is less than 100 pounds. The short-haired, deep black or brown-black fur is interrupted on the chest by a pale orange-yellow horseshoe-shaped marking. In folklore, this yellow crescent is said to represent the rising sun and is apparently the origin of the name sun bear.

They have a long narrow tongue which can be extended quite far. The long sickle-shaped claws on all four feet and the large, inward-oriented feet are most reminiscent of the sloth bear. Malayan sun bears are skillful climbers, a useful ability for a species which spends a lot of time climbing trees to get fruit.

DISTRIBUTION and HABITAT:

Although they inhabit both lowlands and highlands, the Sun bears are primarily forest dwellers. They rest and feed in trees in tropical to subtropical regions of Southeast Asia - Borneo, Sumatra, Malay Peninsula, Kampuchea, Vietnam, Laos, Burma, and possibly southern China.

BEHAVIOR:

Relatively low weight, strongly curved claws, and large paws with naked soles help to make the Sun bear an adept climber. It is primarily nocturnal, frequently resting or sunbathing during the day on a platform of broken branches several feet above ground level.

Malayan sun bears sometimes cause a great deal of damage to coconut palms and on cocoa plantations. Young cubs are so lively, playful and attractive that they are often kept as pets in their native lands, but they become treacherously bad-tempered as they grow older.

In zoos, Malayan sun bears often scratch one stone after another out of walls, using their sharp claws.

DIET:

Malayan sun bears are omnivorous. They eat small vertebrates such as lizards and nesting birds and fruit. They are also very fond of honey.

REPRODUCTION and GROWTH:

Sun bears may mate at any time of year; they are thought to have only one mate. Two or three cubs are usually born after a gestation period of 96 days. The young, usually weighing 10-15 ounces each, are suckled for about 18 months. Females reach sexual maturity at about three years and males at four years. These bears live 25 to 28 years in captivity.

Sure, the shared fondness of honey could be a problem, as I envision us comically getting angry with each other whenever Apollo or I finished the honey and didn't buy a new one, but it would also be something we have in common. What does the first half of this post have to do with the last? Well, if I didn't have this condo and 29 years left on my mortgage, I could currently be in Myanmar with a sun bear friend, rather than fruitlessly trying to bribe a local zoo for the release of their ursine captives.


*There were so many good links for bear-soldier, and I wanted to post them all. Here are a few more: Link 1, Link2, Link 3 and Link 4

You're a Tree By the Way

J-Live, notoriously ridiculously good MC, has a song off his last full length album called Do My Thing. The first time I heard it, in my infinite wisdom, I was pretty sure the hook was "You're a tree, by the way, I do my thing. By the way, I do my thing." I just assumed a tree was new slang, and the hook writer was very casual, yet matter of fact, in informing me that he does his thing. The actual line is of course "intrigued by the way I do my thing."

However, this was a great segue into me planting a tree in my backyard! I won't profess to being an expert gardener; most of what I'm doing is trial and error with a little help from the world wide webs and advice I give myself. I saw the dwarf Blenheim apricot tree while shopping for soil and decided I needed to have it. Planting it felt like quite an accomplishment, and not only has it not yet died, but it seems to have tiny green fruit that hopefully will turn into actual tasty apricots. This was followed by two highbush blueberry plants, which also now appear to be fruiting. Check out photos below, and note my excellent mulching technique.

All this gardening has excited many people, including the building's possibly vampire super who has decided he will have the pickles and potatoes I'm growing in my vegetable bed (I'm growing neither pickles, which are delivered by a stork anyway, nor potatoes). I'm also convinced he wants access to my vegetables for his own nefarious purposes. What I'm actually growing is red leaf lettuce, sugar snap peas, eggplant, dragon carrots, zucchini, a potimarron squash and roma, sungold cherry, brandywine, sweet pea currant, brown berry and costaluto genovese tomatoes. In case they ever develop cars that run on fairly obscure tomatoes mixed with common tomatoes, I'll be in the money. Till then, it's salsa sandwiches with V8 for meals.

In other backyard news, James Cash and I named the ridiculously bright red cardinal that visits our backyard Benedict. Thankfully, despite being highly territorial, Benedict has not yet attacked his own image in my window or his mirror he uses for preening. His song sounds like this: "bright bright bright, cheer cheer cheer." And no, learning that from the Field Guide to Birds of North America that I own doesn't make me feel like a dork.

Jobs Ahoy!

While technically there hasn't been much change in my employment status, I did recently pass an interview with flying colors* and come second week of June, I'll be the newest and proudest member of the WCS family. That's right. I've been hired as a volunteer wallaby hugger and river otter playmate at the Prospect Park Zoo. Yes, Prospect Park has a zoo. Yes, it's in Brooklyn. Yes, seriously.

To start with, I'll be working in their Discovery center as an adult supervisor, with animals like kestrels, tarantulas and some other things which I didn't hear because I was busy feeling squeamish about icky spiders and other invertebrates that freak me out. I can only assume one of my duties will be throwing kestrels at kids. Or, at the very least, supervising them in the proper manner of throwing kestrels at each other, as only an adult like myself could.

I'll be issued a uniform shirt, and am allowed to wear bermuda shorts; there isn't much of a dress code, because as an adult, I'll know how to be properly dressed at all times. It goes with the territory. No doubt I'll also be beating women off with a stick, because it's a proper fact that women love a man in uniform. Eventually I'll get to give talks to kids and educate them on how much better a bear is than whatever animal I'm holding and supposed to be talking about is. First, of course, I'll have to go through animal handling training, which will undoubtedly make me even more irresistible. Women can't control themselves around uniformed adults who are allowed to hold porcupines and know things about them. True fact.

The only thing I'm still uncertain about is how much and how often they'll be paying me. I mean, I'm not planning on volunteering for free or out of the goodness of my heart. If suitable monetary compensation cannot be agreed upon, I'll gladly take my pay in wallabies. I'm easy going and flexible like that.


*This, despite me feeling the need to bring up my totally rational fear/hatred of squid and octopi. Damned parrot like beaks and multi-suckered tentacles.

Raised Bed, Raised Bed

A couple weeks ago, I finished building an 8' by 4' by 1' raised bed out of a bunch of old studs I found in the basement and a 16 foot long 2 x 12 of deliciously sappy Douglas fir from Home Depot. I even installed small PVC pipes along the side in case I ever want to run bird netting or plastic across the top to extend the growing season. The project took some time and effort, as 8 foot long lumber isn't easy to maneuver or attach to shorter lumber using small screws I had lying around (the themes being cheapness and reuse of materials). Despite drilling a good portion of the holes on my wooden floor, I managed to never drill into it. Naturally I was excited to finish this personal project one year in the thinking, and composed a song for the occasion.

Raised bed, raised bed
What you gonna do?
What you gonna do when I grow vegetables in you?

After a few renditions, James Cash started to hate me. But no worries, as I soon had a new reason to sing a different song. After filling half the bed with fifteen 40 pound bags of soil, I managed to quickly come up with this song:

Top soil, top soil
What you gonna do?
What you gonna do when I fill the raised bed with you?

Admittedly, it doesn't have that certain excitement, tension and superior lyrical quality of the first song that just grips you, but I was working quickly. In fact it was really more of a freestyle. Afterwards, we put my grill outside and decided we needed light out there so we could bbq at night, which resulted in a trip to Home Depot and a purchase that excited Jamie. Clamp light, clamp light...

Anti-Cat Defensive Measures

The southwest, northwest and northeast entrances have been sealed off.



Plastic forks stuck into the earth to discourage the cats from walking in these areas.

A month after they were originally installed, it's been more or less proven that they're much less effective than advertised. While I'd love to introduce a frightening animal like a tiger, monitor lizard, dragon or griffin, I'm quite unwilling to introduce that animal's droppings into my garden to deter the cats. Really, I should set up welcome mats that catapult (no pun intended) the furry feline menaces when stepped on; automated super-soakers on motion detectors; and some sort of convoluted Mouse Trap-like device that will cage them when an old man does a back-flip into a bucket of water.

I HATE Cats

Reported by a reputable news source, April 23rd, 2008 -

On Tuesday it was announced that President for Life of His Own Bedroom, L Bo, has gone ahead and passed legislation authorizing the construction of a border fence to keep out illegal immigrant cats. The bill has met with some resistance, especially from noted feline friend James Cash Penney, who claims we should adopt these cats and keep them in our apartment, rather than "throw jelly beans at them early in the morning." In my defense, it was only the orange ones, which nobody wants to eat anyway.

"Clearly," said L Bo, speaking to a sold out crowd of well-wishers, lovely ladies and the occasional protractor throwing detractor, "the measures I've taken so far to keep these no-good furry beasts out of the yard have not worked. Despite creating what I thought to be an impenetrable blockade by sealing off every entrance way I saw with plywood and cinder blocks, these clever cats keep finding ways to get in. When chased out, often they find themselves running in circles trying to find an escape route, but can apparently contort and collapse their entire bone structure to fit through quarter sized holes. In one susceptible corner, I created a 6 foot high wall to keep them out. Yet when pursued, Whitey McKittenhead was able to scramble up the 90 degree angled plywood and leap to safety. Despite my hatred for Felis silvestris catus, I couldn't help but be impressed by it's feat of daring and climbing ability."

"How can we hope to win against an enemy like this, one willing to do whatever it takes to crap in my vegetable bed and meow loudly at obscene, single digit hours of the morning? All I know is if we don't fight them, they will follow us home. This wall MUST be built, and hopefully afterwards the extra measure of a moat filled with fearsome sea monsters, but not of the cephalopod variety. Thank you for gathering today, and together, we can eradicate this menace."

On the pro-cats disrupting life side are L Bo's neighbors, pentagenarian Ana and her man-child son, Squeaky Von Pubertybergsondale. When asked to stop feeding the cats due to their violation of his raised bed garden, Anna replied, despite knowing they weren't her cats and were feral and annoying as all hell, that "I have to. If I don't, they'll starve." When pressed about the dead kitten found outside L Bo's window last year and the kitten head discovered in the yard that later disappeared this month, Anna stood their dumbfounded. Her son later complained to L Bo about being kept awake by pitiful meowing late at night and around 4 AM, and about how hard it was to keep the cats out of the yard no matter how many plastic forks are buried up to their pointy hilts to discourage entrance. When informed they might come in less if his mom and him stopped feeding them, Squeaky said "No, I don't think so. They'll come in anyway. I'm pretty sure I'm right and not at all stupid; there's obviously no connection between me leaving food for them and them trying at all costs to come in for the food." Indeed Squeaky.

Old McDonald Had An...Orchard?

Today, I bought an apricot tree. Well, a dwarf apricot tree, to be exact, of the Blenheim variety. Blenheim apricots are noted for their superior taste when compared to other apricots, even gaining the nickname "King of the 'cots," as well as their poor shipping record due to thin skin. Rarely will you find these treats outside of California...unless, of course, you come to my home in Brooklyn in 2 years.

Today was not just a day reserved for the purchase of immature stone fruit trees that shan't bear produce for a couple of years. In addition, I'm also the proud owner of 15 forty pound bags of topsoil. Boo-ya!

Update This, Microsoft Windows!

Nobody reads my blog anymore. My theory is not because it's gotten significantly less interesting, but probably because it's not called Stuff Liberal Minded Poor White People Named L Bo Like. Whatever.

********

My sister was accepted into NYU's graduate program for super cool people who want to study sociology cause she's really smart and awesome. Plus, she could kick your ass, if it came to that.

********

In a super democratic election at the non-secret apartment meeting involving the super, the current treasurer, the man who was to become director and me, I was voted secretary of the newly created Board of Directors for the condo. Unanimously. Especially if you don't count the 5 other apartments who weren't represented at this meeting, and I don't. Better go dust off my stenography machine and long skirt.

********

My work was accepted to sell on PhotoShelter.com. This is good news for everyone. It means you can finally buy my photos of boats on Lake Michigan or shorebirds on the Santa Monica beach for that travel brochure/huge advertising campaign/calendar/article in Time magazine about me that you/your boss/your friend/your mom/anyone you know with multiple dollars to spend is putting together. Obviously, it's good news for me as I would get said multiple dollars.

********

Jamie "James Cash" Penney moved into my apartment as my brand new roommate recently, which meant I could finally end the countdown clock I had started after he committed at New Year's. It was analog and accurate to the minute, updated by turning over the pages like an old baseball scoreboard every 15 minutes. We're both about the same level of messiness, which is good. He likes things neat, but doesn't want to clean every day. I like things neat too, but want someone else to make them that way.

********

I went to see Avenue Q with Dynamo and some others last weekend. It was super good. There's something about puppets watching porn and being racist that soothes the soul, especially when that soul just received, and promptly lost, 8 delicious chocolate chunk cookies from a cookie shop in Jersey City.

********

While attempting to cross into Jersey via the Holland Tunnel, I noticed a man on 6th Avenue selling glow sticks. He didn't seem to be doing brisk business, unlike the pretzel and hot dog guy who delivers to your car. Why would I need a glow stick to drive through the tunnel? Was it that dark in there? Was the circus performing? Was the whole awful traffic mess actually caused by a giant rave inside? I had many questions.

********

A photographer I just started working for asked me the other day what I wanted for lunch.

"There's a lot of choices around here. Is there anything you don't eat?"

I replied: "I can't handle spicy food, and I don't eat squid. I'm actually rather frightened by them." Noticing the blank look on his face, I figured it was a story better left for another time.

Happy Hippity Hoppity Bunny Day

No, this year I won't be posting hilarious videos of the Cookie Bunny in order to celebrate Easter. Been there, done that. I will talk about another tradition, however. Every year for the last few, DJ's mom graciously invites me, Human Dynamo and some others for Christmas and Easter dinners, since I am of the Jewish persuasion and HD's mom doesn't really enjoy spending time with him. Being Sicilian (and 11% sub-Saharan too, but she's not constantly bragging about that or anything), Rosemary is an excellent chef (and person) and always cooks up delicious, 241 course meals. Along with Gary, DJ's funny and jovial father, and joined this year by HD's lady friend and Janet, we sat around the table for 4 hours, enjoying each other's company, Italian delicacies and delicious wine.

At some point in our deep, philosophical and serious conversations, we wondered if there were other groups of people enjoying Easter dinner and having the same discussions as us somewhere on the Earth. I hope so, cause if not, what the hell are we trying to save? So in order to unshroud (deshroud?) and dispel the mysteries surrounding our exchanges, I've listed some things we talked about and what I learned.

Things from Easter: No, Not Just An Excuse For Another List:

• Easter celebrators eat lamb, pork, veal or ham traditionally and not chicken or beef. This is most likely because chickens and cows have traditionally denied Jesus' rising 3 days later.
• It's possible Jesus didn't die on the cross according to a show Rosemary and Gary saw on the History Channel. His followers somehow infiltrated the cross hanging group, probably through ninjitsu means, and lowered him after 3 hours. Treating his wounds in the crypt, Jesus was able to emerge 3 days later and ride off into the sunset. This is mostly supported by his autobiography, supplemented by concrete photographic evidence.
• I'm pretty sure I had heard that theory before too, and it even went further to suggest Jesus sired a male heir and there's a whole bloodline. I'm also pretty sure this theory was put forth in Preacher, somewhere between issues #6 and #12.
• The Dalai Llama inadvertently caused traffic on the West Side Highway that almost led to me being late for dinner, a tragedy since the only thing I was asked to bring was myself on time (a truly incalculably valuable gift to anyone who knows me even a little).

• Janet is the most generous and greatest person I know. She brought me a cup full of delicious, organic jelly beans stolen from Google's CEO's desk, comics from Australia and New Zealand, unbelievably delicious South African white wine, and is semi-willing to have my children, presumably if nothing better comes along.
• Our kids would have superior DNA. I proved it scientifically.
• This qualified as easily the greatest Easter ever, and perhaps even the best day in, if not ever, at least all of March (which feels like forever) as, in addition to the embarrassment of riches already mentioned, I received two boxes worth of comics from DJ. Good thing I'm not working right now, as it'll probably take me the next 3 weeks to read all of them.
• We almost had cookie bread this year. Maybe next year there will be onion wings too.
  

• DJ's 12 year-long-and-counting plan to keep me and one or both of his fine female friends apart may be coming to an end. My biggest obstacle at this point may be choosing which one of the sisters to make an honest woman out of. Probably the medical student who will no doubt be willing to completely provide for me so I can continue my life of luxurious lethargy.
• List within a list of qualifications so Rosemary can upsell me:

1. Height. I've got being tall working for me.
2. Wittiness
3. I love to eat food
4. I'm cultured. By this, I mean we came to consensus that I could talk about bears for weeks and had knowledge of marzipan from different parts of the world.
5. I've traveled and would like to more
   
6. I was told being unemployed probably isn't that attractive. But that can be spun. I'm a free-lancer who loves freedom and free food and can travel to say, Philadelphia for a long-distance romance due to my free time. Not to freeload, of course.

• Batman can't really hire sub-contractors or outsource his work. I mean, even if he doesn't have them add the bat logo to everything, how many people are really ordering utility belts for non-superhero or villain purposes? HD pointed out that in Batman Begins, Bruce and Alfred set up shell companies and order everything in parts to later assemble, as well as bulk orders of things like his mask, but still, it seems like even this would cause suspicion. Thinking about this also gave me new found respect for Bruce, because he put together the Batcomputer (which is probably the world's smartest computer), the Batmobile and...well, everything in the Batcave. He's a man of tremendous skills, resources and disguises.

I hope you've enjoyed the tales of our confabulations, and perhaps next year can integrate some of these flawlessly into your own dinner table discussions to enhance Easter. "Please pass the potatoes, which may have been grown by a member of Jesus' bloodline."

Recent Intellectual Conversation

I recently signed up for an online dating service since I have no interest in leaving my apartment to find women and this is the closest, non-embarrassing and legal alternative to mail-order brides. I'm finding out that the road to love is fraught with bumps and...uhm...this...

Girl: Good Morning=)
I like your photos

Me: Thanks. What kind of dog is that you're squeezing? Is he/she yours?

Girl: He name is CoCo. He is Havanese. Do you like the dog?

Me: Yea, CoCo's cute. I don't have one, but wish I did. They're so much responsibility though. Plus, I'm sure my dog would try to steal my food all the time.

Girl: Do you like the dog?

At this point I didn't know what to do besides laugh. And be a little weirded out. It seemed like maybe there was a code I was missing, or like I was involved in some sinister scheme to take her dog off her hands. It was almost like this, where maybe if you keep asking for something enough, they'll give it to you. Though I guess maybe all the answers reside in her profile:

HeY ThErE ! ! !

Thanks for comming to visiting my profile.

> > >I'm a sweetie girl, LooKing FoR A NiCe GuY, FuNnY, WaRM AnD GeNtLeMaN.

* * * * * If YoU ArE, WhAt ArE YoU WaiTiNG FoR??? * * * * *

End of Another Era: Question Mark?

My unemployment adventures may be coming to a close. Not really by choice. "Freelancing" since June 15 of last year hasn't been all that bad if you don't think making money is important in any way. It has allowed me to pursue other interests, including watching a lot of Scrubs reruns, being lazy, sleeping in and making banana fritters.

I had a slight scare the other day, when I actually got the non-profit job I had interviewed for. I remember being ambushed at the interview, probably not too unlike how Swamp Fox used to ambush Redcoats, and being told I had to teach the kids for 3 hours that day. Nervous and in somewhat of a panic, I desperately looked around for an escape route, before going to the bathroom and talking myself out of removing the bars from the window. Despite all that, and spending most of my time engaged in a conversation about how cool Carnage is, I got the job.

Unfortunately, due to fears of giving up my daytime (and nighttime) cookie eating parties, my inability to commit for a year and their repeated usage of the abbreviation ASAP, I had to pass. The job was given to my runner-up when I asked for some extra time to think about it. It was tough to pass up, in light of having a mortgage to pay, but at the end of the day, it wasn't like someone walked up to me and asked me to join the Justice League. "Here's your power ring, we really think you could help us fight crime and evil aliens bent on world domination. It is full time, so you'll have to abandon any dreams of being a photographer, but you can fly and have super strength." That would be an easy decision.

After dodging that bullet sans powers, I think I'm going to go celebrate by taking a nap on the couch.

End of an Era, Revisited

Human Dynamo came over Saturday for a few hours to get discouraged by the huge mess he had left behind and to not take anything he needed, except for spices and a coffee press. It had been almost a week since he moved out, yet I managed to hold back the tears and shake his hand, firmly and with no traces of being lonely.

As touched on in End of an Era, I miss Dynamo's Xbox360 more than him. I figured when he took it with him, I'd be more productive; I'd have one less distraction in my life. Dynamo predicted I was wrong, and it turns out he's right. It used to be, I'd just throw a game in and play until I realized I should have been asleep 2 or more hours ago, with the exception of Bioshock. This game is so eerie, I'd have to watch something funny on TV to soothe my nerves, otherwise I wouldn't be able to go to sleep for fear of a splicer jumping out to get me. The game is freaky, yo! In fact, the only thing that's scared me more recently is the tree octopus, which ***SPOILER ALERT*** turned out to be a hoax. I probably would have figured that out sooner had I not been rendered immobile by panic at the idea of a multiple terrain and altitude intelligent killing machine, dropping onto my head from it's high perch on a spruce, with it's suckering tentacles and poisonous sharp parrot-like beak trying to peck into my brain. Not to mention it has beady eyes. AHHHHH. I'm scaring myself writing this.

My productivity has now actually declined, as I spend more time looking for distractions. I've dug out old computer video games, been forced to buy new ones and hooked up my PS2. While it's still fun to play, I'm constantly lamenting over the less good graphics when compared to Xbox360. Due to this, I'm forced to play longer to get the same quality fix. One hour of PS2 equals 20 minutes of Xbox360. It's just simple mathematics. While I do get to sleep earlier at night, I sleep the sleep of the restless, lonely and unfulfilled. This new era, the age of More-After After Xbox360 (or M-AAX) has begun, and I'm way less than thrilled about it.

Happy Valentino's Day

Valentino's was a pizzeria by my parents house that I used to frequent when I was in elementary school. In sixth grade, we were allowed to go out for lunch, a privilege and freedom for kids that age that undoubtedly no longer exists. Valentine's day that year, I decided I was going to ask my childhood crush, Erin, out to lunch. I got all prepared, asking my friends for advice, and was set to be the ultimate gentleman; I was going to pay for the pizza AND pull her chair out for her. Somewhere along the line, our signals got crossed, and she ended up at McDonald's while I ate a slice alone.

But I'm not bitter. Valentine's Day marked the beginning of one of my relationships, senior year in high school. I cleared my parents out of the apartment for the night with my wiles and cooked up a nice dinner in my fanciest sweater. This led to a two year relationship, and to me attending SUNY Albany freshman year even though I didn't really want to.

Like most guys, I'm not huge on Valentine's Day anymore. Cliched notions like it's too commercial a holiday aside, I've subscribed to Human Dynamo's thinking. If you love someone, you should show it all year round, not just on a specific chosen date. He feels the same way about birthdays, though does enjoy the weekend long celebrations that have become common in our crew, and also about President's day, as every month or so he sends a love letter to Abraham Lincoln.

As far as romance goes, I've always thought the holiday season was far more romantic. With temperatures that are at least tolerable, festive lights everywhere, everyone in a happy mood and the chance of a magical white Christmas, this is the time of year I wish most for a girlfriend and romantic dinners in front of a fire place.

The End.