Christmas music from my childhood.

One of my favorites as a child. Sure, some would argue-oh, so depressing. Well, no. To me, this is the urban bookend to Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." It brings to mind walking through a neighborhood late at night, no wind and it is quietly snowing. Folks' houses lit up with Christmas lights inside and out. Just you under a dark sky with snow coming down without a sound. Inside these homes, families are gathered with those they love and cherish, on the darkest night of the year. Soon you'll be home to yours.

2 Guys Talkin'

B-Nice fire.

J-Sure is. Windy out, I can hear it and the trees are really moving. Nice to be inside.

B-You bet. Colder than mouse titties out there. 
B-Mom in bed?

J-Yeah, I tucked her in. Where are the girls?

B-The Grey Meatloaf is sprawled out in the library, snoring. The Crazy Calico is curled up on the loveseat.
 
J-Just the guys standing watch.

B-As it always has been. (stretching) Oh, nice and warm.

J-Yeah.
J- Man, that was good eats tonight.

B-It smelled good, what was it?

J-Individual shepherd’s pies, ‘shroom filling for Mom, cow for me.

B-Blechh on the fungi but those meat scraps were quite tasty.

J-It turned out. Mom was pleased but she is easy to please.

B-Family recipe?

J-No, just an Anglophile thing.

B-Well, that explains the claret, the Handel and All Creatures Great and Small on the telly.

J-(chuckling) Yep.

B-What did you have for Christmas Eve as a kid?

J-Well, my mother loved Christmas and was big on creating traditions. She lost her parents quite young and had a disjointed childhood. On Christmas Eve, as a nod to the ancient Swedish side of the family, she created a smorgasbord.

B-Ohhhhh yum! Fish?

J-Not so much as I was (and still am) a fussy eater. But one of the little things she made that Dad loved was an anchovy dip. I remember dishes and dishes of food. She cooked for a couple of days.

B-I bet that was good.

J-It was, we had leftovers for days. Dessert was crescent shaped pastries filled with ground nut paste called kolache. With a bit of powdered sugar on top. A recipe from my Slovak grandmother, my Dad’s Mom. I’m going to make some this week. They’re great with coffee.

B-Hmm sounds good.

J-You would just lick it, you wouldn’t like it at all. Guaranteed.

B-I might!

J-I’d be pitching it outside for Blossom.

B-What is Mom’s infatuation with that possum?  That animal looks like big, lumpy rat.

J-She’s not a rat, she’s a marsupial.  And Mom thinks she’s cute and is thrilled Blossom lives under our deck in the winter. You know how she loves critters.

B-Sigh. Well, I can’t object too much. I lived in the gas house the winter I was abandoned so I can’t really deny someone shelter.

J-Yep.

B-Whatcha drinking there?

J-Nose out of the glass, please. Cream sherry

B-Portuguese?

J-No, Spanish-Jerez.

B-Oh yes, the priest I lived with had that.

J-Must have been big doings this time of year at the Vatican.

B- You bet. The Catholics do know how to put on a good show.

J-I would hope so, this is their big day.

B-True that. But you apes have been meeting up around the winter solstice for ages, long before the Christians latched on to it. In fact, what we’re doing tonight has occurred ever since you guys came out of the trees, got a grasp of the climate and learned to make fire. It’s in your DNA, thousands of years of gathering around the fire on the longest night of the year. Hoping for the return of the sun, warmth and the miracle of life reviving. It’s a really old, old celebration. No wonder the Nazareth prophet story resonates so deeply with people.

J-And even if one doesn’t recognize that particular tradition, who cannot at least embrace the spirit of the season: peace on earth, goodwill to all?  Too bad it doesn’t work out.

B-Sigh-let’s not get morose. You need to enjoy the time you have left. Nothing you can do about the misery in the world. Always has been, always will be. But what you can do is not be miserable yourself. And not spread it to others. That’s the best you can do.

J-Ok, Bindiwan (scratching ears)

B-What’s that?

J-Hmmm?

B-Off in the distance.

J-Not catching it-you have the better ears.

B-Ahh, how lovely that they still do that here. Bells. It’s midnight.

J-Merry Christmas, buddy.

B-Merry Christmas, What do you have there?

J-Oh, a little something.

B-For me?

J-Yes, I’ll open it for you.

B-(nuzzling hand) Thanks, man. Oh! Something smells good. Good and fishy!!

J-Some treats.

B-(munching) oh yummers. Good Stuff!!! Check out your stocking, at the top.

J-You have something for me?

B-Sure, via Mom.

J-Hmmm, she did a good job wrapping this darn thing. Oh, Mozarts. How did you know?

B-(washing face) I know things.

J-Mmmm the chocolate/hazelnut goes with the sherry. Thank you! Oh look! It’s snowing.

B-Yes it is.

(sound of wind, fire crackling, distant snoring of a cat)

B- Well my friend, I’m going to settle down over here in the corner of the couch. You staying up?

J-For a bit. Watch the fire and finish my drink. You have a good winter’s nap, Bin.

B-You too. And a Merry Christmas to one and all.

Monty Python: On Creativity

Heard on NPR or Fun With Insects

I was listening to NPR last week and a segment came on reporting potential progress in developing a new mosquito repellent. DEET, which has been the gold standard since World War II, is relatively expensive for extensive use in developing countries. While seemingly benign when absorbed into human skin, it does eat through plastic. Scientists have been working to find a cheap yet effective alternative and it seems they may have stumbled on an important finding.

What got my attention was one of the scientists while describing the experiments nonchalantly mentions that they luckily had access to genetically altered fruit flies whose antenna will glow green when they sense DEET. So, they reasoned-let's expose these flies to a wide array of substances. If their antenna react, then perhaps this is a potential mosquito repellent. Turns out extracts of plum, orange and jasmine did the trick. Cheap and pleasant smelling. Such a deal!

NOW WAIT JUST A MINUTE!! GENETICALLY ALTERED FRUIT FLIES???

How the hell did anyone figure out that fruit fly antennae would glow to begin with, no less glow when exposed to DEET? Who is doing this stuff?? Who funded it?? What kind of Frankenflies were created when the experiments...ah... well...didn't turn out as planned?? And what is PETA gonna say about this??

On one hand, fascinating. On the other, it just boggles the mind.

2 Guys Talkin'

B-Crazy apes, crazy crazy apes. 
 

J-You read, huh?

B-Your species never fails to astonish. The adage about cats and curiosity should really apply to apes. Our curiosity is merely patrolling with the desire to uphold our personal security. You idiots make atomic weapons.

J-Those were developed for the same reason: security.

B-That's not my point and you know it-your curiosity could end up killing us all. If it ain't messing up the climate or poisoning everything, it will be some stupid- we did it cuz we can and we had funding-experiment that has unintended consequences. You guys are really good at creating OOOPPS situations.

J-Geez you're in a filthy mood. Calico giving you extra grief?

B-I'm just grumpy.

J-I noticed you have been finicky about your food.

B-I'm bored with it.

J-Hmm general malaise?
 

B-I haven't killed anything in a while.

J-Wait. You're feeling bad because you haven't murdered anything recently?

B-We don't murder-we hunt. It's what we do. Your Bambi killers aren't referred to murderers are they?

J-Well, depends on who you ask...

B-Don't get me started on the animal rights people. “Oh kitty cats are wiping out whole species of fucking sparrows, oh the tragedy, oh the humanity”. They're SPARROWS!

J-We don't mind the mice being decimated. Just wish they would be dead when you guys bring them in.

B-Well-that's HRH who is doing that. That tub of lard is deceptively quick. She gets quite a kick out of wiping the grins off those doomed rodents who point and laugh at her.

J-Now that is unkind to the Mollster-she is a chunky breed.

B-Chunky, my furry black ass. That girl is BIG. We all heard the vet. She should be going to Weight Watchers.

J-Back to you-what seems to be the problem? You having a bad patch?

B-Mice,moles, birds,chippers, insects -they have been the luckiest sons-of-bitches on the planet, I swear. Worse, the Calico has been snickering. I've had just about enough of her brand of bullshit.

J-Now, let's not have another spate of fighting. You know how that upsets Mom.

B-I know, but I don't like being humiliated.

J-You seem to still be in pretty good shape for an older gent-you still have your moves.

Maybe you're just trying too hard. Give it a break. Stop obsessing. Relax. It's like riding a bike-it will come back.

B-Any other cliches you'd like to trot out?

J-Boy, you just want to wallow. Ok. How about a scritch.

B-Naa.

J-Oh c'mon. It will make you feel better. How about there?

B-Meh.

J-How about a snack?

B-Meh. I'm gonna take a nap. I'm feeling old. Mom called me “grizzled”.

J-Well, she was referring to both of us and she meant it as a term of endearment.

You were drooling and getting a tummy rub at the time. Now, you are upset?

B-Meh.

J-Ohhhhhhhhhh

B-What?

J-I know what's going on. I wondered who knocked that book down. You've been reading Yeats.

B-No I haven't.

J-Yeah you have. You get into these moods when you read Yeats. And you holler at me for listening to Tom Waits. You're just as bad.

B-It's fall, I'm feeling my age, the world is a mess and I can't hunt anymore. No country for old men.

J-Sigh. Can't argue with you there, buddy. Things suck sometimes. But, they get better. The world keeps turning, keeps running around the sun. It's life and it could be so much worse. We could be living in Somalia.

B-I know-the hell of having First World problems.

J-C'mon, how about a tooth treat before you nap?
 

B-You mean those things that look like wine corks?

J-Yep-crunchy-supposed to help ward off gum disease.

B-What the hell do you think those bony sparrows are for? Of course, I wouldn't know because I haven't killed one in weeks so sure, let's by all means have a tooth treat since I am incapable of getting a natural one anymore and while we're at it, let's get out the pate since I cannot feed myself anymore and here, get a leash and take me for walksies like a fucking dog because I can't take a shit anymore unsupervised and while you are at it, just shoot me and put me out of my misery. I'm ready for the next life.

J-Are you DONE? Gawd,nothing worse than a sulking cat. What the hell, man? Why don't you go take a nap for crying out loud.

B-I just will.

J-You do that.

B-I will if I can get this fucking door open but of course I can't because those bastards took out my front claws.

J-Here you go. Have a nice day.

B-Fuck you.

J-Sour puss

B-Asshole

J-Tooth treat?

B-

B-

B-

J-My final offer.

B-Sure.

Yeats: Sailing to Byzantium

 I
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
---Those dying generations---at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.

II
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

III
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Home from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

IV
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Tomi

My beautiful Calico Girl. Her given name is Thomasina, in reference to one of C's favorite films from childhood. Tomi was C's first cat in Paris. I shortened her name to Tomi as it fit her personality: if human, she would be a spoiled girl from a bourgeois Paris family, working as a model. She sashays around swinging her hips as the models do on, well, the cat walk during fashion shows.

She freaked out the most during the move from Paris to East Lansing. She hid most of the day in her secure castle in the basement of our duplex coming out when I was asleep in the bedroom. Only then she would come up to visit C who was up late working in her study. In the morning, if she happened to fall asleep on the couch, hearing me flush the toilet would send her frantically scurrying down to the safety of her castle. Eventually, she got to know me but when we moved to our house, she repeated her behavior: downstairs in her castle, on the highest level of some shelving. Finally, I discovered her weak spot: ham. And ever since, she is my hammy-girl. Working with it at the kitchen counter will bring her from most anywhere in the house, twining around my legs, tailing me with intent, with little meowrs of anticipation. She is Daddy's girl.

Tomi is not a lap cat. C can count on one hand the times she has jumped up in her lap. She does not like to be picked up. She enjoys petting and will emit a loud, rumbling purr when one does so. 

As readers of this blog know, she is the bane of Bindiwan's existence. She despises his presence and constantly is mean to him. She is a lurker, ready to put a fist to his grill as he comes around a corner. Or will crouch down and feint a charge just to mess with him. She is, a mean girl.

There's nothing under this carpet. You're seeing things.

Like the rest, she is a hunter. Her prey of choice are birds although she is comically, unsuccessfully. We'll be eating dinner on the deck watching our version of Wild Kingdom unfold in front of us. They all go back to the grasslands of the Seringeti in their heads when they go into their hunt mode. Occasionally, she will go after mice but unfortunately more often than not, will not kill them outright. We always know when they are bringing in a kill through the portal: them give out what C calls a croon. Which we understand-yes, proud mighty hunter has proved herself again except when she opens her mouth, the mouse, albeit stunned from the swift paw to the head, explodes out her mouth into our house. At this point, she and the others are worthless and things pretty much unfold as seen by Tomi:

What fun! See Mom and Dad run all over the house chasing the mousey! Hear Dad say bad words! See Mom get upset with Dad because he is saying bad words! Oooo what’s that where the couch used to be? Oh, a corn chip-a treat? Why are Mom and Dad yelling at ME??? I’m not in the way! I’m hungry. They never feed me. They are so cruel.

Ten minutes later if we are lucky and the damn mouse hasn't run under the piano, Mr. Mouse has been deposited in the back 40, and we're putting the furniture back. Our crew? Oh, they are asleep or washing or hollering for pate. 

Mo' Music

                                         Neo-psychedelia from the Tame Impalas.

Uncle Jeff Hollers

This morning, the sound of pipes and drums echoed through the canyons of Manhattan. The names of the dead were read. A bell tolled the fatal hour. High Mass at Ground Zero: another September 11 anniversary was observed as America fetishizes a tragedy. The professional 9/11 widows and orphans were in attendance. A cousin of one of the dead resurrected the notion to turn this date into a national holiday. Are we to get the day off? For remembrance or celebration? Would a BBQ seem tacky? Will Gordy from ABC Warehouse have a special 9/11 appliance sale?

A golf course owner found himself enmeshed in a grim sectarian clash between usually amiable American cults: the free enterprise system and patriotism. Marc Watts, owner and general manager of Tumbledown Golf Course near Madison WI offered a 9/11 special in memory of the day: 9 holes for $9.11. The response was swift and overwhelmingly negative including phoned-in death threats.

How American. How typically, hypocritically, American.

Evidently, it is fine for Hollywood to churn out movies about 9/11 and make money. It is fine for everybody and their brother with whatever tenuous connection to the event (or none at all) to write a book about that day and make money. But for some schmuck out in Podunk to run a special on HIS golf course, with what I am sure was the best patriotic intention, this is considered a paragon of bad taste and craven exploitation of people’s death. Yeah, the guy is an idiot and rather clueless, but death threats? C’mon.

I’m afraid what isn’t remembered by so many is that the 9/11 attacks were the consequence of decades of American and European foreign policy. And the result of the attacks brought forth our latest boogieman: The Terrorist. So, we launched our “War on Terror” and twelve years later what have to show for our efforts? Invasions of two sovereign nations beginning fruitless wars, the reasoning for one based entirely on lies told to us by our leaders. Thousands of our sons and daughters killed, tens of thousands maimed and hundreds of thousands of civilians dead. Both countries are in shambles, a trillion dollars was spent with borrowed funds which who knows how many generations it will take to pay off. And like most wars, research and development resulted in astonishing technological innovations leading to egregious intrusions into our privacy with the threat of further violations of by future leaders. All in the name of security.

After all this, nothing has been gained. Nothing.

And I fear nothing will be learned either. Not until we as a people begin a serious conversation about what our leaders have done and are doing at present. But judging from today's spectacle in New York City and the raw emotions unleashed upon a foolish business owner, I don't foresee this happening for many years. Meanwhile, the same mistakes will be made, the same messes will be created. Many more people will die. It never ends. And that's the true tragedy here.

Photo credit: National Park Service

Mo' Books: The Yellow Birds

I admit when I hear a film or novel being over-hyped by popular media, flags go up in my mind. I guess I am becoming quite cynical when encountering the newest, bestest thing in the whole wide world: it usually isn’t.

This slim novel by Iraq war veteran Kevin Powers certainly has drawn a lot of attention: gushing reviews notably from the New York Times, selected as the community read for East Lansing (no doubt as a result of such reviews) and the first read of the new season of C’s book club. Coming on the heels of the Beasts of the Southern Wild debacle, hearing about all this piqued my curiosity. With severe reservations.

The Yellow Birds is not a bad book but it is not very good book either. It is certainly not THE GREAT AMERICAN WAR NOVEL OF THE IRAQ ERA  or “The All Quiet on the Western Front of America's Arab Wars” as Tom Wolfe inexplicably chirps on the book cover. Oh please. I doubt if most of this generation has heard of All Quiet still less read it.

It's helpful for readers to bear in mind concerning the author: he is a newly minted MFA, this is his first book and he is a Poet with a capital P.

The book opens with an epigraph that explains the title: it’s from a violence and obscene-themed army marching cadence. A nice, big fat metaphor even before the first sentence. Oh dear-amateur hour? I am of two minds concerning epigraphs. They can be helpful in certain circumstances for the author but they can also seem an incredibly pretentious device. Especially when used by a rookie author. Sigh.

To be fair, Kevin Powers has some ability and has an acute eye for detail. Unfortunately, he does so to distraction. There seems to be few adjectives he has met that he didn’t like. His prose is described by many as lyrical. A bit much to my taste. His constant use of inner reflections could have been toned down a bit. His fatal choice of a post-modern, fractured, non-linear story line doesn’t do the book any favors either. The Times disagrees: “…..the fractured structure replicates the book’s themes. Like a chase scene made up of sentences that run on and on and ultimately leave readers breathless, or like a concert description that stops and starts, that swings and sways, that makes us stamp our feet and clap our hands — the nonlinear design of Powers’s novel is a beautifully brutal example of style matching content. War destroys. It doesn’t just rip through bone and muscle, stone and steel; it fragments the mind as a fist to a mirror might create thousands of bloodied, glittering shards”. Well, read it for yourself. I guess the metaphor of slogging through Power's endless meanderings does match a 2 day march in the sand.

As I read the book, I thought often of Terrence Malick’s 1998 adaptation of James Jones's The Thin Red Line. Set in Guadalcanal during WWII, it’s considered one of the most lyrical war movies ever made. And a bit out there. The most prominent features in the film are two of Malick’s principal devices: shots of wind moving in grass and metaphysical voice overs of the protagonist. To parody: Why are we here? What are we doing? Who is that man on that hill? Why does he want to kill me? Yeah, Yellow Birds is chock full of this sort of thing.

This book is also a kit bag filled with well-worn war clichés-the naïf who has a breakdown, the weary, brutal, cynical yet caring sergeant, clueless and gung ho officers, a misguided promise to a mother, a pretty female medic who dies, the boy to man arc of the narrator, the inevitable abuse of alcohol and general disconnection with society when he first returns home, finally finding solace in an isolated cabin in the mountains. Yepper, no new ground broken here. Powers stands on the broad shoulders of Hemingway, Michener, Mailer, Joyce and many others. No new insights into the universe of battle either, despite the author’s attention to minutiae.

Worse, all the distractions of the post-modern style, inner musings and overwrought adjectives end up committing the mortal sin for a war novel: it becomes boring. The author early on alludes to the ending but these distractions sap any suspense or tension in building up to the climax. Meanwhile, one doesn’t become invested enough to care about the characters at all. They're too conventional, familiar. Curiously, you don't learn why the narrator goes to war in the first place. Finally at the reveal, which if written differently could have had great emotional resonance, my reaction was muted: “oh, so that’s what happened” instead of: “whoa!”

I could have wished the author had written the book and shelved it for a few years. Let it age and let himself mature both as a person and a writer. Get a few books under his belt and then return to this. Perhaps tell the tale in a more traditional form. Turn the massive inner dialogues into a separate book as a meditation on the combat experience. Leave the adjectives to workshop exercises. Restrain the lyrical prose and use it sparingly for the greatest impact and therefore becoming more memorable.

In the end, I come away wondering what pushed the hype for this book? Was it trying to fill a dearth of literature about the wars? As I have noted in an earlier blog, there has been little music to come out of these 10+ years of conflict. A few books have been written but considering the number of people who cycled in and out of there over the last decade, you would think more folks would have something to say. C blames it on technology: the “say it and forget about it”  tweets, emails, occasional blogs. She suspects there has not been a whole lot of diary-keeping in the traditional sense. Thoughts that are put down in the moment, reflected upon later and ultimately ending up as a book. 

The Yellow Birds does not have much to say about the Iraq war itself. What happens is pretty generic for all wars if you think about it. Perhaps that’s the unintended message: we keep doing the same thing over and over again with the same results. We learn nothing and forget everything.

2 Guys Talkin'

J-Hey man

B-‘sup

J-Long time

B-Yeah, we’ve been busy. Give me a scritch.

J-Ok, how’s that?

B-ooooohooohhhohhhhhhh yeah mmmm

J-You’re drooling

B-Oh, get over it. You do when Mom and you…

J-HEY, HEY, HEY!!! Let’s not be talking about that. What is wrong with you?

B-Oh, I forgot-the bashful apes. Nothing in public. And yet acres of porn where they film themselves doing it and post on the 'net for the entire planet to see. Go figure.

J-This is personal.

B-One would think it would be so as well for those porn people. I guess not.

J-It just is.

B-All right, all right. Point taken. How’s your summer been? Stuff is growing.

J-Yeah but not producing much. No heat.

B-That’s fine by me with my fur pajamas and all.

J-Understandable. But we wait all winter for this and it’s disappointing. And the summer has flown by. “Oh but summer is gone, I remember it best, back in the good, old world.”

B-Oh Gawd, you’ve been listening to Tom Waits again. You guys just have to get over this obsession with death. It isn’t the end and oblivion. It’s the end of a particular cycle and you begin a new one.

J-What? There is reincarnation?

B-Sure. Everybody knows this. Just for some reason, apes forget about the last cycle. It’s a mystery to us but we accept it for what it is. We feel sorry for you.

J-Wait. What do you mean everybody knows? Everybody who?

B-All living things.

J-All living things come back?

B-Sure, in different ways. But there are rules. No species jumping. I can’t come back as a dog and you can’t come back as a tree.

J-Hmm..paging Baba Wawa.

B-What? Huh?

J- Never mind. And everybody knows this?

B-Yes. If Mom had been able to communicate with the big fishes she swam with, they would have told her.

J-They’re dolphins and they’re mammals like us.

B-And they’re tasty. Yummers!

J-OH NO NO NO NO NO..DO NOT TELL MOM THAT!!! When the hell did you eat dolphin?

B-Little Friskies Mariners Choice.

J-Hmmm better not buy any more of that.

B-I ‘spose.

J-So, getting back to reincarnation, how do YOU know this?

B-Sigh, Mr. Empiricist-what did I just say? Apes don’t remember and it’s one the wacky paradoxes of the world-big cranial volume but you don’t have this capability. We chuckle about it sometimes but frankly, it’s a monumental tragedy.

J-How so?

B-Apes forget the past and keep on making the same mistakes over and over.

J-Yeah, true that.

B-We told Jesus and he tried to tell you guys about reincarnation but the message got all mixed up and mutated. He could churn out some pretty good quotes but wasn’t too good on finessing multiple ideas. He also began to believe in the whole Messiah stuff.

J-WAIT A MINUTE!! YOU’RE SAYING THAT THE NAZARETH PROPHET, WHOSE LIFE, DEATH AND WORDS RESULTED IN ONE OF THE MAJOR ENDURING SPIRITUAL MOVEMENTS OF ALL MANKIND'S HISTORY, GOT HIS IDEA OF RESURRECTION FROM A CAT??? DUDE, EVEN FOR YOU, THAT IS A MASSIVE WHOPPER.

B-Oh, does this offend the apes whose main conceit is that they were created in the image of some deity? It’s the truth, man. Jesus had cats and they talked to him and he understood. Of course, he thought he was a bit nuts-you know, hearing voices in his head, hearing a cat speak. The truth was, that he WAS a bit nuts but for other reasons.

J-Well, a few billion folk ain’t gonna like THIS message.

B-Oh, well-we have survived persecutions before. Look at the middle ages. Millions perished. We shut up about it after that. Just let the apes suffer and be ignorant.

J-There is just so much here, I can’t get my head around it. Ah, but, uhh cats aren’t mentioned at all-to my meager knowledge of the Bible and the stories.

B-That’s correct. We aren’t. It was a political thing. People KNEW, his disciples knew, Magdalene knew. But aside from the obvious problem with “oh, our leader got his ideas from a cat and is hearing voices in his head,” there was the Egyptian connection.

J-????

B-Well, you couldn’t have a Messiah of the Jews with an Egyptian connection could you? That wouldn’t sit well with the populace whose tradition was that they were once slaves of the Egyptians. And who were among the Egyptian deities.....?

J-Cats.

B-Yep. So, right out of the box, this was suppressed. While most of the disciples weren’t the brightest crayons in the pack, they understood the message had to be from Jesus and his big Father upstairs. After all, back then people were a terribly ignorant and superstitious lot. I mean, look what they bought into. Son of god, died for collective sin, submit to me and I promise everlasting life. What am I saying? They still do!!! Oi vey!

J-So, to recap this astonishing revision of Western Civilization and Christian theology, a cat or cats told Jesus of Nazareth about reincarnation. He incorporated this into his many messages. And it got changed.

B-Well, look what happened and how it is today. Part of the problem was Jesus was unable to stay on message. He was getting nuttier everyday and had started to buy into the Messiah stuff. And became convinced that self-destruction was the only way to insure his message would be remembered.

J-You’re saying Jesus set himself up?

B-Yep. Judas didn’t betray him, Jesus SENT Judas to the authorities. Jesus knew what was going to happen and didn’t do anything to deter it.

J-How do you know this?

B-We were there.

J-A cat was there. Where?

B-In the Garden, on Jesus’ last night.

J-There was a cat in Gethsemane? Oh please, this is starting to sound like the Russians during the Cold War. They were everywhere and invented everything like the wheel, the New World, Legos.....

B-Listen-he was Magdalene's cat. Those knucklehead disciples drunk themselves into a stupor at the Seder and only the cat was left to keep Jesus company. He sat on Jesus's lap the whole time. It is from that cat that we know what Jesus was really up to as he talked quite a bit. The poor man was in quite a state. He had put into motion something that he had no choice but to go through with, including losing his life in a most gruesome manner. It is part of our collective memory.

J-None of this appears in scripture.

B-Of course not. The Patriarchs couldn’t have a lesser species involved or a woman for that matter. Magdalene btw WAS one of the disciples and frankly one of the brightest. She paid dearly for her gender and intelligence for as you know, the church for many years has portrayed her as a harlot. What better way to discredit a woman?

J-Was she Jesus’ lover?

B- I’ve never heard that but I believe they loved each other-like brother and sister. His mother hated Magdalene.

J-Why?

B-Female turf fight we believe. She didn’t want to share Jesus with Magdalene. She was jealous of their relationship-even though it was only natural for a man in his early 30’s to enjoy the companionship of a woman OTHER than his mother. I have heard that Mother Mary was instrumental behind the scenes on the slander of Magdalene. Pretty nasty stuff for the mother of the son of God don’t you think?

J-Wow. I don’t know what to say. This is just an incredible story. 

B-Well, back to the original discussion, stop being so melancholy about the end coming. It’s not the end, it’s just change.

J-Hmmm.

B-It’s all good, it is the way of things. You apes suffer so much about this. And back to Jesus-once he realized the truth in what we said, he saw how people suffered. THAT was his original intent, his original message: People- Don’t fear death. You continue. Problem was, how do you present this to people that are superstitious, ignorant and uneducated? His solution was to take current belief systems and piggy back on what was understandable to the common person-even as revolutionary as it was. But in that process, things changed and the whole thing became a different animal. Instead of talking about everyone's personal reincarnation, it mutated into Jesus solely resurrecting from the dead. But only for a small while to walk again on Earth. Then whoosh, back up to heaven. And the hook: follow my teachings and you can have what I have. Eternal life. Elsewhere. 
The idea sold well. 

J-A glorious triumph in marketing. Well, I gotta chew on this. Speaking of which,

you want a snack?

B-(jumping down) I thought you’d never ask. Is it dolphin free?

J-Groan-you’re bad.

B-Heh, heh. You walked right into that one, man.

Seen in the Garden

Eastern Tiger Swallowtail

Inter-species Love or I Can't Bear the Thought of Leaving You

From Flickr, a recreation of a turtle disguised as a hamburger.

A MAN has attempted to smuggle his "beloved" pet turtle through airport security by hiding it in a KFC burger.

On Monday, a man known only as Mr Li was flying from China's Guangzhou Baiyun International Airport to the capital Beijing, the South China Morning Post reported citing the Guangzhou Daily.

As Mr Li's bag was passed through an X-ray machine, airport security officers noticed what were described as "odd protrusions" coming out of the burger which Li had packed in his bag.

"There’s no turtle in there, just a hamburger," Mr Li said, according to the report. "There’s nothing special to see inside."

The turtle was discovered in a subsequent inspection and Mr Li said he had only hatched the odd plan as he wanted to travel with his "beloved" turtle.

Despite his affection for the animal, Mr Li agreed to leave his pet with a friend while he was away in Beijing.

This story re-imagined by the Pythons, riffing on the famous Dead Parrot sketch featuring John Cleese as airport security and Michael Palin as Mr. Li:

Security: Is that a turtle sir?
Mr. Li: No no, just a hamburger.
Sir, that is definitely a turtle, hamburgers do not have legs and a head.
They used to!

Yes sir, that is true in their original form but not now, not with cheese,

 lettuce and a slice of tomato.
They might!
Sir, you have a turtle that you have dressed to look like a hamburger. 
He asked me to.
WHAT??!!
He felt like dressing up today.
As a hamburger???? 
Well yes, they're his favorite.
So now sir, you DO admit that it is a turtle
Isn't he cute? With a very nice aged cheddar and ruffly endive.
Sigh. Sir, please remove your turtle from the luggage and move on.
You're not going to EAT HIM ARE YOU???
No sir, we are not going to eat your turtle.
What turtle? That's a hamburger.
That's it. I NEED BACK UP IMMEDIATELY!!!!!!

Mo' Music

 

 

Some positive mojo to bring back summer: from 1966, classic Kinks-"Sunny Afternoon."

This Year's Garden

Early Fall weather this weekend-low 60's and rain (amounting to nothing),

I had the fireplace going on Saturday. Nutty weather-end of July and I

am wearing a sweatshirt to work in. Good grief.

Foreground-daylilies, hostas, lily of the valley and siberian iris (thanks Sue)
Background-snow on the mountain surrounding shed.

Under picture window: transplanted snow on the mountain.

Zucchini in box.

New bed of coral bells transplanted from under picture window.

Left to right: herbs in planter, carrots and radishes in tri-level,
bush beans, zucchini, tomatoes.

Herbs with ID tags (thanks Karen).

Box left to right: marigolds, red bell peppers, eggplant, coleus.

Baby eggplant.

Fountain with calla lilies, dusty miller and scaevola in foreground,
lavender and blue grass in background.

East Garden-blackberries left, dwarf sunflowers and cosmos right.
Japanese dappled willows serve as hedge.

Godzilla blackberries.

Willows seen from street.

Butterfly bushes (thanks Mike) in their second year.

Last of the day lilies.

Earlier in the summer, C enjoying a good read.

So was Molls.