Week 579: Further Adventures in Urban Wildlife

(Sir Andy Hisster)

Due to his departure to the green fields of the PAWS’ center located about a half hour north of here, this is the first spring in which Andy Hisster (The Gray fella above this paragraph) does not rule (in person) the courtyard of my building in what feels like ten years. My uncertainty of the year is because I can not remember the moment I meet any Feral Cat, they just appear, magically, and it feels as though they have always been.

“In person” is added parenthetically (then in quotations and, now, in a way, both, perhaps more philosophically than in actuality) because there is a psychic connection between Cats that has yet to be explored by science; for me, however, it is an obvious link that exists on the Feline spiritual level. In that regard, Andy is much like Al Capone sending orders to Frank Nitti from Alcatraz (although the PAWS center is much more like Al’s Florida retreat than a prison; in fact I can easily imagine Andy sitting at pool side, surrounded by adoring “dolls,” wearing a white terry cloth robe, Nicholson Raybans, sipping a rum cocktail while huffing a ten dollar Cuban cigar).

The Frank Nitti of this little melodrama is Alfie, whose mugshot appears below this paragraph. His full name is Lord Alfred of the Rutabaga Patch. He acquired the rutabaga part because during his younger years (Alfie is an estimated age of five–the same non-recollection of our first meeting applies), there was an inescapable “fell off the turnip truck” air about him that has worn off due to a sudden, unexplainable rise in both his intelligence and charm. For a couple years, Alfie was a son of a bitch who swatted the hand that kept on feeding him. Then, what a year, maybe two ago, he had a character transformation that I have often compared to that of Scrooge, yet now feels much more like that of the late great George Foreman. For those of you who do not recall the pre-grill Foreman, he was an ill-tempered boxer who appeared to enjoy inflicting punishment. But after losing to Ali in the “Rumble in the Jungle” he disappeared for close to twenty years and returned as a fortyish, chunky, slapheaded gregarious preacher who resembled an African Buster Bloodblister. He had many children, each one named George or Georgette. This man was honestly friendly and resembled his brutish predecessor only at the genetic level. He aimed for and regained the heavyweight championship at the stunning age of forty-six and got rich enough by selling grills to support a stadium of Georges and Georgettes.

(Alfie of the Rutabaga Patch)

Anyway, Alfie went from violent to ankle weaver in the course of ONE DAY, which cannot be overstated. On a Tuesday he gave me a good old fashioned backclaw across the wrist for not being snappy enough with the chow, on Wednesday he was seen in the company of a Magick Witch, who was smiling and speaking enchantments, and on Thursday I saw the light of civilization in Alfie’s eyes. I can now pet him, which would have been drunken madness for years. Nowadays he is seen coming out of various apartments in the complex, because he is a Ramblin’ Dude. I’d bring him in (he doesn’t know where I am because my apartment is inside the main building–there’s a horseshoe array out front that aren’t behind a main door), but can’t because there would be an extreme amount of hate and discontent espoused by my pair of sixteen-year-old Cats, who are still in fighting trim enough to raise hell. Anyway, the Ramblin’ Dude thing precludes such an action, but if the weather ever turns bad enough I’ll just have to do it and suffer the consequences.

Still, the new Good Guy Alfie–our planet’s beefiest ex-Feral Cat–is a Cat. And being such there’s still a fair amount of sonofabitchery expected of him. The S.O.B. acts, which I have a feeling are co-authored on the psychic level by distant Andy, involve, of course, Alfie and his interactions with his sweetie Garbo the Calico, Nordic the Red in Apartment 9 and a Russian Blue whom his owner cleverly calls Blue; Blue has a sister, Ebony, a golden-eyed Black Cat, but she rarely ventures into the hall. Frankly I prefer the names I make up for other people’s pets ( I do not know Garbo’s or Nordic the Red’s actual names), so I refer to Blue as “Da Blues” which positively infers his Russian heritage while at the same time providing him with a hip dose of artistic cred.

In this set up, only Alfie is free to roam the courtyard, Garbo and Red have their indoor perches, and Da Blues has occasional yet frequent freedom to roam the halls while his master smokes weed outside the side door (an activity which happens about four times a day). This allows him to study Alfie at the door the mail and other deliveries are brought through; the door is an old mostly glass affair that allows small animals a chance to study one another. Other than those of Andy and Alfie I can provide a picture of Da Blues only because those of Red and Garbo would require aiming my phone at other peoples’ windows, and I’ve seen Ebony only once, and then she was in the arms of her master.

(Da Blues. A sweet fellow whose coat is quite shiny)

Now the Garbo and Alfie romance has been going on for something like three years. That is rare due to the fact that tenants (other than myself) do not live here that long–but she is of one of the longer term residents (her owners have been here since prior to the plague, so at least six years. And yes, “owner,” not human, “hooman,” and for fuck’s sake do not call a Dog your “Dawgter.” That insults the Dog and brings evil to my vital organs. I also believe that children should have a clearly marked owner until they reach majority. It keeps things clear when messes are to be cleaned). Sorry about that rant–that’s why it is in parentheses (as you might notice I use parenthetical inclusions plenty. It’s how my mind works). Anyway, Garbo’s owners do not let her outside because Garbo is a Calico gal and they know all about guys like Alfie and Andy. So it is an at the window sort of thing, a reverse gender Wuthering Heights without ghosts. As always Alfie moons at Garbo from his perch on her AC unit, while she sits at one level or another on her new Cat tree from the safety of her side of the window. (It, the tree not the AC, is a new and improved model that replaced a somewhat wobbly contraption over the winter.)

Nordic the Red is a large long haired red Tabby, a Viking who went to war against the Venetian blind in his window and won (don’t know the gender for sure, but the Cat’s girth suggests he’s a boy) shortly after moving in last summer. The barbarian absolutely destroyed the thing within a month. His owners replaced it with a thick cloth drape (which I hope didn’t cost much due to the heavy amount of clawing it has absorbed) and added one of those wildly over priced Cat perches you can buy on Amazon (I have two myself–total cost of sixty dollars for two arrangements of plastic, spongy padding and poor fitting toppers made of the material I associate with toilet seat lid covers). Red’s apartment sits a floor higher than Garbo’s and the window is located across the courtyard, therefore he is able to do some examining of her Royal Lady Fair. It also provides for a good deal of long distance malevolent stares, from Alfie, which quickly degrade into scowls, and I’m pretty sure I heard a bit of growling when I passed Alfie the other day.

The most entertaining situation, however, involves Da Blues and Alfie. Oh I so wish I had my phone handy the day I saw them gazing at each other through the main door (as you remember is mostly glass). Alfie had a bemused look of pity on his face because Da Blues (the larger of the two) was wearing a sweater that was a size too small for him. On the sweater, I swear, was a cartoon Cat (similar to “Garfield” but not to the degree of causing a lawsuit) and the words I’M A BIG BOY, MEOW! Now, he may have been playing an irony, like a gangsta rapper sporting a pacifier. But, no, I cannot support that fantasy when I compare it to his stoned owner who (apparently) thought it cute, disregarding his possible humiliation in the eyes of the local thuggery. Even though there is a special pit in perdition for people who place animals in clothing that suits no purpose other than to embarrass the creature in it, it was still a wonderful moment. Fortunately for the sake of civility, I did not have my phone with me because I am too old to be attached to the damn thing as though it were oxygen. Then again, if I had snapped a pic I would have been guilty of exploiting the boy for an action that was thrust on him (even though Da Blues seemed oblivious to his costume, he could have put up some resistance. My Cats would turn my hands to hamburger if I were ever to pull that stunt).

Now at the point where I have run out of steam, in place of an attempted smooth segue, I instead would like to enhance the words of American DJ Casey Kasem, who closed his weekly American Top 40 broadcasts with “Keep your feet on the ground while reaching for the stars.” (Something like that.) Although it lacks elegance, I say “Keep looking at what’s happening below your knees and make sure to have Cat treats in your pockets.”

On we go…

The Week That Was

This week began with a Rerun called Bingo by Hugh Cron. This story appeared in the more innocent year of 2018. Ah, yes I can hear the collected rolls of eyes and short snorts of disgust greeting my use of “innocent.” Regardless, I have read more than one person actually convey that belief in print because of the coronavirus. Yes, I guess we can pile that in the corner with other more innocent annums such as 1939 and 2001. Anyway, Hugh’s very dark and yet funny (amusing in a twisted and far from more innocent event). There are multiple accurate partial definitions of why things are funny. From reading Hugh’s work I believe funny is what happens when a lie is stripped naked and becomes the truth. The yuk is located in a speedy, unexpected transformation.

Monday introduced Ken Goldman to the readership. Although I feel safe in assuming that his Hourglass was not written in an innocent year, it is, well damn it, hell funny. Not in a laugh out loud way but in the endless irony of our strange race, in how we are mutated, frustrated and cremated by that crazy little thing called love. Brilliant.

Tuesday brought Woven From Memory by Dr. A.A. Chibi. Not all talented, well educated persons can write fiction well. It all comes down to whether you can or you can’t. “Can” is just as likely to work at the car wash than teach at Harvard. I know that doesn’t sound possible, but it is. Anyone can improve her/his writing, but a great portion of it must be in you waiting for development at the start.

A.A. is someone born with the goods and is at the same time working in an expected profession. This is a magnificent story about loss and giving. The magic gleams in the correct eyes, the murmured spells seek the proper ears and all along memory is the coin of trade.

On Wednesday Sarah Hozumi presented a fascinating tale from far away and maybe long ago. Kiri is a beautifully written thing, but I intensely disliked the father’s actions. Not to give anything away, I had to wonder, will he do that with all his children when things are bad? What if Kiri was a son? My answer to that made me think “This guy is a lying, cheating coward and all around Rat bastard, don’t care about his guilt. Cased closed. Some Dad.” Provoking strong, maybe incorrect emotions, is indicative of good writing.

Richard Jones hit the mark on Thursday with Baggage. Four times during the course of reading this story, I thought I had it nailed. But I was wrong every time. Tremendously well written and disconcerting, especially for a person who has only flown once and has kept the Never Again vow since 1988.

David Rudd’s A Shoddy Business is anything but (it is a manna to me when the title of a story provides a lead in of sorts). This is a maniacal and witty thing that leads the reader on a weaving course and even brings cholera back for a bow, of sorts. A look into the artistic mind of madness. Along with addiction, poverty and uneasy visions, a certain original creativity can be found in the soul, but it takes some digging, as David well shows.

We thank everyone who appeared this week for making the world a bit more of an interesting place, if only for a short time. And we thank their parents for making them possible. Whether magic lasts long or short, its existence should not be denied.

This Week’s Big Finale

The past day or so I’ve been thinking about my favorite all time TV characters. Maybe I should be puzzling out the path to Peace on Earth or the permanent cure for Rudd’s cholera, but stuff like that is far beyond my intellectual pay grade. Therefore I present a list of these fine fictional friends.

• Dr. Johnny Fever by Howard Hesseman on WKRP in Cincinnati. (Howard was a veteran of television, usually the fourth guest star of shows in the 60’s and 70’s until he hit gold with his portrait of a semi on the skids D.J at a definitely on the skids radio station. A great show torpedoed by network stupidity)
• Reverend Jim by Christopher Lloyd, Taxi (This might be the best side character in TV history. Taxi had a knack for those (see number 5), “Latka” by Andy Kauffman is also list worthy as was his strange little wife, Simka, portrayed by Carol Kane. If Shakespeare wrote for TV he would have given us Jim Ignatulski.)
• Archie Bunker, Carroll O’Connor All in the Family (after the first season of cartoonish, loutish behavior, O’Connor crafted a flawed three dimensional human being. Although ignorance formed much of his world view, he was dedicated to his family and had humour and below the buster, a good heart. Sadly, save for Edith, the other characters were grossly under-written and were liberal stereotypes. People did not identify with Archie’s vulgar and backwards notions, they connected because O’Connor made him human.)
• Al Bundy, Ed O’Neil Married With Children (I sure wish this guy was on instead of Ward Cleaver, when I was a child. There was a time when the Fox network had the best shows.)
• Louie De Palma, Danny Devito, Taxi (Danny D’s career really began here. Louie is one of the worst human beings who has ever walked the earth and yet he is also often sympathetic. No other actor could have pulled this guy off.)
• Homer Simpson, The Simpsons. (A team effort that has created a masterpiece of a character who was not even the “star” of the show when it began. For me the funniest overall character ever created. He traces back to Ralph Kramden but has had the time to develop into a unique superstar; but I wish they would retire the damn show already.)
• Lennie Briscoe, Jerry Orbach, Law and Order. (For twenty years Orbach was a major Broadway song and dance man, initiating the roles of Billy Flynn in Chicago and he was the original El Gallo in the off Broadway classic The Fantasticks, which made him the first actor to sing the standard Try to Remember. In films he was the Candlestick in Beauty and the Beast and the possessive father of “Baby” in Dirty Dancing. But he knew that in one night on a popular TV show he would be seen by more people than in an entire season on the boards. So around the age of sixty he gave us Lennie Briscoe the world weary yet still taking his swings as an ex-alkie cop on the very long running Law and Order. And although the character described is a cliche, Orbach rose above and gave a fresh performance every year (the same goes for Dennis Franz from NYPD Blue, but there’s only so much room on this list). He carried a million drinks and sins in his face and was flat out wonderful. Prostate cancer prevented him from seeing the end of the show’s run, even though he played Lennie for thirteen seasons.)
• Nick Yemana, Jack Soo, Barney Miller. (Jack Soo was a first rate deadpan comic and Broadway performer and the only non-white performer on this list. He brought great deadpan wit to a police comedy that co-starred a bunch of equally wonderful characters. No choice from the cast would be unfit for the list. Soo died of leukemia halfway into the show’s run, but he left a lasting impression in his final role.)
• Emma Peel, Diana Rigg, The Avengers (In the U.S. The Avengers was shown at odd times, like on Sunday afternoons, I recall that happening one year, it and The Prisoner were run back to back like that). For me it was always Mrs. Peel and the Derby. Although the actresses to come were talented, only Rigg with her mixture of beauty, grace, humour and charm made the premise go. And there was something about her being married to an M.I.A. fellow that aided the tension. She also bowed out brilliantly on the Game of Thrones, which might be the best modern series ever)
• Basil and Sybil Fawlty, Fawlty Towers (Basil is utterly mad. Maybe Louie De Palma and Basil can be co-world’s worst person on second thought. It was brilliant just to do a couple short series because I think if it went longer some fool would have tried to give Basil a heart, and that would never have worked. For me the Mrs. is necessary or he would just fly off the screen, therefore I consider this one a “tag team” character).

I hope this list moves you to add someone of your own.

(Word of the post: Nugatory, adjective, “little or no value.”)

Leila

I present one of my all time favorite songs; a video which contains the two best cymbal kicks a person should ever want to see. Without further delay, Miss Shelia E.

And Al Says…