The Cat's Meow

   dw spent most of last week enjoying some R and R visiting friends in Mountain View CA. (MV is a town south of San Francisco, north of San Jose). Kate and John G. have a house here in Portland and a condo in MV, where they spend half the year and where John is an anatomy professor of some distinction. (Here in Portland, among friends, he's just another old git)
    Before she left, dw called the G's and asked if there was anything they'd like her to bring down. Nothing was really needed, but dw did say she would stop at Zupan's (an upscale grocery store) and buy some particular French ham which isn't available in MV, and which Beaner sorely missed. (dw likes Beaner, and the French ham is the only ham Beaner will eat) "Beaner" (aka Victoria) isn't John's nickname as one might think -- given the special need for French ham -- Beaner is their cat. At this point you might think Beaner has a gold lined silver food bowl with matching charger, a bed lined with de-allergized dog fur (Take THAT Fifi -- I snooze on your grave!!) and a crystal water bowl filled with Evian water. But not so. In all other respects Beaner is a pleasant ordinary cat and treated as such. I don't know how Victoria came to merit such a special snack food, but there you are. I also don't know how Victoria came to be called Beaner, especially since it's Beaner and not Biner -- short for carabiner -- as John is a mountain/rock climber of 60 years standing. Another of life's mysteries. 

   The name "Beaner" reminds me of a cat my Uncle Percy owned some 60 years ago. Another seemingly ordinary cat (certainly amouldering in it's grave at this point) but in that case named "Stringbean". Stringbean got it's name for the cat's inordinate fondness for canned string beans -- fond to the point that string beans were about all Stringbean would eat -- the world's first and only vegan house cat. I was a child and didn't know Stringbean very well but I imagine, like all other cats, Stringbean loved hunting and pouncing -- so one can picture Stringbean catching a mouse, crunching it's tiny mouse skull, and then spending the next five minutes thinking: "Ooo, nasty -- mouse brains all over my mouth -- (spit, spit, spit) -- ooo, nasty -- (spit, spit)" -- sigh -- "Now I suppose I need to carry the nasty thing into the house and put it in the giant's shoe" -- sigh --

  If there's a moral to be drawn from this, I haven't thought of it, so if you want one you'll have to make it up yourself. 

Books:  "The Curse of the Labrador Duck" (Glen Chilton). Chilton is an ornithologist who developed an obsession with the Labrador duck -- extinct for 150 years -- and spent 10 years or so traveling around looking at and measuring all of the extant stuffed Labrador ducks. Another amusing science lite book, only in this case it's really lite since (according to Chilton) almost nothing is known about the Labrador duck. While I haven't traveled to see any of the stuffed ducks, having read this book I fancy I'm something of a world authority on the Labrador duck. Almost nothing is known, and I know almost nothing: Q.E.D. In a notable passage the author writes that one of the last of the ducks was shot by a Simon F. Cheney. I don't know if Simon is an ancestor of Dick, but people named Cheney seem to have a predilection for indiscriminate blasting away with a shotgun.  DA

An Intriguing Offer

  Several days ago I received an email informing me that I have been selected for the Registry Of Distinguished Women.   I immediately abandoned the game of solitaire I was playing, even though I nearly had a win, and rushed into the living room to tell dw of the new honor.  dw and I rarely practice one-up-manship, but I did (modestly) point out that she hadn't been selected, and since I had been selected, some kind of special recognition would be appropriate.  dw turned a page in the book she was reading and said  "That's nice, dear.  It's really special."
   I recognize being placed in the company of Distinguished Women carries a heavy responsibility along with the great honor so after some deep thoughts I have concluded that I need to continue my life as I have been living it.  My life has been notable enough for the selection so ipso facto my present manner is good (and distinguished) enough for the honor. 
   In full disclosure:  dw and I share the same email address, so the offer might have been meant for her.  Also, though it was meant for me, it might be contingent on a sex change operation (to fix the world-wide imbalance caused by Chas Bono's switch to the other side).  If that's the case the Registry of Distinguished Women is just SOL.  I'm entirely happy with the hardware I've got.  The knees need a tune-up but otherwise everything is fine the way it is. 
   Books:  "The Thief At The End Of The World"  (Joe Jackson)  How Henry Wickham smuggled rubber tree seeds away from the Amazon into England -- ending Brazil's monopoly on rubber.  An interesting read.  It worked well for Great Britain -- Wickham went from one failure to another.  And  "Group Theory In The Bedroom and Other Mathematical Diversions"  (Brian Hayes)   A series of essays concerning math curiosities and conundrums.  Interesting with some occasional heavy sledding.  And so it goes.  DA

Home Entertainment

     The toilet paper (or tissue paper if you're delicate) core collection started some years ago.   About fifteen years ago, for Christmas, our oldest grandson gave us (at the behest of his mother)  the garden statue of a boy with a bird.  Shane A. didn't think we would want it and was embarrassed about giving it, but what could he do? -- His mother thought it was a great idea or at least thought it was an adequate idea.  And Shane was right, the statue wasn't to our taste, but what could we do?  One certainly doesn't dis a Christmas present, particularly one from a six year old, so we stuck it in the downstairs bathroom until we could figure out a place for it.  After a few weeks, I added white and pupils to the statue's eyes so it appeared to be looking at a person who was sitting doing his or her business.
   After a few more weeks dw and I started decorating the statue by bandaging it with paper, making a hat from a paper roll,  giving it a paper scarf and so on.  At one point someone (I think it was Dan -- younger son) who gave it the leggings.  Following a period of increasing escalation and saving the paper cores for later inspiration, we started noting the date, time, weather  and anything of interest on each roll core as it appeared.  For a time we just stacked the cores until a year ago when we started hanging them.   It should be noted that any legitimate use for the actual paper is fair.  It needn't be of a scatological nature.  (I got to label one core when I used the paper to wipe off an oil-paint brush)  Some of our friends think we should get out more. 

   Yesterday was my birthday (Hurrah, Happy Birthday to Me!) and dw surprised me with a present.  We don't ordinarily do much for birthdays, a card and a "Happy Birthday"  (and if anyone is feeling sarcastic:  "You're how old now?  Wow!!") commonly is the extent of the celebration.  So the gift -- discovered when I went to get milk for my morning coffee -- was quite a surprise.  Now, as a creamer it's sort of gross, and it drips so it really needs a very tiny nursing bra but I think it's great.  dw knows and shares my taste for the outre'.  (It's made by a local potter -- Mudshark Studios)
   And in the afternoon we met friends for light dinner -- Largely for a going away dinner as they're leaving for their annual half-year sojourn teaching at Stanford.  A pleasant day.

   The house painting is coming along.  The actual painting has started and the end is in sight if still a ways away.  

   Books:  "Life" (Keith Richards with James Fox)  It's to his credit that Richards gives prominent credit to Fox.  Usually celebrities like to pretend they actually wrote their autobiography.  The book starts with an account of his arrest in Arkansas for drug possession (he beat the rap) and I feared the worst.  I think a chronicle of "I get drunk and do drugs and therefore I'm wonderful" is really boring.  But Richards doesn't take that path.  Periodically he mentions using drugs but it isn't the center of his story.  I'm finding it very interesting  -- it's mostly a tale of how he came to music and how he keeps working at and exploring music.  I've always liked the Stones, but I think even a non-fan, if interested in how an artist works, would find the book interesting.  -- An irrelevant aside:  the copy I'm reading is a library book -- large print edition (it was the only copy available) Large print -- you could get carpal tunnel from having to turn the pages so often.    DA

Holy Toast

   It has come to my attention that dw doesn't care for Sundays.  Even though, as she puts it, her family didn't go to church on Sundays -- or any other day, for that matter.  Some might say that church-going could improve Sundays (Kate G. suggested that a simple genuflection in front of our Toasted Virgin would be a good substitute for church) but I think her ennui is caused by a strong sense of unrealized Sunday Potential.  We could do nearly anything on Sundays:  A short car trip,  A hike in the Columbia Gorge, Visit friends or relatives, do any number of things in Portland -- but come the day we seldom do any of the above.  dw will usually visit a friend (skipping the chance to pop in and visit a stranger) and I thoroughly read the paper, work up a good case of umbrage, and give the paper a hard shake which satisfies my need for excitement.  
   But back to the Madonna Col Butter:  The painting in the background is an older work of mine -- called by Sean A. (oldest son) The Sunny Side Up Egg.  It's actual title is "Fall Sunset", or "Apocalypse Then", or "What? It Was The Sixties!"  It's hanging outside to add some interest to a dull section of fence, and the Virgin On Toast was a later improvement.  I haven't previously written about the Miracle Of The Toast because I worry that our back yard will become a pilgrimage site and I'll have a continuous job of shooing away people crawling through the alley -- giving each a crumb from the Blessed Loaf, the very origin of the Holy Mother of Baked Flour And Yeast.  (It's called Wonder Bread for a reason).  But to enliven our Sundays I am now sharing our own  Miracle Of The GE Toaster.  Please call for an appointment if you need to share the Awesome Buttered Madonna.

   In my last post, I wrote of Peninsula Park and the several hundred rose bushes.  I checked and there are 10,000 rose bushes -- each a different variety.  No wonder the scent is so strong. 

   Books:  I finished Mark Twain's Autobiography -- or finished the part he actually wrote or dictated.  There are several hundred pages of notes and appendices which I largely skipped.  I enjoyed as much as I read but, to be truthful, the hundreds of pages of scholarly research was more than I am interested in.  I'm now reading "Napoleon's Buttons" (Penny Le Couteur & Jay Burreson) -- A collection of essays about "17 molecules that changed history" (the sub-title).  They write about such things as tobacco and caffeine and pepper.  It's a good read.  DA