I’d like you to meet our oldest cat, Lucky. Careful, she’s pretty crotchety at eleven years old and can have four teeth and a dozen claws into you faster than you can scream “antiseptic!”
She’s had several litters of kittens and is in fact the mother of all our other cats. And a wonderful mother she is, too.
On April 10 of this year, Lucky completed what would be the last of her labor pains*. She birthed a litter of five healthy kittens (three of which were polydactyl) under the desk back in Karin’s office. She had herself a sturdy cardboard box lined with old t-shirts and she tirelessly performed her usual gig of keeping all humans at least four feet away from her babies at all times. It was all we could do to get quick, blurry snapshots of the wriggling kitten-wad. It took a while just to determine exactly how many were there.
In other words, everything was going perfectly.
Then one day, while trying to get some new photographs, we noticed the tiniest tabby kitten had somehow gotten a cut on his left haunch – probably a scratch from one of its litter-mates. Swelling indicated the abrasion was likely infected. We knew we needed to get the kitten prompt medical attention, but Lucky would have none of it.
A day or so later, however, Lucky had moved the healthy kittens across the room and left the sick one in the box, alone. There was an obvious abscess on its hip. The trembling little bundle of fur would reach for a nipple, but was unable to move himself across the room to his mother. He’d open his tiny mouth to mewl, but no sound would come out. It was a heartbreaking sight, this helpless baby animal just left to die. And die he would have had he been born under less favorable conditions.
He was only four weeks old.
I said earlier that Lucky is a wonderful mother. It might seem from her abandonment of the dying kitten that my statement was a bit off the mark but, in actuality, the very fact that she moved her other babies and refused to nurture the sickly one was the most perfect example of her remarkable maternal instinct and resolve. She knew she could do nothing for the wounded and ailing kitten and that allowing it to nurse when it stood no hope of survival was to cheat her four other healthy children out of that extra milk. So she picked the healthy kittens up, one by one, and moved them to the other side of the room.
I think it’s ridiculous to assume that was an easy thing for Lucky to do. I’m sure it must have killed her to have to make that decision.
We took the sick kitty to the veterinarian who drained the abscess and irrigated it with a medicated solution. He gave us enough medicine to irrigate the wound for two weeks, plus some antibiotics. He also informed me that Lucky might not be ready to take the kitten back right away and that I needed to learn how to take care of him until she comes around. That’s when I learned some extraordinary things about cats…
Gimme Me a Hand With This Digestion, Will Ya?
Did you know that after her babies nurse, the mother cat massages their bellies by licking them in order to help their underdeveloped bowels push the food through the digestive process? It’s true. Like working in a new pair of running shoes only, you know, with extra licking.
Anyway, when a person performs this ritual for the kitten, the vet told me, it is allowable to use one’s index finger in lieu of the tongue. I found this tidbit very comforting, as I tend to be pretty neurotic about getting hairs in my mouth. I was informed that the process is known as “pooping” the kitten. “Right after he’s finished eating,” they tell you with a completely straight face, “you have to poop him.”
Right-O. Feed the kitten, then poop the kitten. Feed, then poop. Got it.
This Is the Way We Eat the Poop
Thought we were done with the word poop? Ha! You wish.
So after we had discussed the various feline bowel-massaging methods, we logically moved on to what to do once you have successfully gotten the –er– juices flowing, as it were. The vet says to me, again with all seriousness, “The mother cat will ordinarily consume the expelled feces.” o_O He’s looking at me over the tops of his glasses and I’m staring back at him intently, but all I can see in my mind is the literal interpretation of what he just said and it’s really grossing me out. I’m rapidly becoming disgusted with cats and I’m certain it shows on my face. Lucky eats her babies' poo? Gah!
“I’m committed to nursing this little guy back to health, doc,” I said eventually, “but I think I’ll just put a towel under him or poop him over the toilet.”
“I was going to suggest those options, yes.” He looked at me like I was crazy. Veterinarians can be so strange. “After he’s finished defecating, you’ll need to wash his anus.”
“Or I can just lick it clean, right, doc? Isn’t that what Lucky would do?”
That’s when he left me in the capable hands of perky intern Darcy to finish up with the bill and paperwork.
Get To the Point Already!
I had to take care of the kitten for about five days before Lucky was willing to assume full responsibility for him again. He would sleep with her and the rest of the litter at night, but during the day I had to ensure he got enough to eat and adequate potty breaks. And we mustn’t forget all the medicating, for which he was very patient and cooperative.
During this time of close nurturing, I took to calling the kitten “my little package of damaged goods”. This was eventually shortened to just “damaged goods” and then, simply, “DG”.
When the time came to seriously consider a name for him and I asked for suggestions, Karin said, “I thought his name was DG.”
“DG? That’s no name for a cat, is it?”
“I think it’s cute.”
“Really?”
“Sure. It leaves people guessing.”
“Yeah,” I said, “every time someone asks what DG stands for, we can tell them something different. DG might stand for Distinguished Graduate or perhaps Derby and Garters.”
“Definitely Gorgeous.”
“Deranged Goofball.”
“Doublemint Gum.”
“Decomposing Giraffes!”
You get the idea.
The Deej
Everything turned out great. Once DG was feeling better, Lucky took him back into the fold and started nursing him again. When the others learned to use the litter box, so did he. When his brothers and sister got trounced for trying Lucky’s patience, DG wasn’t treated any differently. And when Lucky finally decided it was time for the kittens to look out for themselves, DG was shunned with the rest of them. I said it before and I’ll say it again: Lucky is a wonderful mother.
So that’s how DG got his name. Most of the time now I call him “Li’l Deej” or just “Deej”. Whatever you choose to call him, though, it’s starting to look like DG most accurately stands for “Diablo Gato”.**
*At her age, Lucky deserves to relax her golden years away uterus-free.
** Literally “Devil Cat” in Spanish.
Oh my, but humans are a confounding lot. We blithely justify violence in the media and in nearly the same breath cry out to censor sexuality without realizing that we have it backwards. We put potheads in prison for decades but let violent multiple offenders out of jail after less than a month allowing them another chance to kill someone. We shop at Wal*Mart because we buy into the deceitful claims of lower prices but then use the money we saved to buy a 13mpg SUV. We shout loud and hard about giving our children a well-rounded, real-world education but then, completely ignoring the real world, we fight to remove a children’s book from library shelves because it suggests that two living parents are better than an incubator, even if they both happen to be the same gender.
A new picture book published by Simon & Schuster, entitled And Tango Makes Three, is based on a true story of two male penguins in a New York zoo that adopted a fertilized penguin egg and raised the chick together as their own. If you’ve seen March of the Penguins in its entirety, then you know what that egg means to them*. And yet, there are people so worried about the prospect of their children gaining hard evidence proving the fact (that’s right, fact) same-sex coupling appears throughout nature that they are willing to sabotage their children’s education.
Complaining about the book's homosexual undertones, some parents of Shiloh Elementary School students believe the book — available to be checked out of the school's library in this 11,000-resident town 20 miles east of St. Louis — tackles topics their children aren't ready to handle.
Topics they're not ready to handle? But explaining to them why we kill one another in droves is something they’re prepared for? Hmm. Again, something seems a bit backwards to me.
And Tango Makes Three is not some clever conspiracy by a quiet but determined Gay Mafia to recruit ‘em young, though you’d think it was based on the reactions of these ignorant boobs in Shiloh. To wit:
Lilly Del Pinto thought the book looked charming when her 5-year-old daughter brought it home in September. Del Pinto said she was halfway through reading it to her daughter "when the zookeeper said the two penguins must be in love."
"That's when I ended the story," she said.
Get that? When it turned out the two were in love, it was more than Ms. Del Pinto could abide and she ended the story. The tale was going so well until love entered the picture. Because, you see, to people like Ms. Del Pinto, romantic love is only possible between a male and a female; anything else is intolerable debauchery. I’m pretty sure my friends Myke and Kevin would strongly disagree. (UPDATE: Yup, sure enough.)
I must commend Shiloh school district Superintendent Jennifer Filyaw for showing true patriotism for the Land of the Free by refusing to move the book. She felt that would constitute censorship and she was right. Standing up to a bunch of eristically religious hens in order to defend freedom makes her a hero in my book.
I’m going to buy And Tango Makes Three and proudly add it to my library. Heck, I might even volunteer some time at a daycare to read the story to impressionable tots because I can’t think of a better lesson to teach budding young minds than the importance of the inclusive nature of love.
*The scene in which the father penguin fails to get the egg off the ice in time brought me to wailing tears. I get choked up just thinking about it.
I’m the first to admit that I think high fashion is silly. One of my favorite magazines, Vanity Fair, is absolutely gorged with full-page ads for ostentatious brands like Fendi, Louis Vuitton and Versace, and I only tolerate them because they are what keeps the cover price in a somewhat reasonable range. I appreciate fashion from an artistic standpoint (Project Runway is probably the best ‘reality’ show I’ve seen), but the overall need to be chic – succumbing to fashion for fashion’s sake – seems like little more than an insipid hobby for those who have far too much money.
That said, I have to confess that even I feel there are certain rules that men* should follow when getting dressed. I’m not talking about the great debate of “Sock, Sock, Shoe, Shoe” vs. “Sock, Shoe, Sock, Shoe.” As long as the shoes match one another and the socks are at least passably similar, it doesn’t matter which of these methods you employ to get them on your feet. By the same token, if you want to put your pants on both legs at a time – or, even better, no legs at a time – hey, that’s totally fine with me. All that matters is that the end result does not violate any of the points I’m about to list.
Now, in a perfect world, anyone to whom the following unsolicited advice applies would instantly recognize it as Truth and immediately abide by its time-tested insight. As it is, I’m probably just going to spend the next few hundred words preaching to the choir.
Rule #1: Sandals and Socks – Please Limit Your Choice to One
Look, daddy-o, I know the Birkenstocks are your sensible footwear of choice and far be it from me to impose anything but “the world’s first contoured cork/latex footbed” upon your tender tootsies. I understand that you perceive common shoes as nothing more than Gougandine corsets for the feet and I can appreciate that not having your feet completely imprisoned provides a continual feeling of liberation outdone only by the indescribable rapture of going completely barefoot. Through blooming orchids. During a full moon.
But, for the love of the Great Mother, don’t wear socks with your sandals! If your feet are cold, well, that’s why they make shoes. Socks, while great for providing warmth, are merely shoe supplements; they work in unison with shoes and boots. They do not work with sandals. Sandals, by virtue of their most basic design characteristic, are intended to be worn sans socks. They are summer footwear, as evidenced by the fact that they were invented by desert-dwellers in the Middle East and not by Eskimoes.
Rule #2: Some Shirts Should Not Be Tucked In
Okay, so it’s casual Friday and you’re allowed to wear jeans and a breezy shirt to work. You throw on a pair of Levi’s, a belt, and your favorite novelty t-shirt. So far, so good. But then you make the calamitous mistake of tucking the t-shirt into your jeans. You do that thing with your thumbs to smooth out the front and shift the folds to the back, but this does little to alter the fact that you look like a complete idiot.
Nothing says “I’m an out-of-touch nitwit” like a t-shirt tucked into jeans. (Well, I guess actually a t-shirt tucked into slacks is worse because you’ve combined a t-shirt with slacks, but let’s not digress.) See, jeans are casual. T-shirts are casual. Tucking is the absolute antithesis of casual. I have dear friends who regularly tuck their t-shirts in and most of them are so uptight their diet is 47% Rolaids. Don’t do this to yourself. Lighten up. Let the t-shirt hang freely!
UPDATE: I have been enlightened by a couple of my female readers to the fact that the tucked t-shirt allows proper viewing of other, shall we say, assets. This is a good point and I would acknowledge that a plain white t-shirt tucked in, ala icon of coolness Bruce Springsteen, is perfectly acceptable. It says, "Hey, I had a nicer shirt on over this, but I had to remove it to get rugged."
Rule #3: Underwear Is Not an Accessory
Straight up, I’m all about lookin’ fly fo’ the ladies, yo. I been sportin’ da Kangol and stylish bling for a minute. But, for real, ain’t no hotties gettin’ all sweaty just ‘cause they can see the waistband of your drawers.
It ought to be common knowledge that only 8-ball ho’s** are turned on by a Tommy Hilfiger logo on your boxers, but then again, if you think showing everyone your underwear is a valid courting ritual, maybe you’re turned on by 8-ball ho’s.
Rule #4: If a Ring Only Fits Your Pinky, It Doesn’t Fit At All
Not a lot of elaboration needed here, folks. Unless you’re either a cigar-chomping, corporate pig-man, or one of those guys who has more piercings than teeth and wears a ring on every finger, you cannot get away with sporting a pinky ring. At best, it’s tacky. At worst, it’s a solid admission that you’re a pretentious tool. I actually have a very nice star-sapphire which is set in a timeless, white gold band. It only fits my pinky. Until I come up with the scratch to have it resized, it remains in its velvet-lined box where it belongs.
* This list applies mainly to men, as the female fashion dynamic is quite different and allows for some deviation not available to the male gender.
**As an English major, I detest the use of apostrophes for pluralization. However, in the interest of not confusing sleazy women with garden tools (and because the entire paragraph is an exercise in butchering the English language anyway), I have opted to fudge it just this once.
“What you need is a vacation.”
Sixty-fifth Assistant glanced at his boss through the corner of his eye, sneaking a peek at the boss’s reaction to his suggestion. Noting with no small amount of relief that the boss was still sitting calmly behind his desk, he dared to add: “Perhaps somewhere near Capricus Prime or the Wormhole.”
“No, no, no!” The boss coughed, then spat a glob of what looked like tapioca pudding into a chrome receptacle designed expressly for the purpose of collecting just such disgusting things.
“My apologies, sir, I only–“
“Vacations are too intense,” the boss croaked. “Too much to do. I need peace and quiet. I need to relax. A vacation, my dear Sixty-fifth Assistant, is the last thing I need!”
“But sir, certainly a cruise through the Gossamer Nebula would be far more relaxing than your average day running this prison.”
The boss lit a cigar. Blue smoke enveloped his massive, horned head as he considered Sixty-fifth Assistant’s logic. Finally he said, “Either something is relaxing or it isn’t. Running this psychotic zoo isn’t relaxing and neither is a nebula cruise.”
“But a cruise is less stressful than–“
“Degrees of relaxation are irrelevant!”
“But–“
“Have you ever been on a cruise through the Gossamer Nebula?”
“Well, no, sir. I never earned enough to afford such a–“
“Then how do you know if it’s relaxing?”
“Well, I had to assume that if people were willing to pay that kind of money to–“
“When you assume, you make an ass out of yourself. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?” The boss looked sardonically down his lumpy nose at his assistant.
“Out of you and me.”
“What!?” The boss spat another milky glob into the receptacle. A small amount of lumpy spittle snapped back and stuck to his upper lip. He failed to notice.
“Well, I always heard it was when you assume you make an ass out of you and me,” said Sixty-fifth assistant, trying very hard not to look at the disgusting goop clinging to the boss’s face. “It’s a play on the spelling of–”
“Are you saying that I’m an ass because you assumed something?” The goopy glob jiggled as the boss spoke.
“No, sir, I just meant–“
“Because I’m your superior, I’m automatically implicated in all of your screw-ups, is that it?”
“That’s ridiculous. I was only–“
“Oh! So now I’m ridiculous!” The boss was so enraged and tense that his head started to shake.
The vibration shook the glossy spittle and before he could stop himself, Sixty-fifth Assistant heard himself shouting, “Well, yes! Yes you are! With that dollop of what I hope is only phlegm on your face, you do look quite ridiculous!”
The boss leapt to his feet, his face turning from gray to puce in an instant. He snatched an object from his desk that looked a lot like a pocket calculator except that it had about ten times as many buttons. He pressed one of the buttons -- the triangle-shaped one -- and a collar around Sixty-fifth Assistant’s neck suddenly started to hum. Sixty-fifth Assistant made a squeaky noise, a little red light blinked on the collar, and an instant later the collar fell to the floor as its wearer was replaced by a column of mist that smelled remarkably like a combination of curry and rotten cucumbers.
The boss slumped back into his chair with a disgruntled sigh. After he had finished his cigar and the mist that was once his assistant had finally dissipated, he dialed an extension into the prison intercom. The voice of a clerk in the human resources department politely acknowledged him.
“Yes, yes, good afternoon. This is Warden Magalug.” He was still trying to calm down and he chose his words very carefully. “It appears I am in need of an assistant.”
“What happened to the one we sent up last week?” inquired the clerk.
“Well, er, you see…” Magalug paused. He knew he needed to word things just right or else being denied another assistant would be the least of his worries. Even though assistants were just inmates who happened to be on good behavior and thus allowed to work in the office rather than the dung vats, the human resources department frowned upon vaporizing them in a fit of rage. Once you had burned through your first fifty, they kept a pretty close eye on you. “Well, he… that is to say, I…”
“The system indicates his appliance was activated.”
“Well, yes, it was.” Appliance, thought Magalug. Heh, heh, I’ve always loved that one.
“What was the reason for activation?”
“He tried to escape.”
“Escape? Really?”
“Why, uh, yes, yes indeed. He, uh…” This was going to be tricky. Magalug did not consider himself a very skilled liar. “He was doing the vacuuming, you see, and he was vacuuming behind my desk, okay, and I was very busy at my work, right?”
“How did he try to escape, Warden?” The clerk’s tone was crisp.
“Well, I was very busy, you see, and I didn’t realize… that is… he threw the cord around my neck and I was quite fortunate to have gotten hold of my activator before he was able to kill me!”
“I see. Do you need a physician sent up?”
“No, no. Just another assistant. I’ll be fine.”
“But you just said you were lucky to have escaped death.”
“Yes, but, you know, we Sloggians are, well, very resilient. Heal up quick. I shouldn’t need to take up a physician’s valuable time.” Had his species been capabale of perspiration, beads of sweat would definitely have been covering Magalug’s forehead.
“Very well, suit yourself, Warden. I shall log this under code 321-V: Vaporization Due To Violent Escape Attempt. Your new assistant will be up shortly.”
Magalug switched off the intercom. He sat at his desk, staring at the ashtray his niece had made for him in her taxidermy class. He tried to recall just exactly what it was that Sixty-fifth Assistant had said that had gotten him so upset. But, for the life of him, he simply couldn’t remember.
There was a knock at his office door. Magalug stood up and walked around to the front of his desk as Sixty-sixth Assistant walked in.
“Greetings, Sixty-sixth Assistant,” said Magalug, “I’m sure you’ll find working for me much less torturous than those disgusting dung vats.”
“Perhaps,” replied Sixty-sixth Assistant. “But since we’re on the subject of disgusting things, I might mention that you have a little something on your lip.”
The response to my ramblings about the foods I miss was so amazing (thank you all) I've been in hyper-retro-reminiscence mode for going on a week now. And once I'd reminded myself of all the delectable morsels I could think of, my thoughts naturally shifted over to, what else, TOYS!
I fondly remember the arrival of the new Sears & Roebuck Christmas Wishbook each year. I'd heft that thousand-page, ten-pound behemoth into the living room, flop down onto my stomach on the rust-colored shag carpeting, flip right to the toy section (just past halfway through the catalog, if I remember correctly) and begin working on the Great American Christmas List.
I wrote with reckless abandon. Retail prices did not threaten my resolve. I scoffed at warnings of images being 'representational only'. My juvenile sense of entitlement drove me, gave me the doggedness to resist the temptation of JP Patches and Speed Racer until the list had reached completion. After maybe two solid hours of furious page-flipping, cross-referencing, and chicken-scratching, I had composed a prize-winning (if nearly illegible) Xmas List. Little did I know that the very items I was asking for -- many of which I would eventually receive -- would one day constitute little more than a blurb in a schmaltzy mass-market publication.
The research of the various items I list here turned out similarly to that of the food items. Some are no longer manufactured while others are still on the market, but in name only. The main reason for this is, as you'd expect, safety. Or, rather, the lack thereof.
Clackers
Status: No longer manufactured
The scares and controversy surrounding these injury-inducing contrivances notwithstanding, this is probably the one item I miss the most. Two balls of colored acrylic attached with a string. It's not a particularly clever toy, nor is it something that commands more than fifteen minutes worth of continual playtime. But for some reason I can't fully explain, it stands above all other toys as the One Great Bauble. Perhaps it was its usefulness as a weapon as well as a noisemaker. Maybe it was the thrill of knowing that at any time the clackers could explode from impact with one another and send tiny, cornea-shredding shards of Plexiglass into the eye sockets of anyone within a six-foot radius. Hard to say. I just remember that mine were green, that I got them at Disneyland, and that I have no idea what happened to them.
Clackers as I remember them are no longer made. There are crappy knock-offs made from run-of-the-mill plastic (which, due to the inherent differences in acrylic and thermoplastic, are completely useless). There are also a small number of the originals out there on the collector's market if the manifestation of that particular memory is worth $35 to you.
Lawn Darts (aka Jarts)
Status: Available only outside the US
Quite possibly the most dangerous toy I was ever given. Heavy. Aerodynamic. Impalement-ready. Banned from sale in the US in 1988. Being a temerarious, by-the-seat-of-my-pants kid, I ignored the numerous warnings on the box and invented all sorts of insane games with these things. Revealing these games here would only serve to enlighten everyone to just how much of a lunatic I was and that has little value. What I want to mention about Lawn Darts is that despite their reputation as the World's Deadliest Toy, they are only outlawed here in the US. This either means that Lawn Darts are only dangerous to Americans or that Americans are a bunch of craven ninnies who won't be happy until every sharp corner and edged protrusion in the country is covered in bubble-wrap.
Shogun Warriors
Status: No longer manufactured
The granddaddy of projectile-launching toys with more small parts than a two-year-old could even think of swallowing, Shogun Warriors -- specifically the 24" plastic monstrosities -- were everything a twelve-year-old boy could want in an action figure. They were spring-loaded, relatively durable, and looked like truly bad-ass versions of Gigantor. They even had wheels on their feet which, when Hot Wheels tracks were employed, enabled them to traverse the gentle slope from the top of the driveway to the numerous regiments of hapless army men at the bottom all by themselves. I became pretty accurate with Mazinga's red-tipped rockets, too. Got to the point where I could hit a kneeling bazooka gunner from ten feet away. Ah, good times.
Of course, once the critical number of children who had either choked on or lost and eye to the various Shogun projectiles had been reached, American legislators stepped in and put limitations on spring-loaded toys which ended up killing the Shogun Warriors line in the states. Kids quickly found that a spring-launched missile that was tethered to the launcher by a two-inch piece of string somehow lacked the same thrill. Go figure.
VertiBird
Status: No longer manufactured
Not sure why this one went the way of the dodo, since it wasn't exactly a dangerous toy. Oh sure, the whirling blade smarted a bit if it whacked you on the side of the knuckle, but I doubt anyone ever ended up in the emergency room from a VertiBird-related injury. It was also an extremely popular toy; Wikipedia claims it "is one of the most famous and cherished toys ever". I have to agree. I absolutely loved my VertiBird Airborne Rescue Mission set. You know what's fun? One kid firing Shogun Warrior rockets at army men while another kid tries to 'rescue' the army men with the VertiBird. The resulting build up of anticipation and excitement was something that no amount of drug experimentation later in life could hope to replicate.
Interesting tidbit: I think the term 'VertiBird' might be the very first instance of the 21st century fad of capitalizing a letter in the middle of a word. It predates words like PowerBook and LaserJet by almost two decades.
The Green Machine
Status: Available in a revamped adult version!
Every kid in my neighborhood had a Big Wheel. Well, the kids with single moms had a knock-off called the Hot Cycle, but we didn't concern ourselves with brands when we were kids. As far as we were concerned, the major difference was that the Big Wheel had an adjustable seatback while the Hot Cycle had an immovable bucket seat. Beyond that, the design style was irrelevant...
...until Marx Toys released the Green Machine. With turn-on-a-dime, stick-controlled rear wheel steering, the Green Machine was the instant bad boy of the plastic three-wheelers. Everyone was constantly bugging me to let them ride mine and I imagine it was probably the first item I ever used to get in good with a girl.
The Green Machine's biggest advantage over the Big Wheel, though, was it's inclination to go into a spin with the least provocation. In other words, a ludicrous lack of control was it's greatest and most valued distinction. The pre-teen point-of-view being: Hey, I may not have won the race, but sliding sideways into that fire hydrant was a total blast!
The Green Machine is still manufactured, now under the Huffy brand. When I searched for information on it, I was utterly shocked to find that the new version has actually gone up in quality. It now sports a rubber front tire, steel frame, brake levers built in to the joysticks, and an adjustable bucket seat.
But wait! It gets better! A little more digging revealed that there is an adult version out there priced at under $100. Perhaps this is how I'll deal with turning 40. My mid-life crisis will be satiated by a Green Machine as opposed to, say, a Ferrari GT308 Quattrovalvole.
Because, you know, I can actually afford the Green Machine. But then again, if I was feeling super industrious, I could try my hand at making my own.
I was informed this morning that my favorite Starbucks beverage -- a Quad Venti Nonfat No-Whip Mocha Valencia -- would soon be removed from the menu and no longer offered. The Valencia syrup is being discontinued entirely and so we who enjoy a dash of orange in our morning coffee are left with a great big bland spot where the zing used to be. I suspect some senior bean-counter at the corporate offices determined the demand for orangey mochas wasn't worth keeping even a diminished supply of syrup. Then he probably went golfing with the guy from Nabisco who decided to nix the orange, lemon, and lime LifeSavers back in 2003.
Anyway, as I sipped what might be my last Starbucks Mocha Valencia, I couldn't help but reflect on the various other products which have either ceased to exist or become impossible to find here in the Seattle area. Here are the ones that came to me in the time it takes me to suck down 20 ounces of hot milk:
MJB Beef-Flavored Rice
Status: No Longer Available
I loved this stuff when I was a kid. Mom used to prepare it as a side dish when she made pot roast. You'd have your meat, red potatoes, carrots, green beans, and a big ol' heap of MJB beef-flavored rice. Always used to beg mom to make two boxes. She never would, of course. Told me to fill the gaps with green beans instead. If I'd have known MJB was going to discontinue the greatest side dish ever conceived, I'd have spent every last dime of my allowance on the stuff. Saved it in big, hermetically sealed bags. I'd probably be eating a bowl of it right now, too, dammit.
Best Possible Substitute: Golden Grain Beef-Flavored Rice-a-Roni
Donald Duck Orange Juice
Status: Supposedly Still Available
This stuff just up and disappeared one day, sort of like electric cars. It was kind of weird, actually, because after it was gone and I'd ask store personnel what happened to the Donald Duck OJ, they'd look at me like I was speaking in riddles consisting only of cuss-words. I was regularly assured that they had no idea what I was talking about and that my language was not appreciated.
A small amount of digging, though, lead me to the website of the company that still possesses the rights to Donald's likeness acquired by Citrus World in 1940. Turns out that Citrus World now calls itself Florida's Natural Growers. Their website clearly states:
"Today, we produce 40 million cases under the names Florida's Natural®, Growers Pride®, Bluebird®, Texsun®, Adams®, Vintage®, and Donald Duck®. Florida's Natural Growers products are sold in almost every major US supermarket and in more than 60 countries around the world."
Okay, fine. But search the site for any other mention of Donald Duck OJ and you'll come up empty-handed. In fact, Google it and you'll also find frighteningly little.
Best Possible Substitute: Florida's Natural Original Orange Juice
Quisp Cereal
Status: Still Available
Grew up on this particular brand of morning tooth-rot. Screw the Cap'n Crunch; Quisp was better-tasting, less mouth-shredding, and had a far cooler mascot character. I haven't seen it in stores around here in some time, so I was delighted to find that I could order it online and have it shipped to my front door along with a nice Quisp long-sleeved t-shirt. Awesome.
Pop Rocks
Status: Available in Name Only
The history of Pop Rocks is a bit strange -- invented by General Foods, bought by Kraft, and now made by a Spanish company called Zeta Espacial SA -- and I honestly don't care enough beyond that to read the book. All I want to say is, original patent be damned, the candy that calls itself Pop Rocks today is not the same thing as what I spent my lunch money on back in 1977. That stuff exploded. Add a mouthful of Coke and it was like a tiny civilization was having the Fourth of July inside your mouth (but without the acrid stench of black powder, of course). The stuff today, well, it's less like exploding fireworks and more like a kid with a roll of caps. Perhaps its the difference in perception three decades can make, I don't know, but the end result either way is that I miss Pop Rocks.
Best Possible Substitute: None
Bottle Caps
Status: Available in Name Only
Another beloved candy of my youth, now just one of many wonderful confections which have been spoiled, quite ironically, by the candy-maker going by the name of Wonka. When Breaker Confections introduced Bottle Caps back in 1972, there were only four flavors: Cola, Root Beer, Lemon-Lime, and Orange. They were fantastic. Way better than Smarties or SweetTarts. Nowadays, they come in five flavors: Cola, Root Beer, Orange, Grape, and Cherry. Bleh. I tried the present day versions of the first three (those being the only original flavors) and, you guessed it, they were definitely not the soda-pop candies of my youth but an obvious example of quality sacrificed for profit.
Best Possible Substitute: None
Now if you'll excuse me, I think I might go whip up a gut-clogging classic that, as far as I can tell, hasn't changed in the last thirty years: Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Hey, cut me some slack, it's a guilty pleasure! I'd rather have MJB Beef-Flavored Rice, trust me.
UPDATE: Wow, I never expected my wave of nostalgia to sweep up so many people! The list of items we all miss just gets longer and longer. I figure it's time to really give everyone's sentimentality bone a good knock (well, everyone over 30, I guess). Take a trip back to the grocery stores of the 50s, 60s, and 70s with me, won't you? Just look at all the awesome snacks and cereals!
In addition to Quisp, I used to consume copious amounts of Freakies.
Ah, to be twelve again...
I don't ordinarily participate in the blog topics offered up by VOX, be it QotD or VOX Hunt or what-have-you. It's not that I'm snooty or unable to actively participate in a community. I just usually need to write about what's on my mind at the time. If I'm boiling up a rant about, say, religious hypocrisy, you really don't want me to try to chat up the mundane. It just won't go well at all.
But this VOX Hunt I might be able to manage. Give us artsy fartsy, it says. Well, I can try. My stuff isn't often referred to as artsy fartsy, but I will present the most artsy fartsy thing I've done recently. What we have here is the front cover art I did for the premiere issue of Prototype X, a British literary magazine.
When the publisher, a delightful chap named Darren Partridge, gave me his vision of the cover, I was a bit daunted. Here is what he said, verbatim:
I have the insistent image of a front cover for Prototype-X1 involving the synthesised elements of a sabre-rotored Cierva C30 autogyro darting like a quicksilver dace through a pale azure background, combined with a winter dawn (photographic) image of the ruins of Ripley Priory.
Whozitwazzits now? O_o I had absolutely no idea what a Cierva C30 was and I had never heard of a dace. Nor the bloody Ripley Priory, for that matter. Clearly, I had some research to do before I could even put pencil to paper for some concept sketches.
I would eventually come to add several new bumps to my brain, as an old friend used to say. I learned that a Cierva C30 autogyro is basically a freaky hybrid of helicopter and airplane. An example of clever Spanish engineering, it was invented in 1919 by Juan de la Cierva y Codorniu and is actually the precursor to the helicopter.
I also learned that a dace is a freshwater cyprinoid fish indigenous to Europe and that the Ripley Priory was a twelfth century monastery dissolved by King Henry VIII in 1539 which now stands in ruins near Pyrford Green in Surrey, Great Britain.
Splendid. Now all that was left was to meld those images into a cohesive front cover that would attract the eye and make a person direly want to find out what was inside the magazine. Yeah, no sweat.
As any contract artist knows, the final piece in any project seldom looks like what either of you -- the artist or the client -- had originally envisioned. It's usually an amalgam of lots of different ideas which have been massaged into a final piece that, hopefully, works. The Prototype X cover was no different. It does not depict the autogyro darting like a dace. The priory is not a photograph, but a 17th-centruy lithograph. The sky is more royal blue than azure. There are added elements not even mentioned in the original description.
Prototype X was advertised as "The Magazine of Cognitive Fiction & Exploratory Fact". It is dedicated to bringing the reader fresh, intrepid, intelligent reading. The website states: "Prototype X is the magazine for the thoughtful reader, where imaginative fiction diffuses into science, and dreams flow without restriction." To that end, I think that the final image we came up with for the front cover is spot on.
-The amazing Cierva blending from blueprint to reality.
-The juxtaposition of the old priory below and the new autogyro above.
-The addition of icons representing, respectively, the natural aerodynamics of the propeller, the amazing control granted by wings, and the power of human intelligence to understand and then utilize these two things.
This cover, in my mind, embodies Prototype X. When it was finished, Darren and I were both quite satisfied. It is the closest approximation to "artsy fartsy" I think I'm capable of. I do hope you like it.
I suppose it’s time for me to explain the title of my blog. Not a lot of people really know what the hell Cthulhu is or what that gibberish is in the right sidebar.
Mention the name of Cthulhu in mixed company and you'll find that most people look at you as if you've obviously had one to many Bacardi-and-Cokes. You'll occasionally encounter someone who knows that Cthulhu is the name of a fictional god created by American author Howard Phillips Lovecraft, and that person will often argue that you’re pronouncing the Great Old One’s name incorrectly.
Proper Pronunciation of Cthulhu
So perhaps the best place to start is with the proper pronunciation of “Cthulhu”. The fact of the matter is everyone pronounces his name incorrectly because humans, according to Lovecraft, lack the ability to do so. Another reason is that people will think you’re coughing up a lung. Consider these quotes from letters written by Lovecraft to a friend:
"The actual sound - as nearly as human organs could imitate it or human letters record it - may be taken as something like Khlul’-hloo, with the first syllable pronounced gutturally and very thickly."
Even armed with this knowledge, I still tend to pronounce it kuh-THOO-loo. I’m a huge fan of Lovecraft’s work, but I’m not such an anal-retentive loser that I’m going to insist on performing glottal barks whenever I mention the name of my blog to someone."The best approximation one can make is to grunt, bark, or cough the imperfectly formed syllables Cluh-Luh with the tip of the tongue firmly affixed to the roof of the mouth. That is, if one is a human being. Directions for other entities are naturally different."
Many depictions of Cthulhu exist; I’ve created several myself. He is a beloved muse of morbid artists everywhere. And although the tentacled head is always present, other aspects can vary wildly from rendering to rendering. I’ve seen images of Cthulhu without wings and others where he has a chiseled torso like Brad Pitt.
Thus the second issue we’ll consider is what Lovecraft saw in his mind when he imagined his most famous creation. Fortunately for us, the man was not stingy with the details. He even drew us a picture, despite the fact that he was an abysmal sketch artist.
Here is Lovecraft’s description of Cthulhu which makes it pretty clear that even though Cthulhu is a god, he’s also a bloated fat-ass:
"The figure, which was finally passed slowly from man to man for close and careful study, was between seven and eight inches in height, and of exquisitely artistic workmanship. It represented a monster of vaguely anthropoid outline, but with an octopus-like head whose face was a mass of feelers, a scaly, rubbery-looking body, prodigious claws on hind and fore feet, and long, narrow wings behind. This thing, which seemed instinct with a fearsome and unnatural malignancy, was of a somewhat bloated corpulence, and squatted evilly on a rectangular block or pedestal covered with undecipherable characters. The tips of the wings touched the back edge of the block, the seat occupied the centre, whilst the long, curved claws of the doubled-up, crouching hind legs gripped the front edge and extended a quarter of the way down toward the bottom of the pedestal. The cephalopod head was bent forward, so that the ends of the facial feelers brushed the backs of huge fore paws which clasped the croucher's elevated knees."
-- H.P. Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu
Another description in the same story describes the wings as “rudimentary,” giving the impression that they look almost silly on such a massive frame.
Cthulhu Kept in Check
According to The Call of Cthulhu, the gods known as the Great Old Ones, which of course includes Cthulhu...
“…were not composed altogether of flesh and blood. They had shape - for did not this star-fashioned image prove it? - but that shape was not made of matter. When the stars were right, They could plunge from world to world through the sky; but when the stars were wrong, They could not live. But although They no longer lived, They would never really die. They all lay in stone houses in Their great city of R'lyeh, preserved by the spells of mighty Cthulhu for a glorious resurrection when the stars and the earth might once more be ready for Them. But at that time some force from outside must serve to liberate Their bodies. The spells that preserved them intact likewise prevented Them from making an initial move, and They could only lie awake in the dark and think whilst uncounted millions of years rolled by. They knew all that was occurring in the universe, for Their mode of speech was transmitted thought. Even now They talked in Their tombs. When, after infinities of chaos, the first men came, the Great Old Ones spoke to the sensitive among them by moulding their dreams; for only thus could Their language reach the fleshly minds of mammals.”
Which brings me to the gibberish in the right sidebar of this blog. It reads Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. The translation of this is “In his house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.”
Cthulhu is my Copilot
The meaning of the title of my blog is multi-layered. At its simplest level, it is an obvious mockery of the sickeningly complacent “God is my Copilot” take on life. At its most complicated, it serves as a reminder to me that none of us are in complete control and that no matter how powerful we become, we’re helpless in and of ourselves. Whether or not one chooses to believe in God, one needs, at the very least, the support and companionship of others. Even mighty Cthulhu can’t do dick without people believing in him.
