Lurking In The Shadows

 

I like this photograph of my cat, Monkey, taken from behind as he gazes upon his court.  The light casting a mighty shadow so that we fail to see the intricate designs of his striped back, replacing it with darkness and mystery.

The other morning as I drove to work, I'd just rounded the corner from my street onto the main drag that takes me westward.  Like so many mornings before, I saw a couple rabbits scampering across the street into the adjacent park.  It's a large park, large enough that a small group of rabbits could probably live long happy lives there without ever having to leave the safety of it's perimeter.  "Be careful, rabbits." I always say.  In addition to the lively scampering of this indigenous wildlife, sadly I also see many tattered corpses that didn't fair too well crossing the boulevard.

I got to thinking, driving up the street, listening to whatever was on the radio at the time, "What DO rabbits do all day?"  Good question, right?  The sun breaks through the morning dawn, shining light down on the world and these rabbits awaken from their slumber and begin foraging for food.  Do they do that all day long?  Just eat, sleep, and shit.  Then my thoughts came back to something, or someone, dear to my heart.  My boy, Monkey.  What does he do, all day long? 

Same thing, only there's four walls and a roof protecting him from the elements and possible predation.  That aside, he lives the same mundane life as those rabbits.  Eat, sleep, shit, repeat.  Only advantage Monkey has over the rabbits, aside from the structure that he resides in, is guaranteed meals and snuggle time with yours truly, Daddy.

There are times, however, when I'm home and I cannot find that cat anywhere.  It's like he just vaporizes then reappears when it's convenient.  It's magical.  Does Monkey have special abilities that he's hiding from me?  Am I not trustworthy enough to keep his secrets?

The other night I was having trouble going to sleep.  For the fourteen years that Monkey has been alive and living with me, we always go to bed at the same time, snuggle a little before I doze off and he retires to his corner at the foot of the bed.  So when I wake up in the middle of the night, I can glance down and see his shadowy form snoring in the corner and all feels right and I'm able to fall back asleep with ease.  On this particular night, just three sleeps ago, I woke up and Monkey was nowhere to be seen.  I got up to get a drink from the fridge and in my travels, failed to see Monkey lying in any of his preferred spots that pepper the household.  It wasn't until nearly a half hour later that I felt him jump onto the bed, murmur a little meow of acknowledgement and returned to his corner, like nothing had transpired.

I rolled up next to him and started stroking his back, from neck to tail and chatting him up.  I asked questions like "Where do you go?" and "What are you doing?"  Then mid-query, I realized something imperative.  If you look at the distinctive markings on Monkey's face, it's almost too obvious.  Much like Clark Kent wears a cheap pair of glasses to hide the fact that he's actually Superman, Monkey hides his secret identity by looking like a cute kitty cat with that unique triangular white patch on his face.

(Please forgive me for getting off-topic, but HOW stupid are the people in Metropolis that they can't see through that shitty disguise?)

I'm lying next to my cat, on top of the covers, stroking his fur and listening to his gentle rhythmic purr when I realized, "I've never seen Batman and Monkey in the same room...  I wonder.  Is it possible?"  All those nights when I came downstairs because he was absent and I did see him, seated on the back to the armchair, gazing out over his world, looking for neerdowells and riff-raff, poised to leap into hand-to-hand combat at a moments notice.

If you take a moment to really look and analyze the pictures of the Caped Crusader versus Monkey, you'll have to agree the resemblance is uncanny.  I think my cat is a superhero, watching over and protecting his land.  If he chooses not to share that life and burden with me, then I'm sure Monkey has his reasons.  Perhaps it's out of love and wishes to protect me from those who wish to do him harm.  I can appreciate that and I thank him for the security he provides.

KRYPTONITE

Aside from being a precious gem from another world that could literally kill the Man of Steel, Superman, aka Kal El, aka Clark Kent, Kryptonite is also the name of a Top Number One Hit from the band 3 Doors Down, circa 2000.

I wasn't a fan of the song, at first, if I gotta be honest.  When it'd come on the radio I'd clench my teeth and work my way through it or change the channel.  It wasn't until one weekend when I attended a bachelor party.  My memory is a little foggy on the evening.  (I wasn't drinking, but my memory is SO terrible these last few years and it's only getting worse - ha ha.)

I believe we had a nice supper, somewhere.  May have attended a bar at some point.  I really don't remember.  Can't even recall whose bachelor party it was, to be honest.  However, what I DO recollect is our attending the local strip club.  I can't for the life of me, remember the name of the place, but it's long gone and it doesn't matter for the sake of the story.

As I stated, I was not drinking, so when the bunch of guys left to table to go do shots or something, I was left alone at the table.  Situated next to the dance floor/stage where the nice girls were strutting their stuff, I looked like some pervy guy seated alone.  So when the song "KRYPTONITE" came blasting over the airwaves and an attractive strawberry blonde dancer came over to the table next to me, I politely turned my chair and looked away.  

Now if I'm being completely honest, I didn't turn all the way.  I turned just enough.  My peripheral vision is most excellent, still to this day.  Now, that combined with a few casual glances, now and again, was enough for me to appreciate her performance.  The young woman was putting her heart and soul into this dance.  To quote Donna Summer, "She Works Hard For The Money".  She was earning that tip from the next table. 

When the song concluded, I was thankful, as I never cared much for the song up to that point.  The dancer strode across the stage to her bag, withdrew a poster and walked sexily back to the table next to me where she'd just been dancing, fully nude, for the table of young men.

One, let's be honest, boy, opened his wallet and began fingering through many bills.  I glanced at her eager reaction, hoping for a sizeable donation, but that looked quickly disappeared from her face, replaced with disdain.  She was visibly upset, for the young fella pulled out a measly ten dollar bill then asked if she had change.

My jaw literally dropped.  I could not believe that these three people sat and watched this lovely woman flash them all her pretty pink parts and they wanted change for a f*cking ten.  She told them off, turned to me and rewarded me with the poster.  I never gave her any money and she didn't want any from me.

Since that evening, circa 2000 or so, whenever that song comes on the radio, I'm reminded of how stupid, ignorant, and arrogant some people are.  Okay. Okay.  If I'm being honest, when the song comes on, I just remember that asshole asking the stripper for change and her getting angry.  And I actually like the song, too.

....Always tip your waitress and your stripper.... 😄

Best Mates

 

Happened to wake up early to hear my favourite morning radio duo discussing, of all things, favourite condiments.  Clayton confessed that he doesn't like ketchup or mustard, and as much as it shouldn't bother me, I was genuinely concerned.  So much so, I took to Twitter, my preferred mode of communication with the world, and tweeted into the radio station asking "who hurt him"? 😁

Truth be known, I've met quite a few people who hate the popular duo, Ketchup and Mustard.  I have one friend who actually complained to BK when he bought a burger and it automatically came with dabs of ketchup and mustard.  As if this was unexpected.  At best, one can assume that a burger of any sort will likely come with one or both of the condiments.

I like ketchup and mustard, but for reasons other than what most would expect.  I've made the claim for, what can be estimated as, decades, that ketchup is the perfect condiment, because no matter how bad something tastes, if you add enough ketchup, it'll taste better.  Case and point: Burger King's Black Burger.

I've never actually tasted the mysterious burger, not for a lack of trying.  When I requested it from my local BK, they cocked their head to the side, like a confused mutt, and had no clue what the heck I was talking about.  That being said, if the burger did actually taste horrible, ketchup would be the hero, swooping in like Spider-Man in the nick of time, to save the meal.

When it comes to condiments, I'm kinda particular.  In my house, you'll never see a bottle of Heinz ketchup. I don't particularly care for the taste of it. Too salty.  French's is my go-to, as is the mustard, only I lean more towards the Sweet Onion flavoured mustard.  I also like adding mayonnaise to my burgers and dogs.  Any mayo is good, but Heinz's Seriously Good Mayonnaise isn't just a marketing ploy. It actually tastes damn good. 😋

I realize that this statement may strike up another popular debate: What are acceptable condiments to add to a hotdog?  It's been my experience that most people frown on and absolutely reject ketchup being added to a dog.  I march to the beat of a different drum, as I not only add both ketchup and mustard to my hotdogs, but I also like to slather a layer of mayo on my bun, too.  Again, because it's not always known what ingredients are in the wiener.  One time, as a kid, I bit into a hotdog and my bite was interrupted by a knuckle.  No lie.  It was a piece of cartilage and as a result, I avoided eating hotdogs until later in my adult life.  Ketchup can cover the disgusting taste of a lot of things, but even Superman, himself, couldn't have saved that hotdog. 😣

In researching this blog, this morning, I came across a blurb from NBC News about a Florida Bistro who outright refuses it's patrons the option of having ketchup on their food.  "Anyone above the age of ten, won't get any ketchup on their food."  Not even on a side of french fries, the article read.  Patrons of the bistro, put absolute faith in the food preppers and accept the ban.  That says to me that they think kids under the age of ten aren't smart enough to know that ketchup is disgusting, but then again, if you look at the state of education in Florida, the state doesn't even believe in actual science, either, so their credibility has no bearing on anything.

I enjoy listening to the All Fantasy Everything Podcast hosted by Late Late Show writer and comedian, Ian Karmel.  I believe he and his friends/guests did a Fantasy Draft early on in the podcast, on condiments.  Wanting to participate in the fun, I always make my own draft, sharing it with them via Twitter and Facebook.  I know that I did one up, but I can't remember what my list of condiments were.  However, if put on the spot today, I think my choices would be as follows.

1. Ketchup
2. Mustard
3. Baconnaise (bacon-flavoured mayo)
4. Smoked Applewood Bourbon BBQ sauce
5. Bacon (you can never have too much bacon)

This is a debate that will go on for ever, much like the argument about whether or not a hotdog is a sandwich.  FYI, it's not.  It just isn't. Sorry-not-sorry, but that's a subject for another day.  Today I'm going to leave you with this final thought.  I recently saw this on TV.  It may have been spotlighted on Colbert, I can't remember, but the sandwich looks absolutely amazing and I doubt with all my heart that it would require any outside influence by ketchup or superhero.

Ladies and gentleman.  Allow me to introduce you to the Hotdog Burger.  Near as I can tell, it's one pound of seasoned hamburger placed on a double-long hotdog bun, with two slices of cheese (although I think I'd add two more).  It's probably a train wreck to eat, but I'm up to the challenge.  Who's with me?

Don't Drink The Water

It used to be said: Don't drink the water.  That was in reference to anyone traveling south of the U.S. border.  Mexico was notoriously famous for having something wrong with their drinking water.  I can't remember what the end result was, as it's been decades since I've heard the reference, but I believe by drinking the water, you wind up with diarrhea.  That's pretty f*cked up, when the drinking water has a higher chance of giving you the runs, than the food.

California used to be a part of Mexico and though I've not been to The Golden State for a very long time, suffice it to say, if you're not drinking water out of a plastic recyclable bottle, you may be destined for some trouble.  Case and point: Miley Cyrus used to be a fine upstanding little girl.  A respectable role model for whom average little girls could look up to and aspire to be like.  She was a respectable celebrity with good morals, then all of a sudden... BLAM-O!! She's sticking out her tongue, shaking her ass and taking naked pictures of herself.  That wholesome little girl wasn't so wholesome, anymore.  I don't think "who*esome" is a word, but if it were, I'm sure we'd all be using it when referring to Miley Cyrus.

As a young teen, she portrayed the character Hannah Montana on the Disney program of the same name.  I've seen it.  It was mildly entertaining and silly, everything you'd expect a Disney show to be.  In an effort to shield herself from the hoards of screaming fans, Cyrus was a mild mannered, semi-unpopular teen, Miley Stewart, while in the evenings and weekends, she'd don a blonde wig, transforming her into Hannah Montana.  The character became so popular that in real life, Miley would entertain all over the world to crowds of screaming fans.  At the height of her popularity, even venturing out on a tour entitled: Hannah Montana Forever (pictured above left).

The fans knew Hannah Montana was Miley Cyrus, of course.  That was as obvious as Clark Kent being Superman, however I don't think Miley knew that, as the Disney series came to an end, so did the wholesome version of Miley Cyrus.  It's only been four years since Hannah Montana, but the crazy antics and public nudity of Miley Cyrus has become infamous.

Never failing to shock the public, Miley Cyrus, appeared just the other night, in Chicago, IL, performing a her songs, many of which came from the Hannah Montana era, wearing nothing but a strap-on dildo and a smile (pictured above right).  Even now, it was mentioned to me, yesterday, by a friend, that Miley Cyrus has announced that she'll be embarking on a new world tour, where it's suggested that she would not be the only person in attendance who would be naked, but that the crowds in attendance would be encouraged to be nude, as well.  "Is it going to be called, 'The Sausagefest Tour'?" I asked, believing that it will only be horny young boys and dirty old men, in attendance.  I would not want to be responsible for cleaning up the arena after that event.  The floor would be stickier than the floor of a movie theater.  I doubt, even a hazmat suit could protect anyone from...  Never mind.  I'm beginning to gross myself out...

So, take heed and be forewarned.  If you currently reside in Southern California or are planning to visit; DON'T DRINK THE WATER.  It made Randy Quaid go crazy.  Shia LeBeouf go mental.  Historically, it made Charles Manson go completely bat shit crazy-insane.  And it turned America's sweetheart, Miley Cyrus into a titty-flashing little skank.

HANNAH MONTANA FOREVER, huh?  Apparently our definitions of "forever", differ greatly...

Ugh! Popcorn!!

Ugh!  Popcorn!  If I were a superhero, I have no doubt that the bane of my existence would be popcorn.  Superman has Lex Luther.  Batman has the Joker, but my arch nemesis would always be popcorn.

I wouldn't presume to say that popcorn would be my Kryptonite, as popcorn could not and would not ever kill me, but it's mere presence drives me absolutely bonkers.  It's the sound it makes.  Whether it's the throaty popping sound that emits from the kettle or the subtle squeaks it makes as people shovel it into their gullets.  Either way, it drives me as nuts as any squeak or rattle in my vehicle.

Other than my incredible power of parallel parking, another gift that I'm cursed with is incredible hearing.  I possess inalienable ability to hear that which most are incapable of hearing.  I had a hearing test impeded once by a fan that I swore was in the booth with me.  It turned out the be a fan that sat on the floor above the doctor's office.  So it's not impossible that I can hear the squeakiness of the popcorn.

In my youth, I never harboured any ill-will towards the salty snack.  While I never purchased any of the treat when attending the movies, I never hated the stuff like I do these days.  I'd even went so far as to buy the odd box of Pink Elephant popcorn, although if memory serves, Pink Elephant possesses a sort of plastic-styrofoam taste about it.  Explains why I've never even subconsciously craved Pink Elephant in decades.

Many years ago, I worked the night shift at a 24-hour video store.  One of the duties I had, when I came into work was cleaning out the popcorn machine.  I had to scoop out the remaining popcorn, which was sold for a buck, then clean out all the grease and salt, using a strong vinegar-water solution, followed by glass cleaner.  The mixing of those two smells is something that, to this day, still haunts me.  Then there was the cleaning of the kettle.  Everyday, as fresh popcorn was being popped, some batches would be forgotten or the little wing inside the kettle wouldn't be turned on and the corn was forced to just sit there, popping then ultimately burning.  There aren't many things that smell worse, within my circle of experiences, that is, than burnt popcorn.  Perhaps, it's these experiences that solidified my hatred for popcorn.  It's difficult to say for certain.

These days, I can't hardly smell corn without being revolted to some degree.  The reasoning behind that is the cat litter I use for my cat.  The litter is made from corn, which traps his "business" the best I've ever seen, masking the stringent smell that accompanies it.  One time, when I used regular kitty litter, the smell of his pee was so strong, it gave me a bloody nose as I scooped his box clean.  This has never been a factor since making the switch.  I highly recommend making the switch, if you haven't already.

Popcorn, though!  Ugh!!  Next to the annoying f*cks who insist on talking or playing with their f*cking phones, I hate popcorn.  Actually, now that I think of it, I'd place popcorn behind the f*cking losers who bring their f*cking babies to the movies, too.  But it has no place in my home.  No one is allowed to ever bring popcorn into my house.  That's just horse shit!