World AIDS Day

Faces of AIDS.

They came with Wayno from New York City. They survive in a physical state only temporarily. They were never fired. Survivors decided they never should be. A tribute to the fleeting moments of life: dust to dust.

The four men depicted and the artist all died of AIDS. I can’t give you dates: I just know it was before 1989.

I don't know their names. These four men and their creator are strangers to me, and yet they are my past. The faces may be of a different cast, but they are so many of my friends.

They Had a Romp.

Before anything else is stated, I need to categorically deny the recent accusations against me personally, and my household in general. I am not now, nor have I ever been a member of any anti-cat movement or party, nor have I actively taken in part in any anti-cat activities or festivals. I have never knowingly associated with any anti-catists nor do I believe in any of the basic tenets of anti-catism. To the best of my knowledge, all members of my household can make the same statement without perjuring themselves.

It is unfortunate that I feel the need to make such a statement, but due to the recent slanderous accusations that have been made against myself, and my household, it is imperative that I set the record straight. Apparently, someone (with a heavy “Mad-Cat” accent) called the local ASPCA branch (and repeated the call to the Oregon Chapter of PETA) to lodge a six-fold complaint against me and my household. The complainant claimed:

#1. An innocent feline is being held captive, without his consent, in a tiny house with no access to fresh air or the out-of-doors.
#2. The poor, blameless cat is being forced to live on store-bought cat-food, water and a few pre-packaged “cat” treats per day.
#3. The mistreated, but adorable kitten, is forced to cohort with large, unsavory canines, totally against his will and against all common sense. The generously proportioned dogs do things that, well, the complainant couldn’t bring himself to mention over the phone.
#4. When the cute little cuddly tom tries to talk to his jailors about the deplorable conditions he is forced to live in, he is often physically tossed of the bed.
#5. When trying to get exercise in the cramped environments the adorable little bundle of fur is forced to survive in, he is often yelled at, even pushed off, while strolling along the kitchen counters.
#6. The catnip provided is totally unsatisfactory. There is no chance of catching a buzz off the inferior crap that is offered.

Okay, lets cut through the doo-doo. This can only be referred to this as fur-mongering (similar to fear-mongering, only fluffier.) And there is only one “person” I know of who could have made the call. Damn speed dialing. I should have been suspicious when Max asked me to put ASPCA at #1 so he could “call to see if there were poor animals who needed a good home.” I am such a sucker.

So when the ASPCA or PETA contacts you, I just ask that you tell them the following, “To the best of my knowledge, Mac is not now, nor has he ever been a member of an anti-cat movement or party, nor has he actively taken in part in any anti-cat activities or festivals. As far as I know, he has never knowingly associated with any anti-catists nor does he believe in any of the basic tenets of anti-catism.”

Thank you for your support.

Yeah, Max is innocent!

Thanks

Corrective Lenses. Okay, I admit it is a somewhat odd thing to be thankful for, but with my eyesight, I can’t imagine life without them. You think I’m a menace to society now, just imagine what it would be like if I couldn’t see well enough to even walk safely.

Alcoholic Beverages. Some may feel it a tad gauche to admit to being thankful for booze, beer and wine. But think about it. Imagine you had to spend every waking moment with me. You too would find some comfort in a bottle.

Macaroni & Cheese. My favorite food, not only for the flavor and texture, but also because it makes me feel like I’ve just crawled up on Mom’s lap and she is gently rocking me to sleep. Good stuff, Maynard.

Power Tools. No, I’m not a great craftsman. With that said, but for the grace of power tools, and a dedicated father, I would be living in a tent in the backyard.

An Old, Worn Sweater. We all have one. The sweater you took with you when you went camping on the beach. That time that it rained solid for four days, and the sweater was the only piece of dry clothing you had left. You swore to cherish it for eternity. And you will.

A Good Book. A vibrant tale that can whisk me away to a fantasy world where I can be a dashing buccaneer, a Maestro, an eminent scientist on an adventure to Mars. Or well written verse that can make me think and feel.

Comic Strips. Come on folks, have you read the newspapers lately? They are pretty gruesome bits of journalism. But for the comic page. It is a smile in a sea of dour news.

Friends. I know. You were all starting to mumble to yourselves. “That unappreciative old bastard, he’s thankful for contact lenses, but not the important…” I do have some clue as to what is important. To my friends, old and new, thank you.

Family. I’m blessed with Richard and four furry critters. They keep me sane. (Well, as close to sane as is reasonably possible.) I have four amazing sisters, who I don’t get to see often enough. But when we do get together, we always seem to have fun. And for the most part, they married pretty well. And the 10 nieces and nephews and their spousal units, who I see even less often and wish I knew better. And the 10 grandnieces and grandnephews, some of who I’ve never even met. I need to do something about that soon. Thanks to you all.

From the Sunday Oregonian

(Click to enlarge)

I couldn't help myself.

I see the similarities even if you don't.

Despite what Max claims, no animals were hurt in the scanning of this comic. (He fell off the desk, it had nothing to do with the scanning, and he wasn't really hurt - except his feline pride.)

Grandpa

Ira Beam McCracken

June 13, 1883-November 20, 1952

In the spirit of Thanksgiving.

On this date in 1620, my 7 Great Grandfather, Peregrine White was born in Plymouth Harbor, Massachusetts. He was the first English child born in New England. Don’t bother with the genealogical details. He somehow ties into the Newell clan.

I have done some fairly extensive research into my family's histories, and trust me, other than the ever popular George Custer (third cousin, four times removed), and some truly dubious ties to Abraham Lincoln (Mary Todd’s fourth cousin married my great-great-great-great-great aunt), there is no one in my family tree that anyone would have any reason to know. (I do think that calling him “Uncle Abe” is fair game. Genealogy isn’t really an “exact” science.)

So, I put Peregrine White out there as my most respected and famous relative. (No, Ryan, Peregrine White is not the the Air Force Academy's mascot. That would be a Peregrine falcon. So close, yet so far.)

This is a picture of the Peregrine White house in Marshfield, Massachusetts. Yes, I stole it off of someone else's webpage, and as such will probably spend time in a federal penetentiary.

Mark Begich defeats Stevens for Senator from Alaska.

Dear Alaskans,

I must apologize for thinking of you as bumbling idiots. I am sorry I spread the idea of selling Alaska back to the Russians. I was wrong to think that would serve the Red Empire just desserts.

And I am sorry I said you were cute. No Alaskan is cute. You are stately or mature, beautiful or handsome, but not cute. Mea culpa.

Okay, there is that bit about hating Polar Bears, but, hey, I meant it in the nicest way possible.

How about we just shake hands and call it even?


Come on dudes, big bear hug!

Another New Era in Communications.

Many of you will recall back in June when I excitedly announced that Richard and I were entering the 1990’s in our communications systems. New cell phones, new email address and new blog. Well, we’ve just received notification of a couple of serious set-backs.

First, our land-line telephone company, Embarq, has sold. (Please note: in our little corner of the world, land-line telephone company = internet access.) In February, we will be on our sixth or seventh phone company in 20 years. I know little about the new company, Last-Century Tel, but their motto, “Committedly Indifferent to the Needs of Our Customers” does not inspire confidence. (To say in their defense, they wanted to use "Raising Ernestine", but Lily Tomlin slapped them with a lawsuit so fast , it made their heads spin.) Now, if it were your new phone company, I would find their honesty in advertising refreshing. But it is our new phone company; it’s not funny. We don’t know how this will affect our internet connection. Last-Century Tel reports that have a team of scientists trying to determine if they can pillage cyberspace for a tidy profit. They report there will be some changes a-coming to our service. Fortunately, Richard and I still own a rotary-dial telephone, so we won’t be left totally out in the cold.

On an equally unnerving note, Valley TV Co-op will suspend service on January 1st, 2009. I am particularly concerned by this catastrophic collapse in the television industry. (We are customer number 110 to give you an idea of the scope of this disaster. Literally, dozens of people will lose access to the reruns of Law and Order.) Richard and I have no known recourse. Satellite TV is not an option for us, due to the large hill to the southeast of the homestead. When I spoke with Valley TV Co-op about viable alternatives, they suggested buying a good book. So funny I forgot to laugh.

On the bright side, it has been announced that a wholly-owned subsidiary of Western Union will be opening a state-of-the-art telegraph office in Parkdale next spring.

The future of television in the Upper Valley is bleak at best.

The day after the day after.

The meager remnants of a great feast. (The ice cream and Johnny Sauce are long gone!)

Some thoughts on the eve of the Fête du Bon Père

Return with me to a simpler time. Ward and June have just won the “Parents of the Year” award sponsored by Better Homes & Gardens. On the cover of Time Magazine is an artist’s rendition of a nuke blowing Nevada to smithereens. Glamour’s cover is graced by Grace Slick… er, Grace Whats-Her-Name. You know, the queen of Monaco.

Anyway, it was long ago and far away. It was a time of innocence. The seven mortal sins were just being discerned. It was up to me to give them true definition.

Lust – Karla gets the first serving of Ice Cream and Johnny Sauce. I look at it. My god it is beautiful. Cool, creamy, so seductively sweet. The sauce dripping down the ice cream, I just want to lick it off. I want it so bad. Oh, somebody stop me before I do something really, really embarrassing.

Gluttony – More. More. More. I want more, more, more.

Greed – There are so few kernels of candy corn left. I’m sure I saw Beth looking at them. I just know she is going to take some. She can’t have any more. Who does she think she is? I must stop her. I must get them all for myself. From where I sit I can reach the light switch. It is suddenly dark. Then it is light again. The kernels have all disappeared.

Sloth – I have eaten. More than I ever thought possible. I lay on the floor. Motionless. Semi-conscious. I have no desire to move. No reason to move. No way I could move. I am sated. I will lie here until enough food has settled as to allow me to crawl to bed. Hey, could somebody slide that half eaten plate of Macaroni & Cheese my way?

Wrath – Dammit, Jane got more Ice Cream that I did. She is going to pay. I will not allow her to get away with this. Sometimes you just gotta take a woman down a peg or two. She will rue the day she took a bigger helping of ice cream than me!!

Envy – Why is it Puds always gets more of the cheesy crust than I do? I just don’t understand why Mom would give her the best plate, with the really crusty cheese. It isn’t fair. Trudy always gets the best!

Pride – I ate more than you did ‘cause I’m better than you!

Fifty-two

No animals were hurt in the posting of these numbers.

Preparing for the Fête du Bon Père.

The macaroni has been harvested and dries by the hearth. The cheese has been pressed and aged to its prime. The ice cream has been mined and awaits the feast. The Johnny Tree has been tapped, its sauce flowing into pails. And the candy corn has been baked, it cools on the sill.

Only two days to the Fête du Bon Père. The celebration will begin in the Midwest and spread to the West Coast before finally playing its final notes in the wilds of Alaska.

The anticipation is almost too great.

We have voted.

A new president. After eight years as an international pariah, we can once again hold our heads high. All Americans can take pride in that, even if your favorite candidate wasn’t selected. McCain’s concession speech was so classy, I almost regretted he had lost. (I had consumed copious amounts of vodka by that point of the evening – I wasn’t in my correct mind.)

Arizona, California and Florida all chose to ban gay marriages by inserting clauses in their state constitutions. Not a highlight of the evening for me, but I can live with it. Frankly, I’ve already done California and have no intentions of ever making the state my home again. I have no desire to even see Arizona again. I’ve spent way too much time there already. And Florida, well I would like to visit the state one day, but I don’t see me contemplating eloping to the state. On the bright side, Californians did vote to make egg-bearing chickens’ lives a little more tolerable.

And of course, the state of Alaska has voted to return a felon to the senate. Let me see if I’ve got this right. In February, when he is sentenced, he will lose his right to vote in a general election, but he will still be able to vote in the senate. Don’t they vote on Very-Important-Things in the senate? Does anyone else see us jumping off an ethically ambiguous precipice here?

You Alaskans, you are just so cute.

So, a mixed bag for me, as I’m sure it was for many people. But enough for dancing in the streets!

VOTE

No animals were hurt in the scanning of this image.

Time to pull out an atlas.

Since my posting yesterday, I have been barraged by communications from people claiming to know the name of the largest city in North Dakota.

It is not "A Clockwork Orange".

Nor is it "Best Little Whorehouse In Texas".

And please, "Monty Python and the Holy Grail"?

Celebrating the Dakotas

Yes, 119 years ago today, North and South Dakota became the 39th and 40th state in the union. I imagine that there are great celebrations planned in both states today. Party in Minot! Party in Minot!

Many people know little about the Dakotas, so I wanted to give you all a brief synopsis of the history of these great states.

For centuries, the area currently known as North and South Dakota, was inhabited by members of the Sioux tribe. They lived in harmony in a land that bore an uncanny resemblance to Eden. Palm trees swayed in the breeze and zebras and gnus romped on the prairie. But sadly their paradise was soon to be altered forever.

In the early 19th century, retail pioneers Pierre Bismarck and Belle Fourche-Dickinson crossed over the Red River from Minnesota and traveled from village to village of the Sioux selling “top quality” silverware. Yes, they had nice knives, nifty spoons and Grand Forks. Pierre and Belle were successful beyond their wildest dream; bringing table manners to the Sioux, a tribe known here to fore for its horrific etiquette.

A medicine man of the Sioux, Rapid City Eddy had purchased flatware from the itinerant salespeople. Sadly, the craftsmanship of the nice knives, nifty spoons and Grand Forks was not up to R.C.’s demanding standards. He called up Belle on her cell phone and demanded a refund of the purchase price. Belle just laughed at the shaman and hung up.

R.C. was pissed. He conjured up a plague on the land. He brought an Arctic wind to the territory and the palm trees packed their bags and headed south. Mal temps had come to the Dakotas.

Survival was tough: it was an extreme time. People turned against each other. Neighbor was pitted against neighbor, dirt farmer against sodbuster, cross-dresser against school district superintendent. Nothing was sacred.

And the violence was nasty. There was hair pulling, eye gouging and low blows. The Dakotas were in turmoil.

When news of the brutality reached Sweden, good King Olav-Ingmar Bergman decreed that it was the duty of the Swedes to bring peace to the territory. So a Concorde load of blond-haired blue-eyed men and women flew to the new world. With their calm aura and non-violent poise they set an example for all to follow. Four hours after the Norsemen and women came to the area, the battling inhabitants were sitting around the campfire, holding hands and singing Kum-by-Yah.

Oh, and a few years ago, North Dakota named its largest city after a quite good, if not somewhat quirky, movie.

All Saints’ Day

As a child, I was mostly unaware of All Saints’ Day. I was raised Lutheran. From what I can tell, saints are something of enigma to Lutherans. I remember learning about Francis of Assisi, and knowing he was a saint, but his sainthood was totally downplayed.

As such, I have no fond childhood memories of singing Gregorian chants around the All Saints’ tree. I don’t remember the lavish All Saints’ dinner, complete with roasted turnips and venison kidneys. My sad, misspent youth.

But a few years ago, All Saints’ Day was hijacked by a couple of large furry critters in our household and took on a whole new meaning. It is a day of gluttony and frivolity. The day more resembles a Samhain celebration than any modern holiday.

There are games. There is bobbing for kittens: not Max and Spike’s favorite game. There is the mud collecting competition: not Mac and Richard’s preferred sport. Let us not forget the legendary half-chewed food-spewing contest: not for the feint of heart. Give-me-Treating, Drooling Challenges, On-Demand-Dog-Petting. The list goes on and on.

Don’t forget the feasting. There is food being downed everywhere. It’s all Richard and I can do to keep caught up serving the party animals. Next year we may have to hire a professional waitstaff.

By the end of the day, we’re all exhausted. The Saints have already passed out on the bed. There rest of us seem to be out of luck.