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!