THE LOYALIST

Part owl, part human. part dog, but mostly cat, Miscellaneous proved to be one loyal feline.

Misc. is our daughter's cat. For 11 years. When we went to visit for July 4, our daughter left us to house sit him. She was off to Napa and San Fran with a friend from college.

It was pretty tough duty for us to go from 108 to 75 degrees. But we beached it and golfed it and made due.

For 3 nights, Misc. would not go upstairs where our daughter's bedroom is. He waited for her on the downstairs couch. Every morning, I early riser, would go downstairs to the front door and out to retrieve the morning paper. And there sat Misc. on the couch where he had spent the night awaiting the arrival of his mistress. Or his MS. I guess that sounds better.

When she got back, then all was clear for him to go back upstairs.

We've all heard of the loyalty of dogs, but I always thought a cat too independent. Not Miscellaneous.

ON THE ROCKS OR PIPING HOT

I was never much a fan of GB Shaw, and I'm not familiar with this play or poster from the WPA years. So this entry is about hot and cold.

When I have a beverage that's supposed to be cold, then that's what I want. Iced tea is just that. When you serve it to me sans ice, then I'll only sip on it and leave most. You can't have too much ice for me. In fact, I think of ice as one of the seven food groups. Same with soda or water or Kool-Aid or anything that's supposed to be cold. Lukewarm has no place in my food and drink requirements.

The same at the other end. I like my food or beverages hot if that's the way they were intended to be. On occasion I can eat a cold hamburger or hot dog. Never cold pizza as both our son and daughter enjoy. Hot fries, apple pie, soup--the list goes on and on. Again lukewarm doesn't apply.

Similarly, my body temp likes it cold in the indoors in the Summer and relatively warm in the Winter. I'm an all or nothing guy and that's the way I've always been.

THEY CALLED HER FISHFACE

But I'm sure she would have preferred Daffodil. At least that's what long time MTV teacher looks like to me in the picture of daffodils. Plain as the nose...

She taught English and wo(manned) the high school library which served as a huge study hall. She was really not very pleasant to most students. She had a social studies teacher buddy and they had the reputation of liking to take a drink now and then. Substantiated or not, it didn't much matter to high schoolers back in the day. You were what others thought, deserved or not.

Although she seemed to enjoy her subject more than students, Daffodil would have preferred that name. Come to think of it, I guess most women would opt for the flower moniker rather than the degrading facial reference.

JOB SECURITY IN OBAMIC TIMES

Why do we sit idly by and allow only Italy to have gondolas and gondoliers? There's a gold mine to be made out there gondolizing.

I mean we certainly have a lot of canals, even in AZ. We have shallow waterways, just perfect for gondolas. What is more romantic than a boat ride? When someone else is doing the rowing part or pushing off, what ever the gondolier does to move the boat along.

It must not be too strenuous if he has the energy to sing. And that's romantic, I guess. At least most women seem to think so in the movies. And we know not only are jobs scarce for the general population, but for the arts, well they are really hurting. So a plethora of talented singers, shoot, talented musicians could be employed in this venue. Why should the gondolier only sing? Accompaniment, accompaniment. Charge twice the price. Plus, if you happened to get a fullback gondolier, the violinist or cellist could do a solo. Scratch the cello--too heavy.

Rough economic or Obamic times (hey, if there was Reaganomics, then there can certainly be Obamanomics or BO-nomics) call for drastic measures. Gondolizing is my stimulus plan.

BEADS

When we got back from the beach one day and I started to clean up, I found something I hadn't found on my body for awhile. Beads. Around my neck.

Remember all the kid times that we wore beads of ground in dirt and sweat, dried with the day's activities? Dark brown or even black beads making a necklace or half a necklace around our young necks.

And I had some. Which meant I had had an enjoyable day. We never contracted or created beads without having had a good time.

Even if we had mowed four yards or so. Even if we had worked hard cleaning a garage, for instance. But mostly yard work. We might have been dead tired to the world. Too tired for neighborhood night games. But there was a good feeling, a satisfying feeling of work done. An accomplishment. The feeling that though we might have disliked the task, we like the feeling of work well done. Of making beads.

Not anything like that for my most recent beads. No dark brown badge of workmanship. My slaving was in the sun and water. Maybe wiping away sweat that had accumulated under my ample chin. Maybe smearing some beach grit.

But my beads weren't smeared, come to think of it. They were uniform in size, texture, and shape. It was fun to sprout them again.

MY HALF HEART(S) STORY

I was a pretty cosmopolitan 5th grader. I had a girlfriend from another grade school. Not even the older sixth graders at Field School did that. But mine, Jackie, lived close to the Granada and Stadium, the two places that were simply called movie theatres back then.

I went to a lot of Saturday matinees and Wednesday matinees in the Summer, so that's where I got to know and like Jackie. I liked her so much that I bought her a half heart necklace. All I could find on Google were half hearts for friends or mother/daughters. Back in the day, they made them for boyfriend/girlfriend.

I don't remember what they said, but the hearts were split down the middle and she wore her half and I guess I wore my half. I don't seem to remember wearing mine, but maybe I did. What I remember was when we broke up, Jackie told everyone she had flushed my half heart down the toilet. I just laughed.

The only other half heart I got anyone ended worse. Karla, a seventh grade blonde who lived on Johnson Ave. where the Pipers later lived was the recipient of my second heart. The reason I tried to pinpoint her address is that I've forgotten her last name, maybe Warren. But she moved out of town right after school was out for the Summer.

She didn't call or tell me. I had to find out from a friend. She probably still has my half heart. Wherever she moved to. She's probably still wearing it. I mean who could know?

Google did provide me with some lyrics from someones called H & Claire entitled Half (a) Heart. They go like this and describe my experiences with the little jewelry to a t:

Yesterday you said you loved me

Today you're not thinking of me

I don't believe love is

Supposed to be this way.