New Jersey

Some have been concerned about my delay in the Garden State of New Jersey. I have also caught some flack over the mystery of this stay. Come on, peeps and anipals! You sent me on a quest to find the secret behind the Mayan calendar, but how could I resist the secret of why New Jersey is called The Garden State? My search for the answers behind the Mayan’s The End of Times dilemma can wait. Maybe the world will end before I get to the jungles of Mexico? Meanwhile, the Eastern Shore puzzlement.

So, after I stowed away on the New York Giant float to celebrate their Super Bowl victory (Yes, Blumberg is an opportunistic oaf.), I shuttled with the team back to New Jersey where they wrapped up a thrilling season. I gave my congratulations to Eli and Victor Cruz and headed off to find the gardens of New Jersey. The boys told me I would find them back in New York City at Madison Square Gardens, but I already knew that wasn’t true.

The northwest corner of New Jersey use to have more cows than people, but that was when Goddess’ mom grew up there before WWII. There are the coolest mineral deposits in this neck of the woods. Odgensburg. The old zinc mine attracts rock hounds from around the world all in the hunt for rare fluorescent minerals. Pretty, but no gardens.

For a traveling cat the Turnpike and the Parkway is a precarious adventure. Skylines are littered with refineries and chemical plants and other intimidating gray materials (thinking asphalt highways, huge bridges and parking lots). Greenhouse effect has nothing to do with starting gardens. But interestingly enough the state is a low carbon emissions producer. One reason is nuclear power. Not green but glowing? Oyster Creek Nuclear Generating Station came online in 1969 making it the oldest operating nuclear plant in the country. Take that to your next trivia party. Still nothing looks like a garden.

It is winter but even in my wildest kitty imagination I can’t see green in this state.

The mystery of the name? I know for a fact New Jersey’s corn in mid-July is the best you can get. I love corn. So get over it. And Goddess won’t eat blueberries until the season hits New Jersey. She always said that blueberries raised south of New Jersey weren’t worth eating. But I’m not seeing the gardens.

So I trudged, accidentally into Camden. A tough hombre town. The last place on earth to find a garden. This is where I stumbled on the fact that a dude named Abraham Browning, of Camden back around the Centennial compared New Jersey to an immense barrel, filled with good things to eat and open at both ends, with Pennsylvanians grabbing from one end and the New Yorkers from the other. Well good things to eat sounded enticing, but when I hear anything compared to being an immerse barrel I think Governor Chris Christie. Not gardens. I think this is like naming Greenland, Greenland. A trick.

I prefer New Jersey’s other nickname. The Clam State. So I’m off to the shore. Following the old taste buds never did me wrong.

The classic view of Camden, New Jersey in 2010. Image Copyright and courtesy of The New York Times http://graphics8.nytimes.com/images/2004/12/28/nyregion/camden.slide.1.jpg

Adventure Annnouncement

Well boys and girls, we are headed on an adventure for 2012. My ramblings this year have great scientific purpose. I embark on a journey on the same epic level as Perry to the South Pole, Hillary to the summit of Mount Everest and Indiana Jones to the Temple of Doom. I am going to, for once and for all, solve the meaning behind the Mayan calendar. Yes, fifteen peeps want me to unlock this mystery. That is fifteen out of seven billion. My public calls. However, I ask, “What the hell are the rest of you thinking?” The world is made up of more than Jersey Shore, Dancing with the Stars and Glee. Honestly.

You know the saying “curiosity killed the cat.” I just hope this proves untrue.

As soon as I get the Old Man distracted I’ll slip out the door. First stop New York City, baby I feel a bagel binge coming on.

To all those who voted, thank you so much. I think.

2012 Epic Adventure

Hi, Peeps and Anipals. Once again the Goddess is leaving me for the warmer climes and black lava beaches of the Big Island of Hawaii. Yep, she plans on leaving me behind. Same ol', same ol'.

In 2010 I tromped across the USA visiting my pal @ToonceCat in Florida. Then I jumped a freighter to cross the Pacific Ocean to arrive in Hawaii just a few days before she headed back to Upstate New York. She collared me and dragged me home on an airplane. I hate flying as much as I hate Orange Jello. Last year, with my royal wedding invitation in hand I went to England to see Kate and William off in wedded bliss. But all that was after I visited my friend Cheeto of @Rosieandcheeto fame in Chicago and hitched a ride on a private yacht to Belgium.

This year, I'm planning to run away again, but I am totally undecided about where to go. So much to see! Help me plan my escape and begin the 2012 Epic Adventure. Enter your vote for a destination by participating in the survey posted on my blog. Or twitter me any suggestions you might have.

It is a big furry world out there. Help me explore it!!

The Cobra and the Mongoose

Before leaving the States on board The Mother Lode bound for England, I had the good fortunate of sharing a Cobra with a mongoose. I had been carrying the little rodent in my knapsack ever since I stopped by the Philadelphia Zoo where I swapped DNA stories with the big cats. The mongoose was up to no good, like most diurnal animals. The rodent is fast on his little feet, but catch them about dusk as they prepare for bedtime and they are just about worthless.

My first inclination was to present him to the Queen. However, I figured I’d have to tend to the varmint for a few weeks as I made my ocean passage on board a yet to be determined boat. Since I am looking out for number one, I didn’t want to spend any energy meeting the needs of the mongoose. And I couldn't very well present the Queen with an emaciated rodent. So there I was heading into the Bronx wondering if I would make him my midnight snack when the world went crazy over a little misplaced cobra.

With mongoose in the bag, I had no fear of the deadly snake. Mongoose can make short order of the venomous reptile. Once I located the missing cobra I told her about the mongoose stashed in my bag. By then he was pretty hungry. Her response, predictable. “Say no more.” Wasn’t it strange how she was “discovered” the very next day?

By now this is old news, but I was asked to explain how I got a mongoose into my knapsack. You see, it was quite simple. I told the mongoose I had a cobra in my bag. The photo included here is all the proof he needed.

Unrest at Home

Big week. Final preparations for the wedding. Not the Royal Wedding. That’s in April. But the shin-dig in Chicago where Rosie and Cheeto’s peeps are saying “I do.” (I do what? Feed the cat, of course.) This means one thing. Living conditions for this week will become deplorable as attention turns toward all the fancy schmancy preparations. Perfect time for a revolution.

While the peeps are distracted we wonder who’s going to feed Cheeto the squillions of treats he demands. He needs to keep that butt in prime condition. (Not even going to talk about internal working order.) Who’s seeing the litter box meets his meticulous and immaculate standards? (Oh, maybe I am talking about internal working order?) Who’s lounging around to provide the comfy lap to chill on?

I’ve observed the living conditions of my dear friend as I have hung out on the couch for the past week. Close observations conclude peep attention has been elsewhere. Damn dog. New sporty car. Now is the time to demand liberty from the tyranny. These peeps are so distracted and will never see it coming.

Here’s the plan:

Day 1. Let the revolution begin. We shall begin with a our motto: Meow, meow, meow, meow, mwwarrraw. Best time to start a revolution is 3 am. Catch’em napping. Repeat until breakfast is served. Word to the wise. Don’t even try to serve noms in yesterday’s dirty bowl. It should be washed and dried. Clean dish towel please.

Day 2. The rally. Held in the living room, renamed Feline Freedom Square. The demonstration includes jumping on the TV, the coffee table, the book shelf and let’s not forget that fancy lamp. A good romp around the room should get their attention. We will keep our demands simple: Squillion of Noms or else…

Day 3. Peep nerves crumbling. Time to make more demands. We will don our bandanas and wave our flags. New leadership. Self-rule. We are done with this government. We want a say in our destiny. We want to be free to elect TUNA or MORE TUNA.

Twitter spreads the cause around the world. We gain sympathy from all cats who love freedom, democracy and TUNA. The oppressive rulers will be asked to step down.

Day 4. Suddenly peeps disappear. The revolution a success. Now we are hungry. Wait, we were kidding.

Congratulations Scot and Kimberly. Have a can of sardines. I was going to give it to the Royals.

My Ready

I tweeted, “my ready is going to kick your ready's butt.” @BibleCat, also found on Twitter, wanted to know “in essay form please, could you give me 3 whys as to why you like that saying about 'ready'....Ready? Start typing” Geesh, I am trying to survive out here on the road and now I must stop and do some homework? But the BibleCat is good breed, so I will elaborate.

I spent a long night in Gary, Indiana. Not the charming little place of song in the movie the Music Man, but an economically ravaged city of the Midwest. It looks like a rabbit on the side of the road after the vultures picked through the innards. The good pars are gone. Nothing but the matted fur remains. Conditions like these make my trouble radar beep loud and clear. Every corner here has a creepy look about it.

Most of my road troubles come from dogs, raccoons and the occasional Chinaman who wants to use me as a stock base. But last night I ran into a pride of felines mistakenly taken me as some kind of wuss puss from Tennessee. Little had they heard of Sergeant York, the World War I Congressional Medal of Honor recipient from Tennessee. That’s the way we grow them down on the farm in the hills of Tennessee. I’ve hung with the toughest of street cat and I got a cred of my own.

Sure I have spent my fair share of time on the plump pillows of a couch, or on the window sills gazing at chipmunks. I've spent way too much time figuring out how to open a refrigerator. And sure I have an impeccable coat of fur, groomed to perfection, so intoxicating few peeps can resist the desire to pick me up and squeeze me like I was some sort of roll of Charim. So I can see why the punks thought they could take an advantage.

Here are the reasons why my ready is going to kick your ready’s butt.

1. It isn’t competition that drives my ready. It is survival. I haven’t made all these miles to be done in by a pack of genetic mutants claiming to be of the regal feline persuasion. I live to die a legend, not to be a statistic in Gary, Indiana.
2. I’m on a mission. As a cat of high integrity I do what I say and I finish what I start. Chicago is right around the corner (of this lake) and that is where I said I'm going. I’ll investigate the living conditions of my friends, Rosie and Cheeto, @rosieandcheeto. Make a full report to the World Domination Order and be off to England. My attendance at the royal wedding has been requested of the Queen. I will accomplish my mission. It is in my DNA. Sort of like James Bond, 007, you think? And I have a oily can a sardines to present to the royal couple.
   
3. It is my catitude. I was born ready. I live ready. And I eat ready. Wait…that is, I’m always ready to eat.

So what happened? That's another cat tale.

On The Road

An inquiring follower wanted to know about Phoenix. So I will fill in the some details since my last entry. She's fine.

As for me, I’m still getting up in the morning, eating, sleeping, eating, prowling and, well if I am not sleeping, I’m eating. My machine just works that way.

My homie Phoenix works very similarly except she always been the smart one. She stays home and worries about me as I venture onto the asphalt. I have avoided using the highways much of this travel season. Road maintenance in the north country requires a lot of salt, dirt and other stuff that makes my pads tender. And it tastes awful too.

I struck out on the road to Chicago over a month ago. Progress this year has been hampered by high winds and snow banks well over my head. Bitter cold has kept the snow pack weak, so open field running bogs me down. Seems like Chicago is in the middle of the country or something. It didn't look that far on the map. Maybe six inches or so. It is taking forever to get there and now I have another reason to be in the Windy City.

My original purpose was to visit my friends Rosie and Cheeto (follow them on Twitter at @rosieandcheeto). Presently they are enduring horrible living conditions, denied treats and forced into human bondage - the cuddles. Worst of all is the backward fur rub causing static electricity. All could be cured with squillions of tuna treats packed in heavy oil. That will give their coats a shine. I’ve come to demand such.

But there might be a logical reason for this abuse. Seems Rosie and Cheeto’s peeps are in love and going to get married in less than two weeks. Since I am attending the Royal Wedding in April, I thought I’d crash this wedding. I’ll be able to scout out the ceremonial activities so nothing in England catches me off the royal guard. No need to cause a blunder that could cause an international incident. The O-man doesn't need my help.

So dear followers send the tuna express treats my way. I’ve turned south southwest to swoop around Lake Michigan and must rally all my senses to tackle the streets of Gary, Indiana.