Diversions

Mile making has been slow. However, the diversions have been pleasant up ‘til today. Of all places, the irony of being hunkered down in an intersection-of-a-town called Rising Sun. Waiting for the severe weather to pass. During this lull my heart and prayers go out to those in Harrisburg, Illinois and other Midwestern stomps that were hit with the tornados. While it can be tough going in my world, I count my blessings that this afternoon I can rest inside what appears to be a storage shed.

My diversions last weekend included Dayton, Ohio and a fine visit with @CrookedStamper’s Dad. She claimed all he did was nap when she visited. I say she doesn’t know what napping is. Take it from a cat who knows the fine art of napping. CS’ Dad is a far from a party-pooper.

When I arrived he graciously whipped up some of Oscar Mayer’s finest bacon. I thought eating Oscar Mayer’s was most appropriate for it was the weekend of the Oscars. Can I be frank (ha-ha-ha)? A silent film that no one has ever heard of much less seen kind of promotes napping. Anyway, we ate bacon all weekend. A delicious TUNA alternative.

The highlight of the weekend was not the Oscars. (Surprise, surprise). We took in a concert. Emily and the Rambling Cats. Ever hear of them? Probably not and probably never will. Google them and see what you find. Nothing. Ever Google something and not find anything? It is an experience you can talk about at work on Monday.
“Hey Joe, what did you do this weekend,”
“Googled, shit. I googled something and found nothing. It was totally weird. Kind of like looking for a government listing in the phonebook."
“ For God sake. Joe, what did you google?”
“Emily and the Rambling Cats.”
“What is that? Some funk country band?”
“Shit, if I know. I told you. I found nothing on Google.”
“Joe, what possessed you to google Emily and the Rambling Cats?
“ ‘cause I read some random blog written by a southbound cat. This cat is traveling to Mexico to unlock the secrets of the Mayan Calendar.”
“Dude, how much weed did you toke?”
“None, I swear. I could pee test this afternoon and pass.”

Yeah, this is what sitting out the rain in Rising Sun, Illinois gets you.

My trip down river continues.

Shooting Pool With Joe

A short entry, but this will put Goddess’ mind at ease.

After I had my fill of New Jersey clams I back tracked to New Castle and cross over to Wilmington, Delaware. Knowing I was close to Joe’s house in Greenville, I knew I would be remiss if I didn’t stop in and pay my respects. Sort of. Knowing he never put two and two together last time we played pool, when I peed on the table, I got a warm and gracious greeting from the Vice President.

Joe is always a good sport about things. If you forget as much as he has, you have to be. We got down to business right away, racking up the balls and shooting pool. Joe thinks he is pretty good at this, but I’ve played with better, including Prince William last year at his bachelor’s party. Put a few brews in the VP and he thinks he rules to cue sticks. Not so much.

We watched Whitney’s funeral on the tube which kind of distracted Joe. He really got into that good old time religion stuff. I don’t care what the Democratic elite says about religion. They intuitively know that when it comes time to meet the Maker it is time to sing like the spirit moved you all along.

I decided not to mistreat my host this year and passed on messing with the house. Joe’s got a lot on his mind, with reelection and stuff. But it will take him a couple of days to find the cue ball. Hey Joe, got to keep you on your toes.

Took a look at the map and decided to head west. Mexico is a long ways south and if I am to return to NY by June, successfully accomplishing my Mayan mission I best make tracks.

Tracks. Yes, train tracks. Since Joe is a great fan of Amtrak, I thought I connect to a west bound train to New Orleans. I can hear Arlo now.

"All along the southbound odyssey..."

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.