I hve been a subscriber to Time Magazine since I was sixteen years old. Yeah, yeah, I know — The Man of the Year back then was Galileo. (I figure I’d beat the Wiseass Jooette to the punch.)

Anyway, for the past few years, each issue has managed to increasingly piss me off, because what is being offered up as objective news reporting would be redlined by a high school journalism teacher as rank advocacy (in Time’s case, for the Democrat Party). I meant to cancel my long-time subscription at its last renewal, but it somehow “auto-renewed.” Obviously either I or Mrs. Parkway must have checked a box in one of the prior renewal forms. At the time I thought that I would give it one more year rather than go through the hassle of canceling.

Since my last “renewal,” reading the Democrat House Organ that poses as a new magazine results in my talking back to the pages, not unlike shouting at the television when Meet the Press or Chris Matthews is on. Who needs this shit?

Today, I received my issue of Time on which was a special cover stapeled over the real cover. It was a message to “Our Valued Automatic Renewal Customers.” I frankly had forgotten that I had become a “Valued Automatic Reneal Customer.” The message informed me:

We’ll renew your subscription at the guaranteed saving indicated below, and you will be billed or charged before your next term begins unless you cancel within 2 weeks after receiving this notice.

Thank you for reminding me. Two weeks? How about two farookin’ minutes.

I immediately went to the customer service website and clicked “Cancel my Subscription.” It gave me two alternatives:

1. Cancel my subscription at the end of my current term.

2. Cancel my subscription immediately.

I chose Door Number 2.

It felt great.

Farookin’ cat.

Let me begin by saying that he’s not our cat … sort of.

Very shortly after Junior ceased being a little kitten, but still not a cat, he would show up out of nowhere, block the front door and flip over on his back, legs akimbo, just begging for a tummy scratch. I have since learned from a friend of TJ’s, who is an owner of more than one cat, that this is called the “Cute Trap.”

Let me say at this point that we are not Cat Peeps. We had a dog for many years until he had to be put to sleep about eight years ago (Don’t ask. It was awful.), and while neither of us would harm a cat, we know zip about cats and really didn’t care to learn.

I was better at ignoring the Cute Trap than was Mrs. Parkway, but after only a few of Junior’s performances Mrs. Parkway decided that “The poor thing must be hungry.”

Oy, here we go.

For a few days it was a saucer of milk outside on the deck, which Junior eagerly lapped up. Then one day I opened up one of the cabinets in the kitchen and found an ample supply of gourmet cat food, both wet and dry. WTF?

Given the availability of Five Star Dining, it is not surprising that Junior began showing up for breakfast and dinner served on the deck.

I said, “I really don’t want this damned cat in the house.”

Ha!

Once Junior learned how well the Cute Trap worked, he also learned how to run into the house at warp speed, where he did his “Rub Against Every-Friggin’ Thing, Including Us” trick. Within days, Junior was now taking his breakfast and dinner in the kitchen in the House by the Parkway.

He then began staking out a comfortable chair for long post-prandial naps. After these naps, he would try the “Scratch the Couch” routine. This invariably got him the immediate Bum’s Rush, which didn’t seem to bother him at all, as he would show up for the next meal at the appointed time. His thing is to sit on the railing of the deck, stare into the kitchen window and “Meow.” He is a handsome devil, and I believe he knows it.

One day, as Junior was getting the Post-Couch-Scratching Bum’s Rush out the front door, when one of my neighbor’s grown children said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Jim. Is he bothering you? ’Come here, Corrado!’”

“Is this your cat?” I asked.

“Yes, it is,” she replied.

“What did you say his name was?” I asked.

“Corrado.”

“You mean, like in the Sopranos? Corrado Soprano? Uncle Junior?”

“Yes, that’s his name.”

Note: Prior to this time, he answered (sort of) to the name “Pain in the Ass” or “Douchebag,” but from that moment on, he became “Junior.”

The problem with this is that two of the indicia of ownership of personal property (and, alas, cats, like dogs, are personal property – a special kind of personal property, but personal property nonetheless) are the exercise dominion and control over the property by the owners. My neighbors, nice folks though they may be, exercise neither. Claiming ownership of something without exercising dominion and control over it is not unlike claiming ownership of a distant star.

So, that’s why I say that Junior is not our cat … sort of, because, while we don’t own him, he regularly takes his meals and periodic snoozes here. I have heard people say that no one owns cats, but rather cats own people. I’m beginning to get it now.

To this day, Junior has not spent the night in the House by the Parkway, but as the summer is coming to an end, and as I think about the oncoming single digit temperatures and snow drifts several feet deep, I have a feeling that, even though we don’t “own” Junior, he will show up outside the window freezing his stindeens off, and I will hear, “We can’t leave him out there.”

In short, I have a feeling that a litter box (blechhhh) is in my future, and I’m not thrilled.

Having said that, this week, for forty-eight hours or so, Junior didn’t show up. I began to think, “Did the sorry ass get himself run over? Maybe his ‘owners’ gave him away? Where is he?” When I would come home from work, I’d ask, “Any sign of Junior?”

The answer was, “No.”

Last night I decided that if he didn’t show up for another day, I was going to ask my neighbors if they had given him away.

I realized that I missed his sorry, aloof, come-around-when-he-feels-like-it ass.

When I came home from work tonight, I saw Junior’s bowl in the kitchen, and asked (happier than I care to admit), “Did Junior surface?”

“Yep, after you left for work, he came for breakfast,” and while we were outside having a pre-dinner cocktail, ol’ Junior showed up for dinner.

Farookin’ cat.

That’s right. All will soon be well. The problems that exist in the Middle East, for which no one has come up with a foolproof solution, will all be sorted out, or, at a minimum, they will all be explained with absolute objectivity.

You see, Katie Couric will be going to Iraq and Syria. The country will be fine. Maybe she will even write her own stuff!

My very favorite Katie Couric Moment occurred early in 2004 on the Today Show. Time Magazine had just named “The American Soldier” as Person of the Year (See magazine cover above).

The Today Show audience was primed for Ms. Couric’s interview with the two gentlemen who were responsible for the cover story. The audience did not know that Ms. Couric was laying in wait, ready to spring.

Immediately after introducing the two men, Ms. Couric angrily confronted them with, “WHY ARE THERE NO WOMEN ON THE COVER?”

The two men looked at each other, then looked at Ms. Couric and said, “The soldier in the front IS A WOMAN!” (Her name is Marquette Whiteside** Spc. Billie Grimes. See also here.)

The “Six P’s” come to mind: Prior Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance.

I can only imagine the bloody flailing of her staff that took place after the broadcast.

Katie should stick to “perky.”

** Thanks to Jerry for the correction (see comments). The Six P’s strike again. Maybe I could get a gig with Katie Couric.

I worked later than expected, and I’m too tired to write what I sort of had in mind. That said, I am not sufficiently tired to say (and to do so with some woids stolen from the Late, Great Rob Smith), Whoever released this beast into a Westfield, New Jersey pond ought to be dragged off and shot.

Don’t give me any of that “Yo, Jimbo, it’s just a baaaaaaaaby, and it wouldn’t have lived through the winter” crap. Remember, little ones have a habit of becoming big ones, and this is one of a species known for surviving just fine, thank you, since pre-farookin’-historic times.

Like I said, da poipetrator ought to dragged off and shot and the baaaaaaaaby ought to be shipped off to Florida, where they have a strange affection for these loathsome creatures.

I call this one ………….

MY DECK

Since I have learned to take pictures with Mr. Cell Phone (a bit of very comical trial and error), I have been taking pictures of goofy shit. Then it occurred to me, Yo, Jimbo, lots of people think goofy shit is art. Maybe you’re a farookin’ arteest?

Hell, last time I thought I was an arteest, I flung a bunch of paint all over a queen size bedsheet, you know – just like Jackson Pollock. Problem was, everyone said that it looked like a drop cloth (shhhhhh).

There may be something to this photography thing, though. I’m thinking about buying a fancy schmancy digital camera with lots of bigass lenses so I would need one of those really cool carrying around cases and then quitting my day gig to go around with my fancy schmancy camera and my cool-as-a-moose carrying case taking pictures of goofy shit and making zillions of dollars.

Then again, maybe I ought to just take some pictures of drop cloths and keep my day gig.

Permit me a post that may be of interest to only a very few Peeps.

It’s official. Yesterday, my friend and bodyguard Ken and I beat our two Usual Suspect Rivals (Jeff – da Chef of da Future and Captain Arthur) at horseshoes, making us the Season Champions yet again. Try as they might, these two dewemplins have never been able to come out on top by the end of the season, which runs from Memorial Day through Labor Day.

This year, the season was marked many fewer matches than before, because da Chef of da Future had somehow injured his shoulder (or so he says). The season also ended a week early, as neither of the Losers will be around next week for yet another beating.

Predictably, they did their usual grousing, replete with claims, such as “Da practice throws shoulda counted!” No surprise there: Jeff had thrown a ringer for one of the two practice throws per player. Boo-hoo. Tooooo bad, sooooo sad.

I suppose they can take some solace in know that there’s always next year, but they’ve been saying that for years now. BWHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Afterwards, as the merciless gloating and grousing continued over post-game cocktails, including a few chocolate vodkas to cap off the night, (there were also pre-game and during-game cocktails), Ken said, “You ought to blog this.”

Before I could respond that I hadn’t planned on blogging it, because I didn’t think that anyone outside our immediate circle would be interested in reading it, the two Knuckleheads started right in, “Yeah, go ahead, and we’ll write comments about how fulla shit you are and how WE wuz robbed and WE really are the season champs … blah blah blah.”

I explained that, as Master of my Little Blogiverse, I can disable comments.

“Yeah, go ahead, and we’ll comment in other places. We’ll leave comments all over da place telling the troot about youse fulla shit guys!”

What I didn’t tell Da Losers is that, as Master of my Little Blogiverse, I can EDIT their fulla shit comments in such a way that might surprise them.

Consider yourselves warned, sissy boys.

So now it seems that my cyber-pal Hoosierboy has followed the lead of the Wiseass Jooette and is taking shots at the Garden State, including our beaches.

OK, let’s toowalk beaches.

Here is Brooklyn’s “Premier” Beach, Coney Island, in its heyday. Be watchful for floaters coming from Sheepshead Bay.

Here is a more recent photo of Brooklyn’s Pearl by the Sea.

So much for Brooklyn.

On to Indiana.

Welcome to Indiana.

Here’s what passes for a beach in Indiana.

Truthfully, the closest Indiana Peeps ever get to salt water is the Epsom variety in which they soak after spending a fun-filled day shoveling shit out of the barn.

In Jersey, we have something like 120 miles of beaches. Here is a sampling.

And, we don’t pump our own gas.

A bit shy of two weeks ago I posted a couple pictures of the Badass Unit that (it turns out) was the thing that lays asphalt on the street after it has undergone a pavement peeling.

The job was finished a few days later, and, during my regular walk, I took the above picture with Mr. Cell Phone Camera.

Ain’t it purty?

P.S. No, the street is not blue, although it looks that way on my screen.

P.P.S. Can you tell that I have absolutely nothing to actually write about that is even remotely worth reading?

I have a new gadget. I thought I’d share.

One of the side benefits that came along with getting my new computer (Mr. Raptor) and my newfound Geekage was that I could actually take my fancy-schmancy 80 Gig iPod out of the box (It was an October giftie) and begin the process of loading in a gazillion CDs (Mr. Steam-Driven Computer didn’t have the horsepower to do iPod).

Seeing as how I’m afraid to use Mr. iPod while walking in the morning (I have to be alert for the sounds of killer cars), I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. I figure that driving with the “ear buds” (God, I’m so farookin’ hip now) stuck in my ears might well turn the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car into a Killer Car, which would be a bad thing.

It occurred to me that it would be really neat to have one of those docking things, particularly one that I would be able to take outside on the deck. I could also use it in the rooms where the bigass stereo isn’t.

I decided on this unit. There were lots to choose from, but the thing that caught my eye about this one was that it was heavy (approximately 14 pounds). To me, after having spent decades lugging bigass sound system speakers around, I’ve come to learn that real speakers = heavy.

My review of the gadget is quite simple. I like it a lot. I am more than a bit of a pain in the ass when it comes to fidelity, and I know that this widget can never sound like a serious sound system, but given its size, weight, portability and ease of operation, this one is a winner. It has two controls on the box – a plus and a minus, which serve as the volume control. There is also a teensy weensy remote that allows you to fool with more of its functions.

In sum, if you want something that sounds good and is a piece of cake for a techno-doofus, I highly recommend it.

I had a couple things I wanted to write about, neither of which would have won a Pulitzer Prize, but they wouldn’t have stunk, at least I think so. But, the truth is that I have been stoically dealing with an invasion of super microbial invaders into my digestive tract. It is nowhere as nasty or as colorful as V-Man’s encounter with the same or similar organisms. Still, it has been annoying enough. I thought I would share:

Colon: Yo, Jimbo. This is your colon speaking. I think you should listen up.

Me: Colon? Jesus, I have a talking colon?

Colon: Yeah, Asshole. I don’t talk often, but when I do, you’ll damned well know it, and you damned well better pay attention.

Me: OK, I have noticed. Now you have my attention. What’s up?

Colon: Yo, remember the other night when I was doing the Pony in your gut (Boogedy, boogedy, boogedy shoop), which sent your sorry ass to bed at 8:30 at night? EIGHT GODDAMNED THIRTY!

Me: Oh, do I ever. I slept for 11 goddamned hours, except for the bathroom breaks. It was pretty awful, turning over and over trying to deal with your antics.

Colon: I’m glad you remember, because I think you’re being a little cocky right about now.

Me: Waddya mean? I’m feeling pretty good now. Almost feisty.

Colon: Don’t screw around with me. Remember those “twinges” I sent your way today?

Me: Yeah, I do, but I figured it was your way of saying good-bye.

Colon: Good-bye my ass. It was a reminder that I am still around and still capable of kicking ass and taking names.

Me: OK, so what’s the deal here?

Colon Just remember who is da boss around here, and maybe you should consider stepping away from the Gottdamned computer until I say it’s OK. Any questions?

Me: Is there anything I can do to convince you to give me a break? You need a will? An Advanced Health Directive? A contract? What?

Colon: Don’t give me any of that lawyer shit. Colons don’t need lawyers. Just do what I say.

Sorry, folks. Looks like I’ll be stepping away from the computer this evening.