Blind Date

Welcome to the Cat Show

At first, the Cat Fanciers’ Association cat show appeared as odd and peculiar as I’d expected. I walked through the temple-like archway of the El Zaribah Shriner Auditorium in Phoenix, Arizona, and every stereotype one might have about a cat show and its participants came to pass… plus a few more. The first thing I saw was a girl who’d wedged herself into a cage with a large, sleeping Tabby. After walking through the gallery of Shriner Imperial Moolahs looking as serious as one can wearing a fez, I entered a crowded theatre of cat ladies in pumpkin sweatshirts and kitty ear headbands, men in feline themed T-shirts, and venders selling cat plates, cat clothing, cat jewelry, cat mats… and romance paperbacks (three for five dollars).

The cats waited in a miniature tent city lining rows of tables - their enclosures were decorated with orange ribbons, black ribbons, cutout pumpkins (this was the Official Halloween show!) and bumper stickers that read Friends Don’t Let Friends Get A Dog or Cats Never Lie About Love. Next to the tents, some of them intricately designed with multiple, carpeted levels for feline lounging, were stations cluttered with tweezers, combs, and freeze dried chicken treats. One owner hunched over a kitten with an iron grip on its head, pulling back its jowls as he squeezed drops into its wide eyes. Another proud exhibitor brushed her kitten while eating a makeshift sloppy joe made with loose meat and two Danishes, ingredients she’d bought from the snack stand that also featured a full bar.

Looking into their tents, I was surprised by what peered back at me. I couldn’t imagine a regal Abyssinian setting its sharp, antelope-like head on my lap as I watch television. I no longer think of Persians as simply a hairier version of normal cats. With their large, round eyes where their cheeks should be, the Persians managed to look both dormant and distressed. These were not your normal house cats. As if there were any doubt, house cats were here, but for a competition that lumped all of them together to be judged, “without regard to sex, age, coat length or color.” One cat is chosen for its “uniqueness,” but as long as they seem healthy, every household cat receives a merit award.

The stately show cats, however, are judged multiple times according to breed standards and are awarded a variety of points, plaques, and colored ribbons. The elaborate scoring system is often confusing for spectators. Judges present their awards independently of each other, and are peculiar in their own right. One pink-tied and bespectacled gentleman sported a muffin-top hairpiece as impressive as any feline mane in the show. He was one of the many judges who evaluate every cat, from testing out its ability to follow the path of a flittering cat toy to lifting up its tail and examining the anus. In order to judge at a CFA show one must participate in a training program and pass a breed standard exam, as well as have ten years of breeding experience. I suppose they should also like cats.

Throughout the day, participants listened for their cat to be called to one of six judging rings. This takes hours, as the cats must circulate through every one of the rings; so many conversations stopped mid-sentence as people froze and tilted their heads to hear the announcer who called numbers monotonously from his seat on stage. He sat above a table of raffle cups with prizes like cat bibs, scratching ramps, and a ten minute consultation with a cat behaviorist, the “infamous” author of My Litter Box was Dirty so I Left a Present in Your Shoe, (whose name, of course, you must already know).

Cat shows, like badminton tournaments or even baseball, aren’t likely to garner a large television audience. "I know the argument is that there's more action at a dog show," says Pam DelaBar, vice president of the Cat Fanciers' Association. "Well, they call it action. All you're really seeing are dogs running in a circle around a ring. I know people would watch [a cat show]; these cats are living art, works of beauty that purr."

I did see some pretty cats, but I never even heard a meow. I had read about an agility competition but didn’t see any sign of an obstacle course. The cats were not the liveliest crowd anyway. In fact, they were all very docile, which was a bit anti-climactic. One unmet expectation was that there would be a lot of scratching and cats who’d squirmed free of their owners scampering about the showroom, perhaps even criss-crossing in the rafters above. The only act of insubordination seemed to be sleeping in their own litter, as opposed to just sleeping, which the majority of these pets were doing. They sleep until the judge pulls them out of their cage and puts them into another cage along the show ring, where they fall asleep again.

“The moment every cat breeder lives for is that moment of exhilaration when your cat is held aloft and proclaimed "Best Cat in Show!” according to the CFA website. I wondered, were ribbons and points really motivation enough to justify buying a thousand dollar cat, driving from state to state, and paying entrance, grooming, and cage fees for a long day at a show like this one? I wanted to talk to the man wearing shorts that revealed legs covered in scratches (how far up did they go?!), but he was too focused on herding from one ring to the next, so I spoke with the owner of an Abyssinian contestant named Jazzpur.

Joni recently joined the cat show circuit because she felt something was missing in her life, and I got the feeling from several of her tangents, because she has grown tired of her husband. Growing up, she would accompany her mother to dog shows from California to the Midwest, so she was already familiar with showing animals. She says it’s the people she meets at the CFA shows that keep her coming back. “I really liked the community. The people are really cool,” Joni said. By the end of our conversation, I had to cross out the phrase “Everyone’s Crazy :(”, which I had scribbled into my notes earlier. Our discussion was cut short when Jazzpur’s number was announced.

After talking to Joni, I realized that as foreign as the cat show had seemed to me at first, it was just another community built on shared interests, no more eccentric than the fraternity of Shriners sharing their auditorium today. No different, in essence, from any other like-minded hobbyist gathering, from Trekkie conventions to poetry readings to Civil War Reenactments. But when I got home and went over my notes and photographs, I realized I was right the first time. These people are freaks.

Written by Sara & Nathan

Little Icecube News Drinks: The Bloody Nathan

1/3 Part Club Soda
1/3 Part Lingonberry Concentrate (available from IKEA)
1/3 Part Vodka
Add Crushed Ice

Most of the time, when I tell people about my signature drink and basketball nickname, The Dirty Nathan, the look of disgust on their face escalates until I am done, and then they begin to ask how I could drink something so disgusting. That's usually when I tell them about my alternative signature drink and nickname in college I got from an incident in the dorm bathroom... that usually shuts them up.

Little Cube Reviews: The Grand Fuji Buffet

I recently went to the grand opening of an all-you-can-eat sushi and Chinese buffet named Fuji. My definition of a good buffet is one where you can make it all the way home without stopping at a bathroom somewhere. I still have not found a good buffet in this town.

Gaines-fully empowered!

<-- Gaines, yesterday at my house

I apologize to my readers for not updating my Chris Gaines blog for the last two days. I’ve received over ten thousand emails and though I admit I am still sorting through them, I get the point: you needs your Chris Gaines news!

Chris Gaines has no formal tour planned for Spring 2008. There have been a few sporadic reports of a gig or two in Brisbane, but nothing has been verified – and that’s just the way Chris likes it.

<-- Me (left), giving those Fonzie hands I'm so famous for

Here’s something to chew on. Compare the lives of James Dean and Chris Gaines. Uncanny, huh? Both geniuses. Both of their work has changed the world forever in a good way.

I think that what Chris Gaines has done for music is the same thing that Louie Pastor has done for pasteurization. Chew on that.

On previous message boards we discussed Gaines as a reluctant sex symbol. All of that may change soon if internet reports out of the Philippines prove to be true. He’s slated to pose nude in one of their local newspapers. Full-frontal insanity has been reported. If anyone hears any advance news on this subject, drop me an e-bomb.

Gaines will begin endorsing a sports drink in North Korea this December. The name of the drink translates roughly to Mad Energy Now! No word on if this drink will become available in the States.

Not a Prediction… A Recap From the Future

The 3^rd game between the Suns and Spurs in their 2007 playoff series happens about 2 hours from now. It is the first game since Amare Stoudemire called out the Spurs as a “bunch of dirty bitches”. What will happen tonight is inevitable. Stoudemire will make about 20 shots, kissing each one off the backboard. As we know from reading about Tim Duncan, this the coolest shot ever. Amare will follow each one by kissing somewhere on his arm- bicep, shoulder, finger, etc. The San Antonio crowd will boo because they think this is “whining”.

The Spurs will manage to keep it close because Michael Finley goes off for a bunch of 3-pointers. This is OK as he is still somewhat cool for calling current teammate Bruce Bowen “a dirty piece of fuck” when he was still with the Mavericks. Of course, just as Nash nails a three-pointer to tie the game late, Bowen will undercut him and break his ankle. As Bowen is thrown out, the crowd will boo because they think this is “just good defense”.

Eventually, the Suns will win on another backboard shot by Stoudemire at the end of overtime – a dunk! No one has ever seen or even envisioned what a dunk off the backboard looks like and it just shows what an unselfish player Amare is. Most players would have saved the first new dunk invented in 25 years for the All-Star dunk contest.

Nash comes back to play the next 2 games on a broken ankle averaging 50-20-10 (points – assists – blocks) and sending the Spurs home. Also, the NBA governing board of directors strips Dirk Nowitzki of his MVP trophy on the basis of “retardedness” and gives it to little Steve Nash and on the basis of “awesomeness.”

A Tom Chambers Documentary?!

From a piece by David Sirota at Common Dreams...

Bill Moyers' PBS special last night on the media's complicity in
pushing America to war was so powerfully upsetting that I am forced to
resort to using mid-1990s NBA metaphors to describe it, if only
because describing it without a metaphoric buffer is just too
depressing. This production was the documentary equivalent of Tom
Chambers famously jumping over a screaming Mark Jackson and hammering
down one of the greatest, most in-your-face slam dunks in history. To
call the media's complicity in the Iraq War a conspiracy is an insult
to conspiracies, because it wasn't hidden - as Moyers shows, it was
all out there for everyone to see. The problem was, Beltway reporters
didn't want to see it. As New York Times White House correspondent
Elisabeth Bumiller famously admitted, in the lead up to war most
self-respecting Washington journalists who wanted to stay on the White
House Christmas card list refused to ask tough questions because "no
one wanted to get into an argument with the president."

Read the rest here...

Little Cube News Radio

The player is just to your right... left-wing, progressive talk... broadcasting the revolution... but mostly old songs...

Goodbye, Newport...

Sure it may have seemed like the worst series finale ever. What other show could take questions already answered episodes ago that we never cared about anyway (Will Julie marry Bullit? Will Summer join Greenpeace? Does Ryan love Taylor?) and then somehow flash forward 6 months where those same questions all had to be answered again? Yes, it was ridiculous, but how many finales have Kevin Sorbo, of Hercules fame, literally running around all over the place (besides maybe the Hercules finale)? I rest my case.

Besides, the final montage of past events managed to sum up the experience of growing up for all of us, whether we lived in the O.C. or not. I mean, things never turn out exactly the way you planned. Still, like Mr. Cohen says, “Traffic's traffic, you go where life takes you” and growing up happens in a heartbeat. One day you're in diapers, the next you're gone, but the memories of childhood stay with you for the long haul. You remember a time a place, a particular Fourth of July, the things that happened in a decade of war and change. You remember a house like a lot of houses, a yard like a lot of yards, on a street like a lot of other streets. You remember how hard it was growing up among people and places you loved. Most of all, you remember how hard it was to leave. And the thing is, after all these years you still look back in wonder…

The Zombies and Godzilla

By a small friend of mine:

The ferocious Godzilla lives in a haunted house. Zombies found him watching TV and eating people for dinner. The zombies were wearing torn up black shirts and red shoes.

Godzilla looked through the backyard where the zombies were. First, Godzilla is fighting the zombies to death and Godzilla is looking where the zombies are in the backyard. The zombies and Godzilla are using punching skills to fight. They're in the backyard to see who takes over the mansion.

They are using knives to fight each other in the backyard. Godzilla has won the fight against the zombies. Godzilla is laughing saying, "Ha-ha!”

The zombies are looking where Godzilla is in the backyard. Next, Godzilla is eating all the tiny people for dinner. The zombies are thinking about the plan they’re going to get Godzilla.

Godzilla is looking for where the zombies are. Godzilla has changed his mind that he can tell the zombies something. Godzilla tells the zombies about the friendship they agreed on.

They sit down in the mansion for dinner. They had a delicious steak together. They should get back together in the mansion and call the house a big happy family.

The Traveling Underpants

Our new non-profit sister site www.thetravelingunderpants.com

Missed Connection

Hi.

You were standing in front of me in the Subway at Miller and Indian School. The only reason I noticed is because you were wearing a black tube top which revealed an ample and well-received chest. Perhaps you noticed me pretending not to stare at it? The only reason I mention it now is because you eventually smiled at me, which I’m fairly certain meant you were open to a relationship, even if it was just a brief, unplanned one shortly after your combo lunch deal.

I think you initially smiled because the sandwich maker refused to give me a foot-long steak with cold meat because “it was against store policy” and he “couldn’t let me walk out the door with unheated steak”. You wordlessly conveyed the familiar “What a Nazi!” sentiment with nothing but an expression. Of course, I had no idea how to follow up your receptive demeanor, a demeanor which was augmented by the amount of visible tattoos that clearly implied you did not take life so seriously that you were opposed to casual sex in the middle of the day with a stranger. Oh, I just stood there and nodded. I admit… I blew it.

At his point, I understand I don’t deserve a second chance. However, something about the length of your fingernails, absurd glossiness of your lipstick, pierced nose... I don’t really know, but something suggested there may at least be a wealth of pictures of you on the internet somewhere. Maybe you can send me a link and perhaps a free password?

Thou Shalt Covet Your Neighbor

as related by Thomas L. Nordstrom*

My wife, Denise, and I were taking a walk around the greenbelt the other day when we came across a neighbor of ours named Gary. Gary knows my wife from the PTA and from last weekend when they fucked. I should know. I was there. In fact, I videotaped it.
Much has been made of neighborhoods and neighbors, and of the fact that no longer do neighbors know each other. My neighbors and I may not share recipes or sit together on front porches, but we do relate in another way.

It’s funny to think that all of this started when another neighbor of ours named Vince introduced himself at the mailboxes. He gave me a firm handshake that lingered and before I knew it he was rubbing my shoulders. Needless to say I was intrigued and now there isn’t a neighbor on my block that I do not know. And by know, I mean know carnally. And by carnally, I mean that I’ve had sex with all of them. Even stodgy, old Mr. Wellington.

To be honest, I didn’t know what to think about the guy, but now after I had a threeway with him and his wife, we’ve become really good friends. It turns out he’s a big time sports fan like me.

I’m proud to know my neighbors. I think it’s better this way. Our private trysts and sexual escapades have brought us closer together as a community. No longer do I walk head down to the mailbox. Now, I’m fucking the mailperson. Her name is Betty. Nice gal.

*An alias given to protect Jim Patterson, HOA Ombudsman

Silent Hill Street Blues

Comparing any two movies based on video games is kind of like comparing the two great polar metal epics of the late 80’s – Iron Maiden’s “Stranger in a Strange Land” (about a caveman waking up after centuries frozen in a glacier) and Metallica’s “Trapped Under Ice” (about slowly drowning under a sheet of ice). They are both equal, except that the songs are equally awesome, while any two movies based on video games are equally crappy. Silent Hill will do nothing to invalidate this equation. The only thing these types of movies have going for them is that they can try to write their horrible computer effects off as an “homage” to their origins. But as usual, as in this case, they quickly become a reminder of where only source material this lame could possibly come from. Positively, the one place that Silent Hill differentiates itself is that if you think about it for a little while (not recommended), it almost makes sense. Most people who rent this are probably just looking to get their Bean on (Sean plays the dad) and he’s barely in it, anyway.

Crock Rockin’ Beets: Cran-Tard Pork

Let me first thank my friend who got me a crock pot as a housewarming present, along with four plastic freezer mugs that have little footballs on the side (great for Sundays!). While I’m thankful for everyone’s generosity, some would say the pot looks even better when compared to other gifts: a free book on mortgages from someone’s work, someone’s rear-view window ornament, and a DVD someone accidentally bought for themselves without knowing a better, special edition existed. Here’s the recipe for Nathan’s Cran-Tard Pork:

1-16oz Can of Cranberry Sauce
4 Tbs. Dijon Mustard
3 Tbs. Fresh Lemon Juice
3 Tbs. Brown Sugar
3 Pork Tenderloins
1 Lb. Beets

Notice, the beets are optional. I only include them in all my recipes so the clever title of these columns make sense - and the eventual name of the book as well, Crock Rockin’ Beets: 101 Recipes to Improve Your Health with a Crock Pot and Beets. Anyway, take all the ingredients above and mix them with a wooden spoon. When you are done, it should look like three alien slugs from the 1986 movie Night of the Creeps soaking in a vat of fetal liquid.

After ten hours of cooking on low, it should look even worse, but will taste amazing - a marinated, loose-meat heaven.