I am still… not dead! But Neil is :(

Good news first – new cats!

So, it has been a while since we got more cats up on the oldest feline humor site on the web.  My apologies.  I have wrapped up in the preseason NFL madness and something called “work.”  Please forgive me, but applaud those who have helped caption the small injection of cats that are now available  for you viewing pleasure.

Then there is Spinny Cat!

The new video this month, as seen in the lefthand panel, is my best bud Durin-ji and his cat (not really named Spinny) having some good times on the floor.  The cat was not hurt in any way and apparently digs the whole thing, coming back for MORE at the end!

The Sign of the Whisker

The next sign of the Feline Horrorscope is the Sign of the Whisker.  WOW! Can it be? Yes, it is possible! I have been editing the video footage I have captured for this audio/video extravaganza.  And if you can believe this… the breakdown on this very special sign will be delivered by none other than Dr. Stephen Hawking. W@W!  Because I have not had the chance to get to England recently, our correspondent Vladamir Kotchek will be conducting the interview for us from abroad.  Please stay tuned for this awesome interview… it is truly magical!

Now the bad news.

This last week saw the death of one of our favorite people in the world, Neil Armstrong, also known as “First Man.”  Where to start with this is sort of hard.  I have been an Apollo junkie since I was young.  I know all the stages of flight of the Saturn V rockets, I have read all the books, seen all the movies, and admired the chutzpah of the astronauts to the point that I wanted to be one since I was a child.  Well, I had to settle for the media version of their endeavor.  When Neil passed away, I was reminded immediately of the wonder of spaceflight, something all Sci-Fi geeks explore on many levels.  Yes, I want to be in space, yes, I want to land on Mars or Luna, yes, I want to be Neil Armstrong.  For as humble a man as he was, as stable and stoic as he was, he still had a flair that transcended the mundane job of flight pilot.  The mythos of Neil will remain now, after his death, as ever strong as during his life.  He never admitted to the transcendental experience other lunar astros related to the press, but he was fundamentally changed by stepping on the Tranquility Base.  And in that “small step” he changed the world.  We at MCHY wish him a wonderful final voyage to whatever worlds lay beyond our own, where he can step once again into the unknown and plant a footprint on some unknown landscape.  He won’t be the first on that mission, but hopefully one of the most celebrated.


Up to now, I had seen the Moody Blues probably a dozen times, mostly at The Greek or the Universal Amphitheater, two very SoCal, herb-friendly venues.  The Greek is tucked into the hills behind Griffith Park and has brilliant areas for just disappearing and doing your thang.  I remember once, I was hiking behind the Observatory and ended up at the fenceline of The Greek and there were a bunch of folks just sitting in the bushes on blankets looking down the hill.  What was down the hill, I ask?  Playing at the Greek that night, completely visible to the small crowd assembled was Stanley Clarke and the “best bassists around.”  It was an evening of jazz on the bass guitar.  What a treat! For free… and I got a little herb out of it.  This is the 80s mind you.  I once took the Metro bus (route 150) all the way from the Valley to The Greek to grab last minute tickets for Jefferson Airplane, but ended up (due to a misread by my mind) seeing John Kay & Steppenwolf.  A great concert still, but not as good as dropping a few and experiencing Japanese maestro Kitaro at The Wiltern.  Again, folks, it WAS the 80s.

So, I was no stranger to the Moody Blues.  I have danced and tripped and fallen in love over and over to their timeless tutelage.  I was coming off a very long leg of my road trip and really needed a good old time, maybe to dredge up memories of decades past, who knows.  So I plunked down the $75 for a ticket and then back to the craps table to win my cash back, which I did.  Thanks Silver Legacy for buying me a 12th row (or so) ticket to the Muddy Blahs. The next night arrived without incident or STDs, so a concert was in the cards!

The “concert room” was really just a big… well… room, with about 1000 folding seats arranged in the semblance of “rows”, in which the twelfth was my own. And on the END of the row, no less!  And how nice of them to let me bring my pro-sumer camera in with zoom lens!  I have long since lost the setlist for that show, though I sent it in a email to my new friend, Athena, who was also a fan of the Blues.  But since things between her and I worked out in the most negative way possible, I sort of purged all my emails to/from her and lost the list.  However, it was not much different from the set performed on the Live at the Greek DVD they released sometimes recently.  Except WE at the Silver Legacy did NOT get “The Actor”, one of my favorite songs.  The great pictures I took of the concert, including lots of  new flautist Norda Mullen (happy to say she is my Facebook friend) are all gone.. Gone gone…. far away.  So, the band rocked.  And so did I, back up to my room to sleep and on the road again the next day.

Something about living on the road: IT FUCKING ROCKS.  If you have not done it, you should.  If you have and do not dig it the most, then it is not for you.  And that is cool as three Fonzies.  Not four though.  Even better is driving your house around.  But the Class-C vehicles rattle.  Greatly.  Every bump you hit shakes everything NOT tied/taped/pasted/glued/cemented down.  Which is everything in the cabinets, so you hear as you drive a constant rattle, bang, jiggah jiggah, slam slam, as you traverse the country.  Eventually you get used to it and you start to doze… snore… nod off… and BAM!  You are climbing up a mountain range trying to get into Cali.

A lot of hyperbole, my friends and natural enemies.  But it was bad and we WERE going up a mountain range.  For a big girl, she did okay, but definitely dragged her ass for a few hundred miles.  Doing 30 was a luxury, so we did less.  We made it over the “hills” of the Tahoe National Forest, dodging Truckee best we could (bad memories there) and dropped into Auburn, California.

Now, Aurburn is not far outside of Sactown and that aint’ so far from Orland.  I went to school in Chico (30 mi. east of Orland) and was tempted to pull into town and set fire to the fucking place, but my angel on my shoulder stopped such shenanigans.  Instead I ended up in Mount Shasta City, home of the happiest people in the state of California.  How happy?  So happy, I stayed for a week in that hamlet of hooray and huzzah, enjoying the local crag climbing and tavern crawling.  I even met a woman that told me of her harrowing experience camping out with her kids when she was beset by a bear.  Then she told me, ” I fucking pepper sprayed that bear.”  Those words will forever ring in my ears as life goes on around me without a bear to pepper spray. Now you might be wondering, where is the Athena in all this?

Without going into detail, which will make most humans cringe, I will say the following. as far as email/phone relationships go, or could go, or SHOULD go (I know not the answer), this one was interesting and enticing and had just enough “spark” to make it seem perhaps worth investigating.  This thought sat in the back of my head as I drove the many hundred miles back to the Northwest, to what would be unbeknownst to me the end of my journey.  And yet, the very beginning.

I arrived back in Seattle some six weeks before I left (due to timespace fluctuations in Utah) and was actually had quite a fit of tears.  For some reason, I was really sad sad sad to be back home.  I guess I figured my carefree life was coming to an end or something.  I got back and settled into the house life again, though Althea was parked right outside.  After a bit I realized that a Class-C was just not the way to go.  And I have yet to hear a good argument for one.  A Class -A, I understand: they are huge homes to even retire in, etc.  A Class-B, yeah, small, micro-miniaturized and ultra-compact, good on the gas and driving in general. (But at what cost?)  Travel Trailer, either fifth-wheel or hitch hauled, they are the best my friends.  Just from a practicality perspective.  I can unhitch my trailer and still drive to the store.  In the larger units, you have to unplug everything and go into town.  In Arizona I was able to ride my bike into town and all over, so no biggie, but if you want more stuff than can be fit on a bicycle, you gotta unplug.  Or go once a week to the store.  The realization was upon me:  get rid of the Class-C and buy a truck and a trailer.  I got as far as the truck.

I put an ad on the Craigslist and within a few days sold Althea to a nice man who needed a place to “store mom” while she was staying with them for the summer.  I did not get nearly what I put into her.  This included the purchase price, a big fix on her genie, some internal electrics to get the genie started from the cab, some leaks in the tank valves, and some other shit I cannot remember.  Interestingly, before I sold her, but was thinking about it, I had a knock at my door one day.  I opened the door to find some young men, in their twenties, asking if the rig was for sale.  I told them I would be right out, strapped up the Glock and went out to see what they really wanted.  Apparently, their sister was coming in from Tehran (yes, they were Iranian) and they wanted to park her Islamic ass in the trailer while she was here and my girl Althea was just the place for her to live (presumably while they were dealing coke out of their mom’s basement).  I said I was asking at least eight large for her at which point they pulled out a wad of Franklins and started telling me the following: “Hey, boss, we are talking cash here. My sister needs to stay in this, so we want to deal.” Their idea of “deal” was a thousand bucks maybe for a fully functional Class-C RV.  I rebuffed their paltry offer and then a few more hundos came out and they mentioned “cash” again, as if I was set up to take credit cards. I was not. After a lot of bullshit “negotiating” I said I was not interested, so they gave me their phone number and left.  I immediately set up my bed in the RV and slept there that night in case I was to be ripped off of the whole rig in the middle of the night.  Paranoid?  Prejudiced?  Whatever, I slept in her that night and the next week I got the money I was asking, not including the fixer-up cash I dumped into her.  But I look at it this way:  I bought her for 8K, lived in her for a few months, so when I sold her, the money I “lost” was like rent money.  I got my 8K back.  Loved that RV.  I always will.

More to come…

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