Dog One: “How many Twitter characters do I get? 140? That’s woof or ruff 35 times. Woof that. It’s cold out here.”
Dog One: “I don’t need a weatherperson to make me look smart. My mouth’s stuffed with snow. I can’t feel my paws. My collar’s frozen to my neck. Fourteen whiskers have broken off. I can woof for myself, thank you very much. It's COLD.”
Dog Two: “That’s 185 characters.”
Dog One: “Woof woof into infinity.”
Dog Two: “But more people will follow you. You want friends, don’t you?”
Dog One: “I AM the friend, brother. I am the friend.”
OK, Harlequin Cat will accept that as an excuse.
Seriously, an evening tornado hit his Fort Worth advertising agency on March 28, 2000, and Roger, who would be diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor two years later, walked in the next day to see his game interrupted.
Really interrupted.
That’s when he reminded one of his alarmed colleagues of the inscription he wrote in the Forbes Scrapbook of Thoughts On The Business of Life book he had given her a couple of years back.
“My own thoughts on the business of life is that it works out best where you care enough about everything, but not too much about anything.”
Cool enough. His chess game was just a chess game.
Kind of.
Seven years after his death, his handwritten words still ring true, especially as marketing and branding experts espouse "innovative game strategies" for 2010.
By Harlequin Cat’s estimate, the hummingbird must have been trapped inside the garage for at least five hours. No telling how it got there, but it did, and after flying frantically from aluminum ladders to rented pegboards, it finally landed on a dusty shelf next to a bottle of SUPERthrive.
For those of you who don’t know, SUPERthrive is touted as the unchallenged “World Champion” vitamin-hormone mix used to plant, grow and revive things. “Science miracles” are in each and every drop, and it promises "EXTRA LIFE" in all-cap letters.
And may I say, SUPERthrive is the best-smelling thing in the whole wide world.
I digress, but only to say that the little bottle must have been a good-luck charm. After commandeering a butterfly net and leaping over cans and boxes, the homeowners finally captured the trembling bird. It was so tired that it allowed itself to be held and misted with – no, not SuperThrive – but with a few tiny droplets of water.
After a minute or two, just when the homeowners had given up hope, the exhausted but fearless hummingbird gathered itself up and speeded away, sunlight flickering off its iridescent feathers, the air currents lifting it to whatever faraway kingdom it came from.
OK, you can go back to your Twittering and Retweets now.
Harlequin Cat has always enjoyed nosing through old postcards tucked inside dark, dusty antique shops. So finding a 1913 card of stenciled grapes just five days before Thanksgiving was a real joy. The verse reads:
And blessings small,
And faithful friends,
- the best of all -
Bring you
A glad Thanksgiving.
Nowhere does it mention a family feast or guest preferences for pumpkin pie over pecan pie or white meat over dark meat.
Instead, it simply expresses appreciation for the little things in life.
Harlequin Cat wishes you and yours a Happy Thanksgiving.
I like chasing ducks just as much as the next cat, but mention foie gras and my claws come out. French for “fatty liver,” foie gras is made by shoving pipes down the throats of male ducks or geese and force-feeding them until their livers swell up to 10 times their normal size.
The birds that survive this agony are then killed and their livers sold as delicacies.
Why am I straying from the focus of this blog?
Because I’m already reading about restaurants serving “untraditional” Thanksgiving Day meals that include foie gras. And because if civility is defined as polite behavior, then exchanging civilities over foie gras should be considered obscene.
Harlequin Cat wonders how to view this VIEW inside a boathouse on Shallowbag Bay.
Does it stand for unwavering conviction?
Unfortunately, and all too often, it depends on the perspective du jour, which today is Fickleness thin and clear, and tomorrow Obstinacy thick and chunky.
But that's just my view. I'm sure you have yours.
Which is exactly what I’m doing right now, my thoughts drifting from skittering snowy plovers to how Wal-Mart is selling beyond the grave.
If you go to Wal-Mart’s website, you’ll see caskets and urns for sale – a move it quietly made just last week. Harlequin Cat doubts the retail chain will ever promote its caskets inside its national sales flyers, so if you want a proper viewing of say, the “Lovely In All Ways” stainless steel casket, you have to visit the site.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Other retailers have stepped outside their traditional boundaries. Winn-Dixie just announced it’s selling health insurance in Florida. And don’t forget that Sears used to sell mail-order houses and motorized buggies.
I’m glad federal law requires funeral homes to accept third-party caskets. I’d just rather be thinking about candy corn and snowy plovers right now.
I knew I needed help when I started eating cornhusks. Organic wheat grass no longer satisfied my cravings and I began devouring anything I thought contained chlorophyll. A dropped piece of lettuce. Greenery from flower arrangements. Even a green vinyl binder – an act I’m particularly ashamed of.
It’s been three hours and 28 minutes since I’ve tasted chlorophyll.
My Sarasota Magazine with the glossy green cover is starting to look more appetizing than ever -- in fact, downright tantalizing.
I need an intervention in the worst way.
For some reason, I think I’ll be getting one.
I just read an ad about a watch. At least I think it was watch. The copy didn’t have the word “watch” anywhere. Instead, it used phrases like a “stunning presence on the wrist,” “an authentic luxury gem” and a “benchmark of quintessential design.”
Oh, need the time? Just a sec while I look at the stunning presence on my wrist.
When 40 women share 40 stories in one new eBook to inspire female entrepreneurs and businesswomen, it’s almost as pleasurable as watching cedar waxwings gather around a birdbath and chirp about the batch of berries they just inhaled.
So you have to go check it out: www.thepersonalityproject.com/wop2/
Forty stories, forty women, one eBook. Don’t ask me to tell you which story is my favorite - there are too many of them.
A dear friend of mine passed away after battling cancer for nine years. She left me with these words:
She also reminded me to look at the sky, to listen to the quiet and to take part in all the dances.
I will, Suzy.
Just as I was tracking a water droplet rolling down a plump Chardonnay grape, I overheard a couple complaining about the corkage fee they had to pay the night before.
Turns out the sommelier at the posh restaurant was annoyed they had brought their own wine. Their first offense: They didn’t call ahead for BYOB permission. Their second: Their bottle was a lot cheaper than anything on the menu. In fact, it was a $40 bottle purchased from a grocery store. No wonder nearby diners looked away.
Because the corkage fee rule is to charge the equivalent of a restaurant’s least expensive offering, the waiter added $75 to the couple’s bill.
I don’t know about you, but I could fill my water dish with a lot of San Pellegrino for $75. Sure, I understand the loss of wine sales can depress a restaurant’s earnings, but that’s flawed thinking, or else why wouldn’t a corkage fee be charged to diners who don’t order wine at all? They’re contributing to the loss of wine sales, too.
A corkage fee also covers wine-glass breakage. I mean, who knows how many wine stems are broken each day, right? Probably hundreds, maybe thousands. I wonder why restaurants aren’t worried about their water glasses. Maybe they should consider a water-pouring fee.
Like I said, I’m just a shelter cat, so I don’t get restaurants being “offended” by patrons who eschew their wines. Owners justify corkage fees by saying their chefs spend months pairing wines with dishes. I didn’t know it was such an arduous task. I asked my owners once if they would do a pairing for me, and they said, “Sure. Here’s your water. Here’s your food. Eat.”
OK, I’ll give it up. I have a few wine corks to bat around the floor anyway.
I can’t wait any longer. I know the first day of fall doesn’t arrive until tomorrow, but I’m celebrating it a day early. Harlequin Cat’s feline affinity for fall foliage began under a sweet gum tree -- lunging at leaves splotched red and yellow but having to settle for Day-Glo oranges instead.
Wonderful, glorious, mysterious fall!
The big retailers are, too – paying homage by adding just one more word: profitable. I can’t blame them. Business has been lousy and I really do hope they have a good fourth quarter.
But do Thanksgiving decorations really have to be put out in August? And I’m already sick of seeing all the Halloween stuff coated with July store dust.
Come to think of it, I could have sworn I heard a ho-ho-ho flying through New York last week. For sure I saw Marley’s ghost.
I don’t feel so bad now celebrating the season a day early. So meet you under the sweet gum tree?
OK, I’ll wait until you pay for your pilgrim salt-and-pepper shakers first.
Civility hit a new low this week when Rep. Joe Wilson, R-S.C., called President Barack Obama a liar during his healthcare address to Congress.
According to the Los Angeles Times, the shout of “You lie!” was a “significant break in decorum.”
Sure, Wilson apologized to the president, who in turn accepted it with the reminder that important issues that matter to the American people can be addressed without name-calling.
But the furor over Wilson’s outburst won’t dissipate anytime soon. Now there’s a push for him to publicly apologize on the same floor where he hurled the insult.
Is Wilson considering it? Hope so. Might be nice for him to consider a few things before speaking next time.
I could use more colorful language, but I'll stop at Neanderthal.
I swung by Capitol Hill this morning and wondered why I had to pick my way around all these crispy, brittle snakeskins. And then I remembered: Today the new federal rule for robo-calls takes effect -- the Federal Trade Commission’s attempt at choking off the telemarketing industry.
Instead of sending out automated phone blasts whenever the mood strikes them, telemarketers will now have to get consumer permission first or else face a fine of up to $16,000.
Unfortunately, the new rule exempts “politicians, banks, telephone carriers and most other charitable organizations.”
Gotta love how politicians always seem to carve out an exemption for themselves. Guess this means I’ll be getting more robo-calls from my robo-congressman, who may or may not know that snakes shed their skin to allow for growth and then usually defecate afterwards.
Your heart’s in the right place, FTC. But all robo-callers need to provide an opt-out system, especially politicians and banks. Remember what we were taught in science class? A snake’s new skin has the same patterns and colors as the old one.
Agitated, she waved a crinkled declaration from her neighborhood association supporting her contention. It read: “We cannot and do not accept shades in the Pepto-Bismol color palette. Doing so causes nausea, indigestion and diarrhea. Be warned that you will be fined and required to repaint your house in an approved shade at your own expense. Failure to do so will result in legal action, including a two-day suspension of restroom privileges at our community swimming pool.”
The declaration was printed on a glorious shade of Buff Me Beige.
I thought it’d be helpful if I showed her some photos from my St. Thomas trip. “See?” I said. “Compared to the brilliant colors in St. Thomas, your neighbor’s color transgressions are really nothing to complain about. What’s the deal?”
I couldn’t expect my friend to understand. She was, after all, paying substantial quarterly association dues for something very precious to her: convention.
I know she’ll never visit St. Thomas.
She’ll never know a true sapphire blue.
Tara and I are still talking about the Red Fire Farm Festival held in Granby two days ago. Tara did everything she wanted to do except run in the Tomato Trot. The owners said dogs couldn’t enter, but to make up for it, they fixed her up a nice plate of whole heirloom tomatoes and she chomped on them like apples. What a mess, but she was one happy dog.
I wonder who comes up with all these names. Have you ever gone in a grocery store and asked the produce manager for an Anna Banana Russian? I wonder what you’d get.
We never did meet Aunt Ruby or Faribo Golden Heart, but we did see the Gogosharies, Marglobes and Scarlet Toppers.
There’s something about a tomato festival that always seems to make humans cheery. Glad we went.
JetBlue’s “All You Can Jet” promotion almost makes me want to trade my astral flights for an Airbus320.
Since announcing its $599 “buffet-style” flying pass just a week ago, the airline with the tagline, “Happy Jetting,” has sold out of passes.
But marketing buzz hasn’t lost an inch of altitude. In fact, it’s gained a few thousand feet. A company spokesman attributes the promotion’s success to social media, namely Twitter.
As I could have predicted, the chicken-little industry experts are already chirping and posturing, asking if this hugely creative idea will really help JetBlue.
C’mon, chicken littles. JetBlue wanted to fill seats during a slow period and build some buzz. It’s a chance for them to win new customers, to show how fun and different they are. As long as they uphold their customer-service side of the deal, future promotions and profitability look promising.
Socializing a truly creative idea is such a breath of fresh air, isn’t it?
OK, I’m excited. Johnsonville, one of my most favorite companies in the whole wide world, launched its “Create Your Own Ville" contest on May 3, welcoming entries through July 31.
I thought it was the coolest idea. So on May 11, I entered myself in the Grillmeister category under the name “Anticipationville.”
So Johnsonville, what’s the deal? Here it is August 18, and the contest deadline was July 31. Couldn’t you do just a quick post and say, “Thanks to you, our brand awareness has skyrocketed but could you please be patient until we announce the winner?”
Oh, my. I’m sorry. Really sorry. I didn’t know I had to click on “Our Blog” over to the right of your contest’s homepage to see that winners would be announced on or about August 10.
I’m glad I’m curious by nature, or I would have missed it. Hope I win an Igloo.
That would be cool. You said around August 10th?
Today was hot enough to melt road stripes into mustard. I was thinking how awful it’d be for a car to break down in this heat, when sure enough, it happened. A dusty black sedan was stalled at a four-way intersection with no service station in sight.
And it was lunch hour.
Meanwhile, the traffic light turned from red to green to red. Twice.
For one group of passengers stuck at the light, the wait was unbearable. They were, after all, headed to the lake with two canoes strapped to their SUV, and they still needed to stop and get ice for their beer coolers. Two men, two women. Fit enough to be lifeguards.
That’s when their impatient driver had an epiphany. He knew just how to make the sweating businessman move faster. No, it wasn’t getting out to help. Or even offering to call for help.
He did what any enlightened jerk would do. He blasted his horn. Which inspired other drivers to join in, making for one grand, group-jerk hallelujah moment.
The traffic light turned from red to green to red for the third time.
I don’t know about you, but pushing a 4,000-pound car by yourself in just three light changes seems pretty reasonable to me.
Even heroic.
Too bad the convenience store where Horn Guy planned to buy his ice had shut down months ago. The owner couldn’t get any lender help.
Six days ago, a kind and noble friend of mine left her home on earth to join me on an astral flight. Her name is Tara. We are having a grand time, although I know her parents miss her terribly.
Tara was 16 when she said her goodbyes, but up here she feels like a puppy again. Since it’s her first astral flight ever, I thought we’d take some leisurely time to fly up to Massachusetts for the Red Fire Farm Tomato Festival on August 22. Not only will they have a 5K Tomato Trot field race (which Tara already says she wants to enter), but they’ll also have an incredible selection of award-winning tomatoes for everyone to taste.
Tara’s always loved tomatoes, especially if they're award-winning.
Like she's doing right now.
I’m in cream-of-coconut heaven.
A couple nearby must be celebrating something special because orchids grace their table and white corkscrew ribbons are strewn everywhere. A sunburned waiter is lighting ivory candles. As always, my curiosity gets the best of me. I listen in.
“Today is our wedding anniversary and we’d love to take home a keepsake to remember the occasion,” the woman whispers to the waiter. “May we purchase this?”
She points to a small breadbasket that looks like plaited dark chocolate. It’s square and tightly woven, island exotic against the white linen tablecloth. The waiter picks it up and disappears.
Harlequin Cat is amazed. I’ve seen so many humans in my travels pick up “souvenirs” from restaurants and just waltz out with them.
This woman has offered to pay.
The waiter returns with a Tommy Bahama signature bag and places it on the table. Inside, the breadbasket, nestled in white tissue paper. ”Our gift,” he says.
So glad I stopped at Tommy’s. Life is good today.
This morning I made a smooth, picture-perfect astral landing on Wall Street and watched as preoccupied bankers scurried to their offices.
They did not have human heads.
Instead, they had squirrel heads that actually looked quite natural with their dark gray suits. I didn’t see any bushy tails, though. Guess they must have tucked those away somewhere.
Don’t ask me why I wasn’t shocked. Knowing that Wall Street’s biggest banks have “set aside” hundreds of billions of dollars for bonus pools despite receiving billions in taxpayer bailout money – well, let’s just say Harlequin Cat found the squirrel heads to be unremarkable.
After all, squirrels save more food than they really need.
They scatter-hoard just in case their first stash is found.
And they’re opportunists. If they see a bird feeder, they go nuts because they can eat until they’re full without touching their stockpiled supplies.
Wow. All those bird feeders -- the equivalent of high-frequency trading. No wonder the squirrel humans looked so happy today.
I didn’t mention squirrels have a brain the size of a walnut.
I’m not even going there.
Before leaving the carnival, I stopped by to see Spider Girl. She was either quiescent or hadn’t put her makeup on yet because the tent flaps were pulled shut.
I watched as a disappointed boy stared up at her monster-size face, mesmerized by her penetrating gaze and by – well, the rest of her.
I could hear Elliott weighing his choices.
Rainbow Chaser or Spider Girl?
“Elliott!”
Rainbow Chaser or Spider Girl?
As I flew away, Elliott was sliding down the Rainbow Chaser, creating a memory with a same-day expiration date.
What he’d never forget, though, is the Big What If -- the mysterious, twilight-zoney feel of almost meeting the Spider Girl.
I wonder how the silky threads of missed childhood adventures influence adult civility.
Rainbow Chaser or Spider Girl?
I think I just made a wrong turn. I’m floating over a field watching a carnival wake up and get things ready for the day. At least I’ve found the fish and chips stand, so I’m happy.
And he has his own thoughts on how to "build buzz." He pops a beer.
You know, I just have to think that some humans are awestruck by entrepreneurs. Maybe even intimidated by them.
Just the other day I overheard a human bragging, “I’m having lunch with an entrepreneur today.”
Well, so am I. I smell fish frying. Saturday is National Mustard Day, by the way.
I love seagulls. Their feathers. Their smiles. The way they want to play chase.
Both practice civility up to a point. If you toss a French fry in the air, you can forget about it.
Some things you can’t forget. Forgive, yes. But not forget. As most of us know by now, the recent encounter between Harvard Professor Henry Louis Gates and Sergeant James Crowley sparked national debate over the possibility of racial profiling.
I agree with The New York Times’ take on it: Maybe the real reason things blew up is because neither man got the response and respect he expected from the other.
That’s why I didn't mention in my first paragraph that Gates is black and Crowley is white. Can Harlequin Cat go out on a limb here and say the real issue is about civility?
Yes, I think I can, as long as no one forgets the quick assumptions made that July summer day on the porch of a yellow house in Cambridge -- assumptions made not just by those who were there, but by so many of us watching as well.
A friend convinced me I should be twittering during my astral flights, and I thought: Great idea! My blog centers on human socialization skills, so joining a “free social messaging utility for staying connected in real time “ seemed right up my cat alley.
After all, I’ve always admired that cute little bird Twitter uses. Anything bird gets my feline heart racing. So I took a deep kitty breath and signed up. Truthfully, I was a little nervous. I’m not fond of being a follower unless rodents or anoles are involved. But to have a following? I could get real used to that. I’ve only had two followers in my life, and they both still need extensive training on when to dispense snackies to fit my schedule.
I felt like a giant egret trying to take out a school of baitfish.
Who are all these people? Where did they all come from? Do they all really have something to say? I mean, as soon as I signed up, I had to block nine followers with creepy names. Are people really that lonely? Or that curious? They don’t even know me. But on the upside, I was snatching up Twitterers like a cat at a half-price Brie de Meaux sale. Wall Street Journal, Carly Simon, Tina Fey, President Obama, NPR News - so many enticing choices!
I may have to go on a Twitter diet after this.
This is way too interesting to bail out. It reminds me of passing notes in kittengarten when Mrs. Burmese wasn’t looking, hoping we wouldn’t get caught. And when she did catch us, she’d “block” our messages by wadding them up and throwing them in the litter basket.
Now all we do is push a button. If we want to.
TripAdvisor just came out with the five germiest places in the world and I am so searching for my paw sanitizer. Yes, even though I travel on astral flights, I have to think about germs lurking in the non-physical realm of existence, not just the kind mutating on toilet seats.
I thank my lucky whiskers I haven’t flown to the Furry-Fungus Five:
2. Wall of Gum, Seattle, Washington
3. Oscar Wilde’s Tomb, Paris, France
4. St. Mark’s Square, Venice Italy,
5. Grauman’s Chinese Theater, Hollywood, CA
1. Food buffet lines: Can you say spoon handle?
2. Doorknobs: These should be outlawed, even the antique glass kind.
3. Credit-card swipers with punch buttons: Just think about it. And think about the pen-on-a-string you use to sign your credit-card slip.
4. Airplanes: Nothing worse than feeling (and smelling) warm, exhaled passenger breath on the back of your neck.
5. Malls: I’m sure the children’s petri-dish play areas – aka “kid fun zones” -- are sanitized daily, right?
Sigh. No matter if humans are left- or right-membraned, their socialization skills will always be infectious. Don’t hold your breath thinking things will change.
On second thought, maybe you should.
