A Message From Kona

Well, it seems our new cat is smarter than we dreamed. The other day we were both out for the day and when we came home, lo and behold, Kona had figured out how to type a message to his original family in Hoboken and send it via email! And all the time we thought he was just sitting there, staring into space. Turns out he was studying us. Hmmm... I wonder what else he has up his, er, sleeve.

In any event, I'm sure you've always wondered what your pets are thinking, so here's a sample: A Message from Kona:

Dear tom and Becky and ThomaS—

Well my New Humans are a Way for a while and They left their computer on so im sending you a quick Message because I know they have been sending You updates about me and I wanted to add my 2 cents. Im still getting the hang of this thing and tYping with 2 paws isn’t easy so I hope U unnderstand. Plus ive been watching how they send the email so here goes.  

I cant believ its been too weeks already and I feel pretty at Home here.  They are nice humans and the one guy Kris –is that right?-- hes the real Cat Person I can tell he had another cats before Me since I can smell at least one other cat in the furniture and the Rugs, which are very nice BTW-- they have a bunch of oriental rugs that are wool which I like... the wall 2 wall I don’t like so much but that’s just Me

Anyway They are Both verry nice to me once I decided  to move in. the first couple of nites i wasn’t so sure but They left me to roam around and sniff and explore and find places to curlup and all and i kept my disdance at first because who knows what kinds of humans these are when They aren’t with you acting all nice and sweet. But it turns out They really are nice and sweet and don’t mind when I curl up on their laps when Theyre on the couch watching TV or at this Computer

They have fish too – a big aquarium in the living room, and the tall one whos called fred he has a small aquarium in the den right near this computer and i can watch the little fish swimming around which looks boring too me. They cant curlup on someones lap or jump up on the shelves and give the humans a hart attack.

They have two flights of steps up to this apartment and i like running up and down them, its very good exercise and once in a awile They let me out so I can explore the hallway but not enuff to suit me so i have been trying to open the front dor but i can’t get a good enuff grip on the door nob. but I keep trying because the tall one Fred, he thinks it’s hilarious when i try and open the door. He also laughs when i fall over with my legs in the air so he can rub my tummy and scratch my chin. And when I sit in the windowsill or curl up on this big wool blanket They have for me he takes pictures and tells me how hansome i am, which is true but it gets a little embarassing

Plus theres a ghost here too. I think I can see him once in a wile, he just stands there looking … well, dead ... but he seems okay. He has a red neck tie and I try and talk to him but he doesn’t answer and the humans fred and Kris don’t know what I’m talking about. So They clap their hands and ask me what im talking about and to be quiet. So what do I do, try and tell them what im talking about or be quiet? It’s kind of a mix message if you ask me.

Last week the tall one Fred brought his brother Robert home from the group home where he lives and I played with him awhile which was nice. Fred took a picture (suprise suprise!) and here it is


Kris has gone to visit his friend Joan and from what I heard when he was on the phone with Her they're going to see some one else called FabberZay (?) who lives in a museum so that means I am alone with the tall one Fred for a couple days. It's fine and we have already taken a couple of naps together.

So I think I hear him coming back from the storr so I’m going to the front door and see if I can sneak out when he opens the door, but hes always too fast for me but its worth a try. And you shuldnt worry about me at all. These new humans are really nice and loving to me and God knows the tall one fred will take all kinds of pictures for you to see. Now I know what angelina and brad feel like!

Love Kona

PS, don’t worry you’ll always be my first famly.  

Kona

We have a cat. A new cat. Well, new to us. His name is Kona and he came to us via Facebook: the Burmese Rescue Group. A family in Hoboken, NJ (Mom, Dad and a little one) were in need of a new home for their champagne male Burmese, Kona. The little boy is allergic and no amount of vacuuming, air purifying, cleaning, separating in different rooms... nothing seemed to help. And now there's another boy on the way and it came down to the children or the cat. No contest.

So Thomas, Kona's original owner for the past 10 years, and the family's companion for the last eight, posted on the Facebook group and Chris responded immediately. Initially we thought we'd go up to Hoboken and meet the family (and, of course, the cat) and see what we all thought of each other. But by the end of the week, the family had decided we were The Ones and told us that if we wanted to, we could take Kona home with us on Saturday.

So north we drove to meet this beautiful family and their amazing pet. He really is much more handsome in person. We visited for a half an hour or so, then put Kona in his traveling carrier; the family also gave us his litter box (a really cool design that doesn't need a scoop! You kind of roll it over on its side and the litter sifts itself into a long, deep tray and you just pull it out and dispose...brilliant!); some Meow Mix and his food and water bowls and we made our way back onto the Jersey Turnpike. (By the way, more on Hoboken later. It's a very cool little city!)

Disoriented and probably a little afraid and angry, Kona talked most of the way home, when he wasn't trying to punch his way out of the carrier. When we got him home, he prowled around, getting the lay of the land. He didn't want much to do with us: the hissing and bared teeth were a pretty good hint. So we kept our distance for a couple of days, until Kona started sidling up to us, sniffing our feet or hands, getting close enough to get a vibe one way or the other. By Monday evening, after work, I was on the floor with him and he was nuzzling my hand, begging to be scratched behind the ears. In the intervening week, he's started to curl up on my lap when I'm watching TV, or at the computer. He really is a love sponge...

The other funny thing is that, like many cats, he loves doors and closets and is often to be found sitting at the apartment door, crying to be let out. And he's smart enough that he's figured out how the doorknob works and what it's for. Periodically there will be this soft thud and scratching on the front door, and I'll look over to see him hanging by his front paws from the doorknob, trying to turn it! It's hilarious and really fascinating.

"What's in this closet? I have to know!"

 During those first few days he naturally spent a good deal of time sniffing the air, or sitting very still, staring straight ahead. I suspect he can still smell our late female Burmese, Mehitabel, in the rugs and the upholstery. He can probably also commune with the spirit we suspect haunts the apartment: a man who once worked in this building when it was still a commercial property. He had a heart attack and, I believe the story goes, fell down the service elevator shaft. Cats are much more finely attuned to that kind of thing. (I, at least, have not had the pleasure...)

He sleeps a lot during the day, and howls a lot during the night when we're trying to sleep. But he is very, very loving and absolutely beautiful, with a silky pale beige coat that's sometimes a little grayish, and the most amazing green-gold eyes.

It's nice having the energy in the apartment again, that unique sense of the presence of a living thing that only pets (particularly cats) can impart. Apart from being awakened at two or three in the morning by what sounds like a very peeved baby crying, I'm glad Kona's here. Of course as Chris insists, Burmese bond to one person for life, so he'll always belong to Thomas of Hoboken. We're caretakers.

Or, as Chris also often says, furniture in the cat apartment of life.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

Although my mother died in November of 2005 -- and it is hard to believe it's been that long -- I thought I'd pay her a little tribute here, since so much of who I am is the result of who she was.

She was born in New Bedford, MA on December 16, 1908, to Severino Pina and Maria Fraga, Portuguese immigrants. But her father returned to Portugal when she was a child, and she was raised by an aunt on a farm on Cape Cod. The aunt spoke no English, but raised her and her two sisters -- Carrie and Eva -- with what I understand from the occasional stories she told about this period of her life, was an iron hand. Her given name was the Portuguese Isaura, derived from the ancient Greek: Isauria was a region in South Asia Minor, in ancient geography, and derives its name from contentious Isaurian tribes, fiercely independent mountain people who only submitted to the Roman Empire around 70 B.C. Which explains a lot.  The nickname for Isaura is Kay, and that's how my father and her friends here knew her.

She was married three times and never mentioned her first two husbands. For good reason, as I later learned. Let's just say they were apparently not nice men. My half sisters from the first marriage never spoke of their father, either. But it's safe to say that she married very young the first time (at 16) to escape the drudgery of that farm, but wound up in a worse situation. Among the family papers I recovered from my parent's house is the divorce decree.


By the time she met my father, she had four children, including the aforementioned half-sisters, and two half-brothers. They met at Camp Edwards on Cape Cod just as World War II was ending and the third time, as they say, was the charm. My father was a kind and generous man who accepted the fact that his bride-to-be had several -- older -- children, and brought them all (except for one brother who stayed behind on Cape Cod, where he still lives) down to the Philadelphia suburbs, where he opened an antique and furniture restoration store in Ardmore, PA. I came along somewhere along the line and there were times when they would have to take me to work, where they bedded me down in one of the drawers of a Chippendale dresser.


Eventually they moved across the river to southern New Jersey where, after some years, they wound up taking over the operation of the Homestead Restaurant in Haddonfield. It had been owned and operated by my father's parents, and when my grandfather (for whom I was named) became too ill to work, my parents stepped in.


It was hard work. I always smile when I hear people who like to cook and entertain talk about how much they'd like to open "a little restaurant somewhere...". My father ran the kitchen (more on him in another post), and Mom ran the dining room, overseeing the staff of waitresses, keeping the books, making the place look nice and greeting the guests. They worked long hours -- 12, 14 hour days -- very often seven days a week. The Homestead became an institution in Haddonfield and when my parents finally had had enough and closed the place, it was a big deal.


All along the way my mother, who could be something of a taskmaster, raised me with a firm hand and instilled in me a serious work ethic (we were expected to do chores at home and help out at the restaurant) and an appreciation of what used to be called "nice things". A year and a half after I was born, my brother Robert was born with Down Syndrome. My parents were told that he probably wouldn't live out his teen years and urged them to put him away somewhere and just wait. Thankfully, Mom and Dad did not take this advice and managed to find places for Robert to live where he could learn and thrive. He's still alive, in a wonderful group home setting not far from where I live now. They didn't give up. And along the way there were other heartaches she had to deal with, which for reasons of privacy I'll not go into in any detail. Suffice to say that my mother had to deal with many of the illnesses and emotional and mental problems many families have to endure, and she suffered a number of losses along the way, including her sister Eva and her son, my older half-brother Jimmy, both to cancer.


She worked hard all her life, even after her retirement from the restaurant. She was active in the local woman's club, The Fortnightly, year after year winning blue ribbons for her flower arrangements and table settings. She cooked up huge, delicious pots of Portuguese soups, rice and lima beans (which sounds simple enough, and the flavor of which I've never been able to duplicate), chicken and rice, and New England clam chowder. The best New England clam chowder I've ever eaten, even on Cape Cod. (Well, once or twice some restaurant somewhere comes close, but for the most part what passes for New England clam chowder is basically wallpaper paste with minced rubber bands in it.)


She had a beautiful smile and a lilting laugh, and she loved to laugh. God knows, she deserved to. In 1955 they went to Europe. The pictures from that trip show a stylish, happy woman enjoying herself, laughing and enjoying herself in a way she probably never thought she would.

London, 1955

Every year in late spring, when I was in elementary school, and a few years after, we would drive to Cape Cod, the two of us in the big, black and white Buick. We'd stop in New Bedford overnight to visit her best friend in the world, Alice Mendes, who had been married to a prizefighter. They would stay up into the late hours, talking and laughing like schoolgirls. Occasionally they'd go out to a club where jazz was played. We'd stay on the Cape in boarding houses (this was long before Bed and Breakfasts), usually owned by widows who charged two dollars a night, and visit Mom's relatives. On the drive home, somewhere around southern Connecticut, I would be asked to help steer the car from the passenger seat while my mother deftly removed the girdle most women still wore in those days, one hand on the wheel, her foot still firmly on the accelerator.


Later on there were the dances at the Portuguese social club in Brooklyn, where her two sisters had moved. We would drive up early on a Saturday and land at my Aunt Carrie's apartment on Atlantic Avenue, a walkup, where "the girls" would catch up, my aunt would feed us, and everyone would take a nap. Then, later in afternoon, they'd start dressing -- this was in the days when people still dressed to go out -- and that night we'd go to the club, a few blocks away, also on Atlantic Avenue, down a few steps from street level: it was a long, low room, where there was a small bar, if I remember correctly, and a kitchen where the women would bring the food they'd cooked. There was live music, guitar and fiddle and vocal music from the Cape Verde Islands. And the people would dance. I would dance. Often my father took time off from work to join us and I can still see them: my 6'2 father and my 5'2 mother moving gracefully and happily around the floor. I used to love to watch them dance. It made me happy to see her happy.


These socials would go all night and I can still remember leaving the club, stepping up to the sidewalk and looking down Atlantic Avenue toward Brooklyn City Hall as the sun came up.


She enjoyed good health, pretty much until the last few years of her life when she slowly became crippled with spinal stenosis, eventually bed-bound. My father's health began to decline as well, and they had long since started sleeping in separate rooms. But he took care of her to the end, refusing to send her to a home or a hospice. Many nights she would try to get out of bed, unaided, and would fall. My father would wake up and try to get her back into bed but, too weak to manage it on his own, he would simply put his arms around her and they would sleep sitting up on the floor, until my sister Pat showed up the next morning to help around the house.


I don't know that my mother ever entirely accepted me as a gay man, and she was never shy about sharing her opinions about some of my companions. The one she always liked and asked for was Jim, an ex who lives in Los Angeles. She (and my whole family, for that matter) very much loved Chris, who volunteered many hours of his time to sit with them, even staying over night from time to time, to watch them. She was always interested in my theatrical ambitions, but not-so-secretly always hoped that I'd settle down into some kind of regular job. It took her a long time, I think, to give up on the idea that I might suddenly wake up straight, marry and give her grandchildren.


But as tough as she could be, as much as she demanded of us (the sense of responsibility she instilled in me has taken on a life of its own and I am now what I'd call hyper-responsible), her love for me and all my siblings was never in doubt. I think she's had a hand in many of the recent events in my life, helping to make me a little more secure. I like to think that, wherever she is, she now understands me better and can see what all the sadness and loss and hard work were for. To this day something good will happen and I think "I'll have to tell Mom-- oh, yeah..."


So, Isaura, Happy Mother's Day. I hope I've honored you appropriately (although I'm pretty sure you're not so happy about the girdle story being out there on the Internet). They don't make them like you any more.

Tired Old Queen at the Movies: Suddenly Last Summer

Oh, all right... a little something strange and wonderful for the weekend. If you haven't seen this one, with Elizabeth Taylor and Kate Hepburn, you owe it to yourself. You'll either love it or you'll end up with your jaw on the floor. Or some combination of the two.

And, of course, dear Steve Hayes (Tired Old Queen at the Movies) sells it, really sells it!

Taylor reportedly went through hell to give this performance; and Hepburn is almost, well, seems almost like a very, very good drag queen doing Katharine Hepburn. Judge for yourself, but make a lot of popcorn...

Yoani Sanchez and Generacion Y

How fortunate we are. How blessed and fortunate to be citizens of the USA -- free, as we are, to come and go as we please, work, spend our money (what's left of it after putting gas in the car and food in the fridge), to buy and sell our used cars and houses, to travel -- any number of the myriad things we take for granted every day. Yes, even here where, as one of my favorite quotes has it, "Freedom has ceased to be a birthright; it has come to mean whatever we are still permitted to do."

Yoani Sanchez

But, baby, do we have it good! All it takes is a scroll through a remarkable blog I just discovered via the Human Rights Foundation: Generacion Y, authored by a woman named Yoani Sanchez. 




According to a bio in the Huffington Post, "Yoani Sanchez, a University of Havana graduate in philology, emigrated to Switzerland in 2002, to build a new life for herself and her family. Two years later, she decided to return Cuba, promising herself to live there as a free person. Her blog Generation Y is an expression of this promise. Yoani calls her blog ‘an exercise in cowardice’ that allows her to say what is forbidden in the public square. It reaches readers around the world in over twenty languages. Yoani's new book in English, Havana Real, is now available for pre-order here.

"In November 2009, U.S. President Barack Obama, wrote that her blog "provides the world a unique window into the realities of daily life in Cuba" and applauded her efforts to "empower fellow Cubans to express themselves through the use of technology." Time magazine listed her as one of the world's 100 most influential people in 2008, stating that "under the nose of a regime that has never tolerated dissent, Sánchez has practiced what paper-bound journalists in her country cannot: freedom of speech." (There's more here.) 

Yoani's brief essays, no more than a few paragraphs each, are probably best read in the original Spanish (the translation of which is available via the website), but there's something about the English translations that lends them an slightly off-kilter poetry. And the stories they tell -- slices of Cuban life that display for all to see the miserable, hope-free world she and her fellow citizens endure -- make me glad (and I do need reminding) that I have the life I have.

For example, take this, from a post entitled "Laughter and the Congress: "Laughter is still an effective cure for the daily trials. Thus, on this Island, we bend our lips into a smile more for self-therapy than for happiness. Then the tourists take our pictures and go home saying we are a happy people, that we haven’t lost our sense of humor before all the difficulties. Ahh! The tourists and their explanations! We tour the world with the instant of that laugh on our faces — a laugh that preceded a gesture of disgust — or with the image of satisfaction that overwhelms us on resolving, after a year’s effort, a pair of graduated lenses for a child."


Or this caption from a photo on the blog (on the page titled "How to Help"): "It is not possible to have an Internet connection at home. One hour of Wi-Fi in a hotel costs about one-third of the average monthly salary."

Visit the blog and see if you don't wind up feeling at least a little grateful yourself. 

Celia Rivenbark

With all the terrible disaster news coming out of the South, the federal gummint dithering while the price of everything goes North, and Wills and Kate having to postpone their honeymoon, I thought we could all use a shot of laughter. My half-brother on Cape Cod recently forwarded me an article from a North Carolina newspaper about a woman who caused a multi-car accident because she was shaving her, uh, "bikini area"... while driving! It was actually a feature column by a woman named Celia Rivenbark, whom I'd never heard of before, but who I intend to follow from now on. She's very funny, very observant and lets the humor spring from the simple (often mind-boggling) facts of daily life.

Celia Rivenbark
photo courtesy harnett.org

She has written several books, the titles of which alone are worthy of awards: Bless Your Heart, Tramp; We're Just Like You, Only Prettier; You Don't Sweat Much for a Fat Girl and You Can't Drink All Day If You Don't Start in the Mornin'. In fact, one of her titles did win an award. Stop Dressing Your Six Year-Old Like a Skank was named Best Book Title by Entertainment Weekly Magazine in 2006.

Celia has a website and I hope whichever of my local bookstores is still in business has at least a couple of her titles.

So as many of you can get a sample of her work as possible, I herewith reprint portions of the column, "Driving and Shaving Just Don't Mix". Everything they say about the truth...is absolutely true!

     "By now I'm sure that most of you have heard about the Florida woman who caused a two-vehicle wreck because she was shaving her bikini area while driving.
     "Guess that makes the time you drove with your elbows while eating a Whopper seem downright virtuous, doesn't it?
     "Florida Highway Patrol troopers said the car Megan Barnes was driving crashed into the back of a pickup truck at about 45 mph. Her reaction time was slowed down because she was too busy grooming her hoohah to pay attention to the road. Oh, like that's never happened to you?
     "Ms. Barnes told the investigating officer that she was on her way to a date and 'wanted to be ready for the visit'.
     "Yes, she wanted to look her best. All over. Except, well, we've seen Ms. Barnes' mug shot and she appears to have a face that would stop a clock... To be blunt, I don't think a perfectly groomed love rug could possibly make that much difference.
     ***
     "There are so many 'You might be a redneck if' elements to the story of Megan Barnes, but my favorite is that, while performing this extremely personal grooming ritual, she asked her EX-HUSBAND to steer the car so she could concentrate. ('Help me out, Buford, I'm gonna make it look like a LIGHTNING BOLT!')
     ***
     "To no one's particular surprise, the Highway Patrol quickly discovered that Ms. Barnes didn't have a valid driver's license. Oh, and the day before, she'd been convicted of DUI and driving with a suspended license. Oh, and her car had been seized and had no insurance or registration. Oh, and she was on probation. Oh, and SHE'S A FLIPPIN' LUNATIC!
     "Albeit an impeccably groomed one."

Bet it made you laugh at least once. Dontcha feel better?

Finding My Calm

Recently several people at work – on the seventh floor of a nondescript building somewhere in a large East coast metropolis – got together to brainstorm. They’re assistants and program coordinators, and what they’re thinking about is bringing all of us together to discuss work strategies, share knowledge, software shortcuts and tips, that kind of thing. We all work for different programs—undergrad, graduate and so on – but the work we do is very similar. In addition some of us haven’t been here as long as others who understand some of the inner workings of the department overall and could shed some light on processes and policies that, to someone still fairly new (like moi) are still a bit opaque.

I was in on the original discussion, sharing experiences, etc. with a couple of the other staff and the subject of work-related stress came up. I mentioned that I’d been reading a book on Zen techniques as they relate to stress and anxiety. On my iPod I also have a short talk by the late abbot of Zen Mountain Monastery near Woodstock NY, John Daido Loori. In it, he discusses the power of concentration, stopping your mind from wandering into the past or the future, taking a deep breath, concentrating on the task at hand in this moment. I was quick to add that I am far from a student of Buddhism, I meditate sporadically and once in a while I take a yoga class. Nevertheless I find some of this helpful in keeping me centered when things get particularly crazy at work.

So the lead organizer put together a preliminary agenda for our first meeting and one of the topics is “Finding Your Calm” with yours truly as discussion leader.

Me. Someone who loses it if the toast burns. I’ve hurt my hand pounding the desk because my computer was acting up. And many mornings I wake up with that free-floating anxiety about the day ahead, generally unfounded, which dissipates as soon as I look around the apartment, take stock of how blessed I’ve been, feed the fish and hear the cuckoo clock strike the half-hour.

But “Finding Your Calm”? Wonders never cease.

Addendum to my previous post: interesting…

At least eight dictators have been invited to the royal wedding. Several represent governments currently oppressing democracy protestors in the Arab world—notably, the crown prince of Bahrain, Sheikh Ahmed al-Hamoud al-Sabah of Kuwait, Princess Lalla Salma of Morocco, Sayyid Haitham bin Tariq Al Said of Oman, the emir of Qatar, the crown prince of Abu Dhabi, and, last but not least, Prince Mohammed bin Nawwaf bin Abdul Aziz of Saudi Arabia, according to the Human Rights Foundation.

The British royal family has been harshly criticized by international media for extending invitations to these despots, who continue to play leading roles in dictatorships that commit severe human rights violations against their people.

HRF is an international nonpartisan organization devoted to defending human rights in the Americas. It centers its work on the twin concepts of freedom of self-determination and freedom from tyranny. These ideals include the belief that all human beings have the rights to speak freely, to associate with those of like mind, and to leave and enter their countries. Individuals in a free society must be accorded equal treatment and due process under law, and must have the opportunity to participate in the governments of their countries; HRF’s ideals likewise find expression in the conviction that all human beings have the right to be free from arbitrary detainment or exile and from interference and coercion in matters of conscience. HRF does not support nor condone violence. HRF’s International Council includes former prisoners of conscience Vladimir Bukovsky, Palden Gyatso, Václav Havel, Mutabar Tadjibaeva, Ramón J. Velásquez, Elie Wiesel, and Harry Wu.