An odd chore, an odd package

Last week I found a dead cat in my laundry room.

I came in the back door and went down to the basement to adjust the temperature on my apartment's hot water heater. Some unidentified schmuck had turned it all the way up for some reason, damaging both my fingers and my gas bill. The room inhabited by the laundry machines and the four hot water heaters, one for each unit in the building, was illuminated by a single exposed bulb connected to the ceiling. The cat was lying in the middle of the room.

At first I thought it was sleeping. It was average-sized and gray. I recognized it from the few times I'd seen it in the past scurrying away from me on the back stairs of the building. It looked almost peaceful, lying on its side. I stood for a moment or ten, peering at it, watching with the intensity of a professional fire juggler. Even the slightest elevation of its ribcage would have unleashed a wave of relief.

Nothing.

This is the part where I'm supposed to kick it, I thought. But what if it wakes up? It'll be mad. It might hiss and claw at me. Or what if it wakes up but it's actually only partially dead and is an angry zombie cat, and I have to kill it with above-average gruesomeness all over again in order to restore balance to the Universe? Or what if it's just a simple dead cat lying in the middle of my laundry room? I didn't want to touch it.

Luckily there was an abandoned sweater on the shelf opposite the machines. I grabbed it and lightly swung it at the cat. Nothing. A respectful kick. Nothing. It was entirely dead.

But whose was it?

I went upstairs and penned the following, made copies and then taped to my neighbors' doors:

Ron, Julie, Carol, Dakota & Dude in the basement*

I wanted to let you know I discovered a dead gray cat in the laundry room, right out in the open, so it must have happened today (Wednesday the 24th). I'm not sure if it belongs to-- to whom it belongs. I am sorry for your loss.

-Name, top floor
phone #

*names changed to protect the innocent

The next day one of the building's newest tenants, whom I'd only met a couple times prior, called me asking if I'd heard from anyone else. I told her I hadn't and gave her a quick rundown of how I found it. She said she was sorry I had to find it. There was genuine sympathy in her voice. It wasn't a big deal, I told her, truthfully.

She was sweet to say that. I wondered, not for the first time, if she was single. I plotted to ask her out.

Friday morning rolled around. On my way out the back door I checked the laundry room and the cat was still there, untouched.

So nobody claimed the cat? Apparently, it didn't have an owner. Not in our building, at least. It lied down on a concrete floor and died under a single lonely light. I sure hope I don't die that way.

I called the management company and apprised them of the situation. The girl said somebody would be over to take care of it. "It's been there three days," I said, hanging up. That evening the cat was still there. I triple wrapped it in garbage bags, tying each layer tightly. Then I put it in a cardboard box that happened to be in the garage. The box still had foam peanuts in it. I tucked the stiff plastic cocoon into the peanuts as if preparing it for shipment, taking care to nestle it into the center of the package. I folded the box closed and unceremoniously deposited it into one of the trash cans that stand sentry outside every garage in every alley in the city.

Then I went on with my day.

Holding a candle

Today I put the finishing touches on the table I've spent the last two evenings building in the garage. It's a workbench-style table with a shelf for storage. It was needed desperately for a spot between the door and a rack of shelves. Over the last few months that spot-- a pile of neglected, disheveled items heaped upon the dusty concrete-- screamed out at me to build a table for it, with shelves, and a 2" lip around the perimeter for clamping. Well, yesterday I heeded the screams and started building.

Tonight, when I finished and had it in place I put my toolbag on the middle shelf. This was the moment of truth. Even though you know your way around a circular saw and a speed square, and you used good screws and carpenter's glue and you measured each cut twice too much, you still hold your breath at the moment you use it for its intended purpose, like tasting a hot pepper you've grown for the first time, or pressing the power button on a computer you've just built. It's one of those moments when the clouds stop to watch.

The shelf held. The clouds nodded and resumed their journey.

That was all the satisfaction I needed. That's all the satisfaction any man needs. When he builds a shelf or mounts one to the wall and it holds the first thing he places on it, be it the saw or drill he used to make it, a candle from a nearby shelf, or his bag of tools, then he is happy. He is complete. He is proven as sturdy as the shelf he just built. Nothing is worse for the male ego than a shelf that fails to hold a candle.

This table is much more robust than it needs to be. It will never hold anything heavier than a case of water/beer, my Dewalt 5-piece kit of power tools, assorted wet towels, perhaps some work equipment and miscellaneous sports gear. But it can hold so much more. The reason? Two words: shoulder cuts. A shoulder cut is accomplished by removing material from the top of each leg, enough so that the top frame sits upon the leg, rather than simply being fastened from the side. The weight of the top is therefore supported by the vertical strength of the leg, rather than the connecting strength of the screw. Oh, whatever. Just know it's all very exciting to the amateur engineer/woodworker/mad scientist inside me.

Okay, that's it, there's another quest. Someday, before I die, I'm going to break this damn table. I'm going to put so much weight on it that it splinters into a million or several dozen pieces! Mwahhahaahhaa!

The best part about the table is the 2" lip. This means I can clamp anything I want to it, except for pets and girlfriends. The lip is key to future woodworking projects. One of my favorite non-sexual fantasies is to someday build furniture, for purposes both indoors and outdoors, and I don't mean hillbilly furniture. I'm talking quality stuff, solid craftsmanship, quality wood, anal-retentive measuring and proper tool usage. Something that will impress myself and my friends. I'd like to build custom entertainment centers, desks, flower planters, cabinets, maybe even chairs! I'd like to build chessboards and custom lamps, picture frames and beehives.

Now, however, I don't have the space, or the time, or the knowledge, or the proper tools, so all I have to go on is my desire and my hope that someday I will have all of those things. And someday I will. I promise that. For now, I'll have to settle for a sturdy shelf.

The guac shall not be photographed

There are some things in this world that are just simply wrong. Private submarines, paper cuts, clowns on their way to work, exercise tv shows for old people, dying because of improper scissor-carrying (DBISC), girls that wear too much makeup when they don't need to, girls that need to, metal toasters, etc. Well, I learned today of another thing that belongs on that list: Pictures of guacamole.

I'm driving along and I come upon a van. It's covered in advertising for a local Mexican restaurant. Big pictures of their offerings; burritos, tacos, tortas, even rice and beans. It's one of those goofy tall vans, you know, the ones that look vaguely European. Covering the entirety of it's back is an enormous picture of a bowl of guacamole. Not like a sexy Gourmet magazine shot of a stone bowl surrounded by unblemished tomatoes, fluffy tufts of cilantro, ripe avocados, fat limes and onions. A sombrero and one of those guitars made out of a giant gourd hang liesurely from the adobe brick wall in the background. No, it was a top-down, straight on, open-heart surgery style picture. Had to be six feet wide by six feet tall. A moonscape of glistening lumps of mangled green flesh, dotted by specs of cilantro and torn chunks of tomato, like bloody carcasses awaiting dental identification. A big, nasty verde mess.

Done well, guacamole is one of the world's finest foods. It can be be delicious. Among some circles, including mine, it's considered an artform. It's what the gods must eat when they go out for mexican food or football parties. Wars have been fought over the stuff! No, wait, that's women.

If I were a chip, it's how I would want to die. It's bonito.

For anything to be beautiful. there must be unidentifiables. The secret to my own blue-ribbon guac is ********. You don't really think I'd divulge, do you? Does Bono say where he gets his glasses? Did DaVinci ever give the real name of the Mona Lisa? Does the butterfly ever share its thoughts? Does John Madden explain exactly how you're supposed to fit a duck inside a chicken and then fit that inside a turkey? (Hint: Vaseline)

Sometimes distance is the key to appreciation. It's the watchman of taste and tolerance. Look too close and you start to see the cracks in the painting, the dents in the car, the seam in the statue, the actual skin color of the Blue Man, the pimple scars on the news lady's face, the bruise on the porn star's arm. You might witness the gratuitous violence that is a six-foot tall stank shot of guacamole.

For a moment there was dismay, a twinge of fear that seeing such a beloved dip in such a way might ruin its rightful place atop my list of condiments. What would replace it? Salsa? Mango salsa? Black bean and corn spread? Ranch? Cheese? Hummus? What was I to do? A moment later the wave passed, although the van did not. I was right behind it for a good three blocks, enough time to ponder the intricacies of the twisted moonscape. What hellish tornado had shredded that landscape, spreading cilantro like roofing shingles? What mass murderer stalked those innocent pieces of tomato, leaving their bodies mutilated and their families helpless? The Closed-Casket Killer he'll be called.

As the van pulled away, restoring a healthy separation, my thoughts crept back across the sanity fence. Normal things like bills, women, work, whether or not I should get a watch or a dog. With a vague sense of relief I knew my relationship with guacamole wasn't ended.

And that relieved me.

Written across the back of that van was a simple question. "Hambre?"

Keep driving, Guacamole van. The answer is yes!

I've been reborn!

Well, not really. I mean, really, if I were reborn, don't you think I'd capitalize the word "reborn"? That's the kind of thing you capitalize, like pronouns or state capitals, or diseases you respect.

What I mean by "reborn" is I've finally figured out how to actually view my blog. I've written two posts prior to this one and I've never been able to view the blog. I'd get a message saying I've posted a post and when I go to view the posting I see no post posted. Such unhosted postings makes a lesser poster go postal.

But not me. I'm cool like flint.

Neither browser would display the blog. Until tonight. Only after I changed templates have I been able to actually view the spitriol I typed previously to this. I'm using one of the generic templates blogger provides for people too lazy to create their own. And if I may say something about that: Who wants to create their own? I mean, if you've got something good to say, then say it, and let your words, your voice stand for itself on its own. Don't sweat the presentation. Good writing is just that... good. Critics may lower their noses (or raise them). Good writing is either completely clear or so utterly vague that the author is credited with seeing the "big picture"-- a charge he/she must carry blithely, so as not to appear deliberate.

If you don't understand what I mean, then assume I'm full of shit. If you do, then smile knowingly and don't let the fools in on the secret.

Here's the fools' secret: Everyone shits brown.

Here's why it matters: Baby shit is as cute as shit gets.

My other thought on the subject is that it's pretty cool to design your own template for your blog. Call it packaging, call it design, call it revelatory context, call it wrapping paper... presentation is important. It's vital. It's vital the way first impressions are vital. It's vital the way boarding an airplane and making eye contact with the hottest stewardess is vital, it's vital the way handshaking can make or break a job interview. Design shows care and commitment, it shows passion. Done well, it shows a person who can care less, or one who can care more.

That pretty much sums me up: I more or less wish I cared more.

More later.