My Crazy Day at the Consulate




















Last Friday I had to take care of some paperwork at the consulate, and fortunately I could do this in Leipzig, which is just an hour away, as opposed to Berlin, which is 3 hours away. But even though I got to go to the little consulate and not the embassy, I got full star treatment!

First of all, the consulate is on some little tiny street in the middle of the city that the Leipzigers don't even know. I attempted getting help from various people on the street and at tram stops, to no avail. Most looked at me strangely, as if this street is not in Leipzig at all, but somewhere far, far away, like Bonn or Flensburg. But fortunately, one lady looked at my map, and said, "Well, it looks like it should be in that direction, near the city hall."

So I climbed into a tram and was on my merry way. Upon getting out of the tram, I felt dangerous, like I was jumping into waters unknown, which I really was, since I'd only visited Leipzig once before, and that time was with a group of students and our teacher. But, by following my trusty map which I printed from the internet I found the consulate. It was hard to miss, with all the fencing and police tape around it. I knew I had found the right place not by the street name or the address, but by the little American flag flying among a sea of fence, chain, and police. Stuff like this makes me feel much more like I am in danger, not like I'm safe, and so I approached the Portakabin housing a couple of police officers slowly. There was also one standing outside, and I asked if this was the consulate.

"Yes. Do you have an appointment?" the officer wanted to know.

"Well, I called, and was told to come between 2 and 4 pm today. "

"And what's your name?"

I told him, and he told an officer in the Portakabin, who in turn telephoned with the guards in the guard-house (who were strangely enough only about 5 meters away, he could've shouted). As soon as everything was cleared up, I was given further instructions.

"Okay, you have to go back out and around and into the middle, and I'll open the chain for you."

This was not some heavy protective chain, it was a red and white plastic chain, much more symbolic in its purpose than anything else. So, I got through the chain, and walked the few meters over to the guard-house, where I had to turn over my passport for inspection. One guard inspected, while the other androgynous guard held open the door for entrance, before the passport inspector guard had decided that I was not a threat. Basically, I could've run in and wreaked havoc had I wanted to. But no, I followed the rules, walking through the metal detector, first with stroller, then without, and letting my bag be scanned and searched, and finally turning over my cell phone, camera and MP3 player for safekeeping while I went inside. You'd think they were going to fly me to the US after all that. During my wait, I noticed that I got special treatment, as other visitors to the consulate also had to turn over bottles of water and all liquids, because I was with a baby (or what appeared to be a baby, haha) I got to keep all of my liquids! Not that they really came in handy, though I guess I could've doused the giant photos of George W. Bush, Dick Cheney and Condoleeza Rice which were hanging in the main building with scalding water from my thermos instead of using it to mix up a bottle of baby formula later. But that would've been too much trouble to waste on them, because then I would've had to get more boiled water somewhere else later, because acts of protest alone don't nourish a baby!

"Kriminalpolizei Peine, Schneider* ist mein Name..."












Yes, it's true, yesterday we were stopped by the German version of the FBI on our way from Leipzig to Lüneburg. As if the background of the journey itself isn't interesting enough, our drive increased in comedy tenfold as a black Mercedes passed us and flashed a hand-held, lit "Stop" sign out the window, and motioned for us to follow them off the Autobahn. Schneider's partner swiftly reached out the window and slapped a blue light on the roof of the car, and they continued to a gas station parking lot, with us obediently following. After all, we knew what this was all about.

"Good evening, FBI Peine, my name is Schneider," the incredibly television- detective-show-looking officer said. I'm talking Columbo quality here, this guy was incredible. Black leather bomber jacket, some sort of mid-eighties half-mullet and a shaggy walrus-style mustache. I nearly cracked up. Then he flashed his keychain (as pictured above) as ID. This time I really had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

"I'll tell you what this is all about," Schneider said. "You have no tail lights. The back of your car is completely dark. Please turn on the car and I'll show you."

Of course we acted surprised, but unfortunately this is a routine problem with the old Ford Scorpio. The light switch is on the fritz and the dashboard lighting and tail lights go out sometimes. This was one of those times. The switch has been changed a few times, and a new one has been ordered yet again. So, Schneider showed us the problem and recommended we call roadside assistance for some help if we couldn't get help in the gas station. After all, as an FBI officer, he can't write any warnings or tickets, he's really out to get the bad guys. Since we knew what the problem was and that we couldn't get it fixed before a new switch came, we gave them a good head start and continued on our way. Amazingly, on the return trip from Lüneburg, my driver had the idea to hit the switch with his fist to see if it helps, and the lights suddenly went back on. After turning the car off, the lights didn't come back on, but by punching the switch again, they did! That's a much more cost-effective solution than ordering a new switch every 2-4 weeks.

But back to this keychain as ID thing. I guess in Germany this is enough, flashing your keychain as some sort of secret code saying "I am legitimate", but somehow in the USA that just wouldn't cut it. Either people would speed off laughing at you, or you'd be shot by someone who can't stand the police or anyone who dares to act like the police. Really, no one would believe it. This officer was a true work of art, and in that, he was convincing, but that, in addition to a keychain, would still not be enough in the United States.

Another part of me, despite the fact that I am so sceptical of the keychain, really wants one of these. On one hand, it seems so mysterious like I'm a double agent leading a secret life, and on the other hand, it would be a great conversation piece. Every time I got out my keys I could tell this story, and that would be incredibly pleasing.

*names have been changed to protect the Kriminalpolizei Peine and their fine work protecting us

"The worst case is hitting a moose from behind."

"Him can't eat no tater chips, him's just a baby!"

"This is the year of parties that cost more than I can afford."

My bathroom, a Gesamtkunstwerk

The work is going very slowly, but I am surely getting my bathroom painted with water scenes. The waves are finished, and the sea creatures are coming along nicely.



































To add to the flair, I also got a really great new shower curtain for Christmas!

Things I learned on Christmas vacation

1. American homes are full of delicious treats, against which I cannot defend myself. This is supported by the fact that during my vacation, I gained 5 kilograms.

2. German cars are really small, and American cars just keep getting bigger.

3. The term "SUV" means "sport utility vehicle". I prefer to call them "super useless vehicles" because they are big beyond the point of being sensible or useful, and are incredibly wasteful in terms of gas use, but...

4. ...gas in America is cheap! We filled up the car when it was empty for under $40. Compare that to a fill-up in Germany (with the same size gas tank) for around €80.

5. You really don't ever need to learn how to walk, as long as you can use your feet well enough to drive a car. America is designed so that you drive everywhere and walk as little as possible. You can even borrow a little motorized cart to drive around inside some stores, completely eliminating the need to walk!

A trip to Beaverton

The trouble all started when we didn't get our reserved seat in the airplane. This wouldn't have been such a big deal if we hadn't been travelling with a baby. You see, I'd called and reserved the seats with the baby basinette in the plane for us, and somehow they put us in a middle row with no basinette in sight, meaning we'd have to hold the baby for the entire flight. Anyway, the situation got resolved, but not before the head steward offered us the option of staying in Frankfurt and even told us "I don't want trouble for the next nine hours." I guess he meant from us, but it would have likely been from other passengers had we not gotten the right seats, because there would have been nine hours of screaming baby to listen to.

Anyway, we got to Detroit, and I suppose as punishment for bad behavior in Frankfurt, the airline lost one of our bags. The biggest one, full of treats for my family. After their service helpline proved entirely useless, they finally delivered the bag the evening after our arrival. The treats were smashed.

Up to our arrival in Beaverton, things were uneventful. We purchased drinks at the local shop, only to discover that they tasted okay, but were a bit flat. I had a look at the bottle: "Best if used by: Oct. 21 2006" No wonder they weren't the freshest.

Then we went to the supermarket to pick up some things for dinner. The jalapeno peppers were unusually expensive, and my travel companion said "Let's go to another store then!" I had to laugh as I reported that this was the only store in Beaverton.

And yesterday I had to get crazed with jealousy as I found a youthful salesgirl in a santa hat flirtatiously trying to sell my friendly travel companion some sweaters. Okay, so it is extremely unusual to come across a handsome, thin, blonde, leather-pants-wearing German in the Midland Mall, but come on, he was also pushing a stroller! Calm down, girls!

Finally, a funny thing happened when I purchased some trousers yesterday. At least I thought they were trousers. When I went to pay, I asked the cashier to tell me what the price was when she scanned them, because they were on a sale rack. My exact words were, "Can you tell me how much the trousers ring up when you scan them?" She stopped working, looked at me like I was from outer space, and I knew I had confused her. So I corrected myself and said, "The pants! How much are the pants?" And then she understood. So, for all you skeptics out there, Americans really don't understand British English.

Chinese food is great, German Chinese food is even greater.

A discussion in class the other day about the advantages and disadvantages of various Chinese restaurants got me fired up on this topic. At some restaurants you get a free soup during the lunch hour, at others they drown the food in garlic. At some your vegetarian dish mysteriously contains chicken, at others your friends have gotten ill. I have a favorite Chinese restaurant in the United States, it's Pi's Chinese, and it's already on my list of places to go when we leave the country for Christmas. But back to the subject of German Chinese, my favorite place here would have to be









And they aren't just my favorite because of the funny name, which in English graphically refers to a certain part of the male anatomy, but because they have really good food at decent prices. Plus, when you order chopsticks with your meal there, they serve your food with a bowl, which is authentically Chinese, according to my China-visiting sources. So they get four stars not only for good food, but also for a funny name and authenticity.

Incredibly enough, a short while ago I came across yet another Dresden Chinese restaurant with a name referring to a particular male body part in English, and I don't mean the word "Onkel" (that means "uncle").










To add to the comedy of the name of this restaurant is its location. It's not located on any old anonymous corner, it's on the corner next to the erotic pharmacy.





















With this post I really don't want to poke fun at the Chinese, or any other Asians, and their names. Admittedly some of our terms in American English can be a bit ridiculous and simple-minded, but sometimes even simple-minded things can brighten your day.












I hope they do! It would serve us right.

Tastes like my favorite sausage?!?












The above advertising poster has been irritating me for a good while. Better said, I hate it with a passion. Maybe it's just my vegetarian sensibility talking here, but I think even if I ate meat I would be incredibly annoyed by the use of a sausage as a phallic symbol. Does every heterosexual woman, or any other person attracted to men, get excited when she or he eats a sausage? Or does she or he think of eating sausage when kissing a man? Even as a vegetarian, I eat non-meat sausages composed of tofu and other things that have that approximate shape, like carrots and cucumbers, and at least for myself, I can give a resounding "no" to answer that question. Perhaps it's just a question of taste, and my taste says this whole campaign is disgusting.












Here's yet another example of this ad campaign. Maybe, just maybe, these ads are made to appeal to straight men. Should they think that if they should have the luck of bringing a woman home, all they need to do is serve her up some shrink-wrapped trash from the supermarket and she's all his for the night? With all of its suggestive imagery and text, I find this incredibly offensive.




















Fitting to the simplicity of the actual campaign, I came across a parody of these ads the other day on a walk about town. From the looks of it, it was made by an art student, and though it's not terribly inventive and the layout could be better, the baseness of it is the perfect answer to those perfectly horrifying Lieblingswurst advertisements. This artist has a statement! And there are some people around here who don't like his or her statement, for all the wrong reasons, I believe. Some of these posters have been destroyed. Was it done by concerned parents who don't want their children's innocent eyes to see a nude portrait? But why? This poster actually has a twofold value: not only is it a lesson in anatomy, but also in vocabulary! It's not just a parody that made me crack up while walking down the street, it's a little act of protest. Good work!

Must have bunny slippers!

A trip to the vet.

A woman brought a very limp duck into a veterinary surgeon. As
she laid her pet on the table, the vet pulled out his
stethoscope and listened to the bird's chest. After a moment or
two, the vet shook his head sadly and said, I'm so sorry, your
Duck has passed away."

The distressed owner wailed, "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am sure. The duck is dead," he replied.

"How can you be so sure," she protested. "I mean, you haven't
done any testing on him or anything! . He might just be in a
coma or something."

The vet rolled his eyes, turned around and left the room, and
returned a few moments later with a black Labrador Retriever.

As the duck's owner looked on in amazement, the dog stood on his
hind legs, put his front paws on the examination table and
sniffed the duck from top to bottom. He then looked at the vet
with sad eyes and shook his head.

The vet patted the dog and took it out, and returned a few
moments later with a cat. The cat jumped up on the table and
also sniffed delicately at the bird from head to foot. The cat
sat back on its haunches, shook its head, meowed softly and
strolled out of the room.

The vet looked at the woman and said, "I'm sorry, but as I said,
this is most definitely, 100% certifiably, a dead duck."

Then the vet turned to his computer terminal, hit a few keys and
produced a bill, which he handed to the woman. The duck's owner,
still in shock, took the bill, "$150! she cried, $150 just to
tell me my duck is dead!!"

The vet shrugged. "I'm sorry. If you'd taken my word for it, the
bill would have been $20, but with the Lab Report and the Cat
Scan, it's now $150.00."

And then somebody came and stole the dead duck. Sounds like taking Garfield to the vet!

"It's too bad she's having a baby, she's so smart."

According to my sources, this declaration was made referring to me. I won't make any statements about the individual who said this particular sentence, because I don't really care to perform any acts of public defamation.

What I want to talk about is how little sense this little cobbled-together bit of the English language makes.

If it's unfortunate when smart people have babies, that would lead me to believe that it's fortunate for people who aren't smart, here we will use the term "dumb", to have babies. So let's just try this out:

"It's so great she's having a baby, she's so dumb."

Wow, what great logic. I really have to hand it to whoever said that sentence above about me, they sure are smart.

In addition, making a statement like "It's too bad she's having a baby, she's so smart" would lead me to believe that the speaker considers baby-havers to be less than intelligent, or in other words, dumb. Maybe this is a long shot, maybe I just have a strange way of understanding things, but does this mean the speaker considers his or her mom to be dumb? I would think so. Now that's pretty mean. It's not just because I love my mom that I say this, but I think she's pretty smart. And not just because she had me. She's witty, she's resourceful, and she has a great understanding of people.

Though you might not need brains to make the baby, you sure need them to bring one up. Wrangling your way through well-meaning advice from all corners and the various opinions of doctors and specialists is no easy task. And it's not like you can just sit around and watch TV all day while your kid just grows up, you need to interact with it, too, so that someday it will become a decent little being who can speak and make it's own decisions. All this all starts already in infancy. I'm only a few months into this new job of mine, and it can already be so stressful that I've nearly broken down a couple times. Maybe I should just stop being so smart and this would be a lot easier.

We love Le Tigre!

Jim Beam puked on my burger.

Back when I was still pregnant and my cravings could swing wildly from one end of the flavor spectrum to the other in a matter of seconds, we found one restaurant that was capable of satisfying my cravings for American food: Jim Beam's Bar here in Dresden-Neustadt. They have really good pub food, like giant burgers, piping hot fries, and spicy nachos. They even had a really excellent veggie burger, at least once. It was a big veggie patty, piled high with fresh tomatoes, lettuce, pickles and sauces on the side. One Sunday we returned to Beam's because I had a hankering for yet another of these mouth-watering burgers. Well, what I got was a bun with some cold lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and some sauce. I complained and said this wasn't what I ordered, then demanded to talk to the cook, who was supposedly the brain surgeon who wrote the menu. He should know what he put on his menu, then. He treated me badly, and made some very unappetizing pureed glob of vegetables that he seemed to then throw in a deep fryer, and subsequently on a bun. It looked like vomit. I ate some of it, and the fries, which at least were good. Then I proclaimed a boycott on that crappy place. And that cook is haunting me. I see him just about every time I leave the house, somewhere on the street, and I am always overcome with rage whenever I see him, he was such a jerk. I've now taken to boycotting other places he even sets foot in.

Just this past weekend, I had to boycott yet another place, to which I never should have gone in the first place: Burger King. They too have a veggie burger, and when I have a junk food craving or otherwise need something to eat fast, I like to get this as a value meal with fries and a drink. They denied me my value meal, claiming that the veggie burger is no longer available as a meal, just alone. This at a place where you can't buy a sandwich, or anything else for that matter, without the employees attempting to convince you to get a meal. They denied me my meal, and I denied them my order, continuing on my way hungry and in a rotten mood.

But yesterday we ate at a place at which my boycott would be vetoed even if I tried to apply one:







This place is great. They have excellent homemade Saxon-style food, friendly service, and if one of the menu items is out, they are honest and tell you, rather than trying to pass off something else as what you ordered. The first time we went there, I had the potatoes and herb quark, a delicious kind of cheese which is sort of like a mixture of cream cheese and sour cream. Mmmmm. I wanted this yesterday, but they were busy and it was out. So I ordered a farmer's breakfast, a sort of omelette with potatoes, onions, herbs and bacon. I asked them to leave off the bacon, but unfortunately, I got bacon. They took it back, excused themselves, and a few minutes later I received a freshly-made, bacon-free omelette. And it was delicious! We love the Diechl!

I love food.

Of course that's completely natural, you need food to live, so you'd better at least like it. But there's more to it than that for me, I love to cook it, I love to look at it, and I love to eat it. Plus, I think the kind of food person you are is important in a relationship. For example, do you like to prepare food for guests? Do you like to spend time at the table, having a long breakfast? Or do you just think that food is just one more thing to waste your time, so you don't bother spending much time on it? Food, along with pets and entertainment, can make or break a relationship, I think. Sure, there are other important things, but cat people and dog people don't mix, just like a person who loves to cut the rug and a person who won't set foot on a dance floor might not be so compatible.

Anyway, last week my love of food was given a great treat: a whole carload of fresh vegetables from the family garden. Not only I was pleased, but the bunnies received a sack full of fresh greens as well.















Been spending most their lives living in a bunny's paradise.

Some of the stuff I wouldn't normally buy, like two red beets, and other stuff was just especially delicious, like the tomatoes and new potatoes, because we all know how much better fresh garden vegetables taste than that flavorless stuff you get at the supermarket. So, I was challenged to prepare these delicious things to the best of their advantage, and wanted to try some new things as well.

First we had our regular tomato salad, using fresh tomatoes and onions, along with some feta cheese, fresh garlic, salt, pepper, oil and vinegar. Then I got creative, setting out on the task of preparing borscht, a delicious Russian soup. This is something I've only had one time in a restaurant, and was unsure if I could replicate the pleasing taste, but using a couple different recipes, I came up with my own special blend.



















This isn't my borscht, but this is kind of what it looks like.

So, I chopped up the 2 beets, 5 carrots or so, 4 or 5 new potatoes, an onion, and half a head of cabbage and sauted it all a bit in a big soup pot with a bit of olive oil. Then I threw in a liter and a half of vegetable broth, some salt and pepper, a few tablespoons of vinegar, and a couple of bay leaves. I cooked this all until the vegetables were tender but not mushy, then served it up with some chopped feta cheese on top and a dollop of sour cream. Normally this soup would contain meat, but you know me and my strange ways. The feta cheese is also untraditional, but gives the soup a satisfying kick.

I still had half a giant head of cabbage, and after a bit of research, discovered that coleslaw made from scratch is no brain surgery, so I whipped up a batch of that. All you have to do is chop up the cabbage, grate a handfull of carrots, mix it together and toss it with some vinegar, sugar, salt, and pepper, and you've got a delicious, though flatulence-inducing, salad!

Even after the soup and the coleslaw, and a somewhat unusual carrot casserole, there were still 2 big bowls of carrots lying around the kitchen, so I looked into making carrot salad. It seems that in Germany, sweet carrot salad is traditional. I've had this before and it's really good, but wanted to be untraditional and found a recipe by Madhur Jaffrey for spicy carrot salad. So I grated about half a kilogram of carrots, and then prepared the sauce. For this, you take 3 tablespoons of oil, heat it up and saute about a couple teaspoons of dry chili flakes, a chopped onion, and 3 cloves of garlic. Then add a couple tablespoons of vinegar, run that all through the food processor, and mix it up with the carrots. I added a bit more oil, because it didn't seem to be coating well, and a bit of salt and sugar, and this made a crazily spicy carrot salad that I ate for 2 meals in a row, it enthused me so much.

We still have a few ears of corn stolen from a field, so today my task is to think of a use for it. I'm considering making sweet corn cake or perhaps scalloped corn, both of which I haven't had in years, if I can find the time.

The Cat Came Back















In honor of Garfield's 10th disappearance on one of his many travels around Dresden and its surroundings, let's sing an appropriate English folk song by Harry Miller:

Old Mister Johnson had troubles of his own
He had a yellow cat which wouldn't leave its home;
He tried and he tried to give the cat away,
He gave it to a man goin' far, far away.

But the cat came back the very next day,
The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea

The man around the corner swore he'd kill the cat on sight,
He loaded up his shotgun with nails and dynamite;
He waited and he waited for the cat to come around,
Ninety seven pieces of the man is all they found.

But the cat came back the very next day,
The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea

He gave it to a little boy with a dollar note,
Told him for to take it up the river in a boat;
They tied a rope around its neck, it must have weighed a pound
Now they drag the river for a little boy that's drowned.

But the cat came back the very next day,
The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea

He gave it to a man going up in a balloon,
He told him for to take it to the man in the moon;
The balloon came down about ninety miles away,
Where he is now, well I dare not say.

But the cat came back the very next day,
The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea

He gave it to a man going way out West,
Told him for to take it to the one he loved the best;
First the train hit the curve, then it jumped the rail,
Not a soul was left behind to tell the gruesome tale.

But the cat came back the very next day,
The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea

The cat it had some company one night out in the yard,
Someone threw a boot-jack, and they threw it mighty hard;
It caught the cat behind the ear, she thought it rather slight,
When along came a brick-bat and knocked the cat out of sight

But the cat came back the very next day,
The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea

Away across the ocean they did send the cat at last,
Vessel only out a day and making water fast;
People all began to pray, the boat began to toss,
A great big gust of wind came by and every soul was lost.

But the cat came back the very next day,
The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea

On a telegraph wire, sparrows sitting in a bunch,
The cat was feeling hungry, thought she'd like 'em for a lunch;
Climbing softly up the pole, and when she reached the top,
Put her foot upon the electric wire, which tied her in a knot.

But the cat came back the very next day,
The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea

The cat was a possessor of a family of its own,
With seven little kittens till there came a cyclone;
Blew the houses all apart and tossed the cat around,
The air was full of kittens, and not a one was ever found.

But the cat came back the very next day,
The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea

The atom bomb fell just the other day,
The H-Bomb fell in the very same way;
Russia went, England went, and then the U.S.A.
The human race was finished without a chance to pray.

But the cat came back the very next day,
The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea

Don't worry, we got him back this time, too. And mom said he only has nine lives!

Strange Rock Formations




















Have you ever climbed up a more or less vertical sandstone cliff? Like a fly on the wall? Pressed close to the wall? With fingers and toes in narrow cracks and grooves? Searching and feeling for the next narrow ledge above you? As soon as the left hand has found a new grip, bringing the left foot behind it until the toes feel resistance? Then, after your body weight is supported on the left side, repeating this maneuver with the right hand and foot? Foot by foot, higher and higher up, ten or fifteen yards up, until you reach the top with a bit of space and time to catch your breath? And then, with the same tranquility and care, going up the next vertical cliff? You haven't tried anything like this? I warn the curious. (from "Als ich ein kleiner Junge war" by Erich Kästner, translated by me)

This text describes the very place, the Schrammsteine, where we were last hiking. No, that's not us in the picture, and fortunately for my mental well-being, we did not attempt anything like what is described in the text. We went up this way:




















Also a bit of a trek, but not quite as scary as just climbing a stone wall.















We had lunch and caught our breath up here.




















Then I nearly got stuck between some rocks.




















On the way down we ogled these climbers.

This was all a couple weeks ago. We had planned to go hiking every weekend, but had to take a break because of the unbearable heat wave. Hopefully the weather will cooperate and we can hit the trails again soon!

Whole Lotta Willy

Wanna tell you a story,
'Bout a baby I know
When it comes to cryin',
He steals the show
He ain't exactly quiet,
Ain't exactly small
Four thousand one hundred ninety,
You could say he's got it all!

Never had a baby,
Never had a baby like you!
Doin' all the things,
Doin' all the things you do!
Ain't no fairy story,
Ain't no skin and bone!
But ya give it all ya got,
Weighin' in at not even a stone!

REFRAIN
You're a whole lotta baby

You’re a whole lotta baby!
Whole lotta Willy!
Whole lotta Willy!
Whole lotta Willy!
And you're a whole lotta baby!
Yeah!

Oh honey, you can scream,
Scream and cry all night long!
Only one to cry,
Only one to cry on and on!
All through the nighttime,
And right around the clock!
Whoo! To my suprise,
Willy never stops!

REFRAIN
Willy’s a whole lotta baby!
Whole lotta baby!
Whole lotta Willy!
Whole lotta Willy!
Whole lotta Willy!
A whole lotta baby!
Yeah! Yeah!

SOLO

REFRAIN
Oh, you're a whole lotta baby!
Oh whole lotta baby!
Oh whole lotta Willy!
Oh whole lotta Willy!
You're a whole lotta Willy!
Whole lotta baby-bay-bay-bay-bay!
Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!
A whole lotta Willy!
Whole lotta baby!
Oh!

Oh whole lotta baby!

Do cats hunt cans?

Before being trapped in houses and city apartments, when tabby cats roamed the forests and the streets, marking their domains and fighting amongst themselves like mini tigers, how did they nourish themselves? Beef? Turkey liver? Seafood? Any of these aspic? I think not. They ate mice!

How did cat food manufacturers decide that cats like to eat seafood in gelèe? Or perhaps roast beef? And if they would prefer rare or well done? Nature seems to dictate that cats like their meals raw, like mince, but you don't find mince-flavored cat food, do you? You don't find that, just like you don't find mouse-flavored cat food. Or even bird-flavored cat food, except for chicken or turkey, which is too big for a cat to stalk and kill anyway.

Good things come in small packages, and Garfield got a small package this afternoon. He felt like a real cat today when he received his little box. Upon smelling it he went wild, as a real cat should.




















I'm sure you can picture what happened next.












As with the gladiators in ancient Rome, there were spectators to watch this brutal sport. But rather than being bloodthirsty supporters of the violent game, one spectator boycotted the event, and even claimed that the event organizers are "mean" and "cruel". This particular individual must be of the popular opinion that cats are natural canned food eaters who are unable to look after themselves, instead dependent on a third party to open their cans for them. If this were the case, wouldn't cats be long extinct? Anyway, were the creatures that are processed into canned food prepared in a friendlier way than a cat hunting a mouse? Either way they get dismembered and disemboweled and discombobulated. But that's the topic of a whole different blog.












Audience or not, nature took its course.




















Should we allow nature to take its course on a grander scale, breeding adorable, fresh, organic mice for Garfield to eat daily, or should we continue to serve him up smelly canned food that's full of chemicals and strange slaughterhouse leftovers? Not to mention this canned stuff gives him gas that can stink up a whole room in a matter of a fraction of a second. Or should we go a step further and create mouse-flavored cat food, in canned and dry varieties? Somehow I think cat-owning city dwellers would just wrinkle their noses at this choice which is not appetizing to humans, picking out instead some sort of liver pate in a cat shaped can, rather than giving their cat what it really wants: sweet mice!