Book review: "Destiny of the Republic" by Candice Mallard.

You don't have to be interested in history to love this story of the assassination of President James A. Garfield in 1881, sixteen years after Lincoln was shot.

If you're interested in all kinds of people--love or hate--you'll be riveted by the dramatic events following the shooting of Garfield, who hung on to life for months in the White House.

First, you follow the trail of his nutcase assasin, Charles Giteau--basically a case of human waste--then you meet a bunch of political rogues and end with a gallery of heroes trying to save the president's life, including Garfield's wife, Lucretia, Alexander Graham Bell, and the original champion of antiseptic surgery, Joseph Lister, whose name is famous on the bottle of Listerine on your drugstore shelf.

It's a portrait of humanity and a lovable man who was briefly President of the United States.
Great writing.

Gertrude the Slut.

I'm not very fond of animals (Come to think of it, I"m not very fond of humans either). Animals are stupid, they have no empathy, and they leave their crap all over the place, kind of like humans, actually.

Cats and dogs, though, do have their charms (as do humans): dogs are so eager to please, so friendly and so stupid that you can't help laughing at them, and cats are so pretty you can't help admiring their grace and beauty. Keep in mind, though, that if you get a pet it's your job to clean up the poop--unless the stupid dog turns around and eats it without even waiting for it to get crunchy.

Someone once gave me a fish as a birthday present, a Siamese fighting fish I named "Sushi," and I felt obligated to keep it alive. I'm proud to say that Sushi lived a long and well-fed life on top of my old television, though its life seemed incredibly boring to me.

A few years ago a female pigeon I named "Gertrude" homed atop the air conditioner on my balcony, and before long she picked up a boyfriend I named "Spotty"--after his unusual pigeon markings. Spotty was apparently a sex machine, judging by the noise of cooing, flapping wings and frantic scratching going on atop the AC outside my sliding door. Spotty once jumped Gertrude right on top of my balcony railing in broad daylight.

"Jesus Christ, Spotty, have a little decency," I said.

But, the relationship seemed to be going well. To my amazement, I actually witnessed Spotty helping Gertrude build her nest, flying home with twigs in his beak repeatedly. The result that summer was two chicks who stupidly fell out of the nest prematurely and huddled in a corner. Their sweet peeping soon turned into loud chirping and squawking whenever Mama flew in with food. The racket they made was totally out of proportion to their small size, pushing and shoving each other as Gertrude fed them with her regurgitations.

Finally, at meal times, when I saw their wings flapping like perfect adults, with just a trace of chick fuzz on the top of their heads, I went out to the balcony with my broom, tired of their squawking dependency.

"Time to go kids," I advised, sweeping them gently off the second floor. They landed on the ground unphased as I watched, hoping for the best, until I saw them making random flights to nowhere. Later, I saw them on rooftops. "Thank God," I thought, "Maybe now they'll shut up."

Pigeons mate for life, unlike humans, but somewhere along the way Spotty disappeared. Either, he was a heartless rogue, fugitive from the nest, or he met a tragic end in his travels. Gertrude apparently entertained a parade of horny visitors whose markings I couldn't identify, maybe the same guy, maybe not. Then, last week, I discovered a pigeon egg, alone and abandoned on the deck.

"Gertrude you slut," I exclaimed. She had abandoned her egg, like a mother and her latest boyfriend getting high and drunk while a toddler bleats in a bedroom.

I have a beautiful abandoned robin's nest from another time and place on my shelves, a masterpiece of engineering made entirely of dry grass. I keep two Easter candy eggs in it to simulate blue robin eggs. Pigeon nests are different, all twiggy and ugly, containing everything from balloon strings (including the the deflated balloons) to twist ties and dental floss. So I put the pigeon egg in the robin's nest and improvised an incubator near a baseboard heater without much hope.

All I got were two blobs of candied chocolate and an inert pigeon egg.

So I ate the egg (I hate wasting food).

I would describe the taste as only vaguely un-chicken, like the difference between a beefburger and a buffalo burger--negligible, if you got used to it.

Now, suddenly, I see that Gertrude is building a new nest, hopping from the ground to the balcony with an endless supply of twigs. I'm hopeful. Maybe the new guy is as true-blue as Spotty and they'll start a family. I'm hopeful because, even though the chicks would be a pain in the ass, I love watching life go on, even among humans.

If not, at least I'll get breakfast.

Class of 1964: Change? What Change?

Class of 1964: Change? What change?

Thank you all for the birthday wishes. If you're good at math, you might have guessed that I turned 70 in May of 2016. What amazes me is: How the hell did I ever get this far? It must have happened when I wasn't looking.

I recently found the yearbook photo above and added a picture I took last week--a "selfie." People have been taking pictures of themselves since cameras were invented, but the kids needed a new name for it, something catchier than "24/7 narcissism."

Also amazing is how little I have changed. All I need is to shave and brush my hair, and you would think the photos above were both taken last week--assuming your eyes are at least 70 years old.

Here's the post from two years ago:

I just got my pre-invitation to my 50th high school class reunion, just as I was thinking that it's been an amazing 20 years since I graduated.

We had a big class, so I'm not surprised that most of the names on the list of graduates are unfamiliar, but I can't find one person I'm anxious to get reacquainted with. Most of my good buddies were members of the class behind me.
I've never been to a class reunion, and the thought of attending strikes me as ghoulish without an old buddy to share some private jokes about the characters at this particular geezer gathering. I'm sure some perfect stranger would walk up to me smiling with his hand out saying, too enthusiastically, "Hi, Tom, do you remember me?"
Uh... no, I would stare.
Then, he would reveal his identity as if waving a colorful flag which didn't impress me 50 years ago and still doesn't.
"You don't remember me, do you?"
"Oh, yeah. Yes, I remember you."
Yes, I might remember him, except that I don't remember him looking like he had shrunk three inches, swallowed a cow and fell asleep with his head in a clothes dryer.
"Good to see you," I'd lie, meaning that seeing him is better than dropping dead, while I'd be hoping someone would interrupt.
Then, the strange woman would approach, lacking the finer points I appreciated 50 years ago, and tell me I was really cute back then.
"Oh, yes, I remember you. Didn't you marry Joe Jockstrap?"
"Yeah, we divorced a long time ago. Actually, I'm on my fourth marriage."
"Really," I'd say as my eyes searched for one of those bright red EXIT signs--maybe somebody would yell "fire" and we could all pile out to the parking lot and disappear under cars.
Just to cheer us up, the reunion committee, whoever these people are, included a list of deceased persons in our reunion package. The only cheerful part is that I'm not on the list. Out of 328 class members, 57 are confirmed dead, including a few bozos I appreciated in the third grade. That's over 80% of us still kicking. This is not a bad score, considering our ages. With all the problems of modern health care, we've fared quite well with the medical miracles.
But--nah--I'm not going to this reunion. I'm going to wait for our 75th, when we can get the whole crowd around one table at Cheers, and I won't have to make much conversation.

Breadless BLT.

All you need for this delicious sandwich is bacon, tomato and a few layers of big leaves ripped off a head of lettuce. Of course, I added salt and pepper, and I couldn't resist slapping on the mayo, which made for slightly sloppy eating, though no worse than consuming one of those giant glutton-burgers you get at a good restaurant (America is too good at this cuisine, but you can always take half of it home for a meal later--it's preferable to cheap European food rations, especially when the little servings come with snooty superiority: "Look, even the waiter is skinny!).

Ooo, I'm impressed.

My advice to Americans: Enjoy, but don't eat to fulfill your life. Satisfy your hunger and let it go at that. Don't turn it into a feeding frenzy. That's for wolves and sharks.

Mumma, Keeper of the Faith.

When you go out to meet the real world and you need strength to face all the tigers and sharks out there, try thinking about the title to that ancient television show from the fifties, "I Remember Mama."

Ma, Mum, Mom--whatever you call her, she was the first one to give you strength. She empowered you with perfect love, love without boundaries, even when you wanted her to shut up and go away, even in the middle of a knock-down family battle.

You could commit murder, and your mother would say you didn't really mean it. She could be wrong, but she doesn't know and never will--not when it comes to you, her baby.

Keep in mind that somewhere out there, even beyond the people you know, you have friends and allies who believe in the dreams you dream, who believe in righteousness, like your mother. The tigers and sharks won't stand a chance.

Because she's unique. She's the Keeper of the Faith.

PHOTO: My mother, Doris, also starring Conrad, my father.

Reigning Cats and Dogs.

Way back in the beginning of Western Civilization, all the dogs on Earth decided to hold a worldwide convention to develop a strategy for survival.

I know this because my studies in History include author, P.J. O'Rourke.

The convention was a raucous affair, since dogs bark a lot, but they finally agreed on their fundamental guiding principles. First of all--it was decided--humans were obviously destined to rule the world. Dogs wouldn't stand a chance against clever human thinking and two-legged walking, both of which they could do at the same time. So, dogs must accept the inevitable and adapt.

Dogs must make friends with humans. Ultimately, the key to success is for dogs to become man's best friends. Select a small family of humans and follow them wherever they lead. Be incredibly loyal, run and jump and celebrate their every asinine activity, like tossing frisbees around. Learn a few human terms like "sit" and "stay," and "say please." Act happy whenever they enter the room, even if your trying to take a well-deserved nap--no need to get up, just wag your tail a little and always keep one eye open to see what they're up to. If they want you to learn the term "fetch," you may have to do the chore, especially unpleasant when some idiot thinks you enjoy swimming through cold ocean surf to fetch a little tree branch that tastes nothing like a meat-bone. Do it. They'll love you for it and feed you nutritious stuff, plus treat you with human delicacies under the dinner table. You'll have a warm place to sleep--and security for life.

Let your tongue hang out!

But, here's the paramount tactic in dog strategy: Do not poop on their living room rugs. You will be punished for such behavior. Understand--that no poop is acceptable in the their houses. They even train their own beloved human babies not to leave poop around. Sniff as you might, you won't find a dollop of poop anywhere in the house. It's amazing. So, get trained on pooping, as ridiculous as it seems (Really, who thinks about a little pile of poop? Turns out, they do).

So. Poop outside and live well.

Bang, convention adjourned.

Observing this convention of dogs, the cats on Earth decided to hold their own convention, and it was quite a different affair. They huddled mostly in a cozy pile, many of them purring. And they had no doubt about their guiding principles.

First of all--they determined--humans were a bunch of dog-like, slap-happy idiots who would bully their way into ruling the world. They're clever, violent, and they have no scruples. So, fine--who cares who rules the stupid world as long as cats can live out their nine lives in comfort and contentment?

"We are not dogs," the Chaircat assured the convention attendees--to mass meows of agreement.. "We will not--like dogs--hang out drooling tongues slavishly begging for approval. "WE WILL DO AS WE PLEASE!" declared the Chaircat, which triggered a mass demonstration, with every variety of cat joining a celebratory conga line dancing passed the podium, hips swaying, tails waving and meowing all the way. When the convention hall calmed down, the Chaircat delivered another crowd-pleasing declaration: "THE HUMANS WILL NOT TRAIN US. WE WILL TRAIN THEM!"

The cats were beside themselves with joy, laying on their backs, waving their legs and getting belly scratches from nearby happy cats. They knew that humans were no match for their beauty, grace and flat out sex appeal. Cats were just too tiny and pretty to be punished; no human had the hard heart to kick one of them, as they did dogs. Just curl into their warm, comfortable laps and purr, and your life will be good. They may even fall so in love with you that you'll get to gobble up some expensive albacore tuna, fresh out of the can.

As for the poop issue, the cats were not concerned. Poop where you please, the Chaircat said. Humans will adapt. None of them have the heart to whack your pretty puss with a rolled up newspaper to train you. They'll even provide you with a pleasant poop place, complete with aromatic granules you can use to cover the foul odor, and--believe it or not--they'll clean out the poop for you while you scratch their furniture to shreds just for the fun of it.

"If any droopy-eared, ragamuffin mutt comes into the family and tries to interfere with our lifestyle with its obnoxious sniffing around, we'll scratch his dopey eyes out," the Chaircat vowed.

Thunderous meows of approval rocked the hall as the convention closed--woe be it to dogs and humans.

Sangria: Eat Fruit, Get Drunk.

Sangria is  great drink, and it's easy to improvise a nutritious, home-made batch.

Take a bottle of good wine (I prefer red) and add some brandy. The more brandy, the more "punch" it will have (Brandy is distilled wine. They boil wine to get rid of water content, leaving more alcohol and more flavor in the pot. Actually, you could try making brandy at home, but be careful--if you get too rambunctious boiling this stuff, you could end up calling 911 to fight the fireball consuming your kitchen). I recommend a good store-bought brandy like cognac.

Next, add some sugar and/or molasses until you like the taste.Then, add a handful or two of fruit chunks or slices of citrus fruit, apples to make "applejack," strawberries or whatever. Let it chill in the frig for a couple hours to let the flavors meld, then serve over ice or mix with soda.

I find that you can get a very good sangria ready-made in a bottle. Although it's a traditionally Spanish/Portuguese drink, try the Australian brand, [yellow tail]. Just look for the kangaroo on the label. You might even find this in a convenience store.

As for me, I would not dilute it by mixing. I prefer it straight, a lesson I learned forever from my mother, Doris, at a restaurant in her old age.

I watched her using a spoon to scoop out the ice from the glass of water the waitress had served her. She placed each ice cube in a plate nearby.

"Ma," I said, "What are you doing?"

"I don't want ice," she answered irritably.

"What's wrong with the ice?"

"It dilutes the drink," she said.

"Ma...," I started to say....

But I never finished my sentence because--how could I explain to her that water doesn't dilute water? She was right, in principle. With the single exception of water in this case, water dilutes everything.

Gotta give her credit for the principle.