If it is true, as people say, that those who ignore History are condemned to repeat it — generally with Mr. Franconetti, the Gym teacher with bad breath — it is even more true that those who have previously attempted to ignore my column are now forced to relive the past several weeks of it in this, our first Storytelling Review.
As all of you who have been paying attention will remember, Storytelling began with a three-part interview of your humble servant by Darren Schroeder. That interview was never really finished; in fact there are many more questions patiently waiting to be answered by, well, by me. I got bored. This is pretty much the explanation for all the stuff that never quite gets done around here; I am not the world’s most persevering human, and after a bit I just couldn’t face one more question that began: "Oh, great and talented comic book god, how is it that you have managed create the magic which is … (Fill in your favorite sequential narrative.)" Which is odd, come to think of it, since that is the way I encourage people to address me. So if you are pissed because the interview petered out, it was all my fault, not Darren’s.
By the way, Darren finds it ever so amusing if aging boomers pretend to confuse him with one of the Darrens on Bewitched. The next time you see him, screw your face up into an expression of frustration and outrage, and whine: "SSSSSSSSaaaaaaeeeemmmmmmm" real loud. He loves that; I promise. He’ll laugh and laugh. Honest. Really.
Nothing much to report on my first column, Career Day. I haven’t received an invitation to speak at this year’s shindig; it must have been lost in the mail. In fact, when I asked the principal about it last week, he seemed to think they wouldn’t be having a Career Day this year; then he hurried off, looking behind him as though some nightmare fate were pursuing him; but it was only me. Weird. I called the school, but once I identified myself, the person on the other end kept repeating "No ‘chool here. No speakee da Englee!" in a breathless, fake Charlie Chan accent and then slammed down the phone. I just don’t understand it.
Those of you who live in Michigan and want to visit the Olde Lo Chin Health Buffet, I neglected to give directions; this was intentional — I have no desire to share it with any of you gluttonous monkeys. However, my wife, Deen, has pointed out that as a public figure it is my duty to support the worthy businesses in our region; therefore, I reveal my secret feasting grounds.
Olde Lo Chin’s is actually based on two real buffet restaurants: The Emperor’s Palace in Brighton, Michigan and the Dynasty Buffet in Ypsilanti. The Emperor’s Palace is the less expensive of the two and is located on Grand River, just across from where The Big Giant Chicken used to be. (Just ask.) The Dynasty Buffet is in the Office Depot strip mall, on Washtenaw, about a mile east off the US 23 exit. It’s a bit more upscale and specializes in seafood. They are both to die for.
Molly the Cat is still alive. In fact she is currently lounging on the back of the couch, as I write this. Molly is a little bit territorial; She is territorial in the same sense that the Israeli Army is territorial. Very. She just rolled over on her left side and opened one green eye, filled with malign disquiet. This means that, somewhere in the house, another cat is thinking about coming into the room; note, I did not say another cat is actually in the room — in fact, a quick survey confirms that Molly and I are completely alone. For now. The other cat may not even know itself that it is going to, in the very near future, decide to enter this room and violate Molly’s space; but Molly knows, and the knowledge disturbs her.
She looks at me, wondering perhaps if I, too, can sense the interloper. I can’t, of course, but I do know that whatever cat will enter the room must come through the hall door; I turn to watch the hall door. Molly, with an old cat’s acceptance of human lore, follows my gaze. Just as I trust cat ESP, Molly has faith in the human science of cause and effect, without being able to use it herself. She nestles down against the curve of my neck, her eyes resting on the empty door arch; I am also waiting; I don’t have the terrible patience of a cat, but I am committed to this enterprise now, and I won’t be the first to break the vigil.
Time passes; and then, suddenly, our Oriental cat, Teeka, pads quietly into the room. Molly shifts an eighth of an inch; her soft body suddenly becoming coils of steel. Teeka stops in surprise; she has the feline love of privacy and she is disturbed by our regard of her. An Oriental looks like a mix of Tabby and Siamese, but is its own purebred self. She hasn’t the meanness or sadism, the self-absorbed cruelty of the Siamese, but there is the slightest whiff of the feral; one can feel a kind of apartness to Teeka, as though she were only playing the part of a housecat until the time of reckoning.
Teeka approaches the couch, her blue eyes innocent of the baleful glare Molly is directing towards her. Molly growls the tiniest of silent growls; it is the whisper of an angry purr, quiet enough I can only feel it against my neck. She would never deign to give an audible sound, that might commit her to action, or imply that another cat were important enough to bother her. Teeka looks up at the couch, gauging the distance for a jump. Her eyes are still on Molly. One of Molly’s paws flexes casually against my shoulder; tiny needles poke my skin. Suddenly it occurs to me that if there is a cat-fight, it will take place on my head.
Teeka puts a paw on the couch; Molly has decided to deter with complete indifference; she is pretending sleep. The second paw lands on the couch; suddenly, Molly opens both eyes and gives her a Look. The Look misses Teeka, ricochets off the coffee table, bounces against my foot, leaving a bruise, exits the window and stuns a young dragonfly who was just passing by. By the time, I pull my eyes back around, Teeka has vanished.
Molly gives me an eyeful of innocence; "So, she left — you can hardly blame that on me." Then, satisfied, she cuddles against me and promptly sleeps the sleep of the just. Yes, Molly the Cat is very much alive.
Which is more than I can say for my Psion. In the unpleasant situation-comedy logic that governs my life, it was foreordained that as soon as I praised the little palmtop’s longevity in print, it would cease working. All the marvelous features I applauded two weeks ago are still functional; I just can’t see them. The Psion has a tiny fault I forgot to mention; the ribbon cable which passes through the hinge of the clamshell case has a tendency to rub and short out the LCD screen; turning the sweet gray color streaky, dark and leprous. I think of it as a necessary flaw, like the Green Lantern’s vulnerability to all things yellow. Philosophy aside, however, I am currently in search of the warrantee papers I so blithely filed away a year and a half ago; if they are gone, I am so screwed.
Or maybe not. The Reverend B.A. Riches, the Sage of Columbus, and the future publisher of Boreana Beane, Enigma of the North, has offered to send me a Palm IIIe, as an early Christmas/ birthday present. So, while I am in the midst of getting the Psion repaired I will be able, in these very pages, to compare and contrast the Palm and EPOC Os(es) — or would that be Osi? I can tell you can hardly wait.
As an addition to the discussion last week about my Great-Grandpop changing our name from Loeb to Loebs — I was just reading in Uppity Women of Shakespearean Times by Vicki Leon about a woman named Sarel Gutman, who founded a private postal service with her husband Loeb Gutman in 1619 in the Prague Ghetto. So "Loeb" started out as a first name; I might have been named Loeb Loebs, or even Loeb Loeb Loebs. LLL; think about it. With a monogram like that I would have surely have achieved my seven-year-old’s ambition and become Superman’s Best Friend. Awesome.
I recommend the Uppity Women series by the way; I’ve gotten more good ideas for stories, and more real history from there than from a bookshelf of mainstream histories; and they’re fun.
