misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

LESSON #14 OF CAT OWNERSHIP: CLOSE THE DOOR WHEN TAKING A PISS

At no point in my life, either through prior conversation with cat owners, watching television, or reading books, was I ever informed of the fascination kittens have with the deep sounds and intense visuals of a penis emptying urine into a toilet (an activity commonly referred to as "pissing"). Whether sleeping or awake, from any corner of the apartment, upon hearing the sound of my urine stream displacing toilet water, Alice (the current name of my kitten) will race into the bathroom, jump upon the trash can and paw at the urine stream, as if it were an endless piece of yellow yarn. In this event, my options are limited. Attempts to dislodge Alice result in a urine shower upon our tiled walls. Not dislodging her, however, means she'll eventually attempt a full-blown jaw attack on my urine stream, which results in a mess you can well imagine (Alice has yet to figure out exactly why she can never quite get a solid handle on the yellow yarn that she finds so tantalizing). You might be asking why I am not closing the bathroom door to prevent these encounters. For lack of a better answer: Habit. I've spent the past twelve years leaving the door cracked when taking a piss. And that habit is hard to break. Particularly in the middle of the night, when it is hard enough finding the bathroom, more or less remembering to close the door. Fortunately, Alice doesn't find the taking of a crap to be as fascinating, as if she did, that would quickly end my foray into cat ownership.

In no particular order:

1. A basketball
2. A hoop
3. An ACL

My four-game stint in the New York Urban Professionals Basketball League, which ended abruptly Monday night as I lay writhing in pain on a dusty gym floor, had initially brought forth fond memories .... Memories of the time I could actually make lay-ups, dribble for more than three seconds, jump higher than a cockroach standing on a flea, and land without my femur and tibia sliding against each other like the Pacific and North American tectonic plates.

A reminder for my more forgetful readers (meaning those of you who have forgotten to read my blog the past five years): My right knee lost it's ACL to youth on a concrete basketball court in Hell's Kitchen almost exactly three years ago. I was nearly thirty at the time, lived on the top floor of a five-story walk up, had recently put my dreams of playing in the WNBA to rest, and thus decided to forgo the recommended operation. I knew any activities involving pivots (soccer, basketball, tennis, anaerobic masturbation drills) would have to be forever removed from my non-existent calendar, which I promptly did. Instead, I picked up running, lifting very, very light weights, and beer drinking. Three years of this, with a minimum of knee pain (except for the burn of an ice-cold beer resting atop it), had convinced me that I could once again pick up basketball. If Obama could still play at 46, then shit, I could play at 33. So I agreed to join a co-workers team, bought the cheapest knee brace I could find, and headed to the gym.

Reconnecting with the hobbies of your youth is a frustrating experience, as it is an in-your-face reminder of how far you've fallen. I could once dunk. Now, I can barely touch the rim. I could once shoot well. Now, I average four missed lay-ups a game. I could once play defense. Now I stand and hope the ball falls into my hands. And even worse: I'll never reclaim what I once had. It is physically impossible. I will never again be good at basketball. It is why old people pick up new hobbies such as cooking, reading, and golf: These are things specifically tailored to the natural talents of old people (patience, immobility, money). Youth offers no advantage in the art of cooking. In basketball, it does.

So Monday night, I was playing basketball without an ACL. Today, I was sitting inside an orthopaedic doctor's office, with a needle in my right knee, removing blood. It looked exactly like this:

Tomorrow, the MRI. Then, probably, the surgery I was always supposed to have. The doctor seemed a bit amused by my explanations of why I thought I could tear an ACL, undergo no rehab, wear a cheap knee brace, and continue to play basketball without a problem. He apparently didn't understand my core philosophy: If you don't think something, it's not a problem. Which ultimately proved to be somewhat correct, if misapplied. I didn't think I was getting any older. It took about two seconds for my body to remind me that, in fact, I was.

Judging by the overwhelming number of comments generated by news of Slaven's marriage, it seems this blog has become as much of a lame duck as George Bush. Not even one comment posted with thoughts or congratulations on the marriage of a long-standing member of the SF Ninja family. It seems I should stick to writing about taking shits in the work bathroom while co-workers brush their teeth. They seem to cause more debate and thought.

Today is simply a post to mark history in my blog. I've been at this blog since 2000 and noticed that I never seem to post on days of historical events. You'll find nothing on September 11th, 2001 .. Nothing on November 4th, 2004 .. Nothing on New Years Eves .. Or on my birthdays .. Maybe I prefer speaking for days that nobody speaks for, rather than the days that are already memorialized forever ... Everyone already knows September 11, 2001 .. But what about September 17th, 2001 .. Those are the days that fill out a normal life. During big events, I rarely have anything interesting to add that you haven't already pecked off of the bloated corpse of the blogosphere. But as news of a marriage can't even generate interest, I've decided to stop giving any attention to the concerns of my three readers.

I stood in line today to vote for two-and-a-half hours at polling station 107, at the Supreme Court Building at 360 Adams in Brooklyn Heights. I read my current issue of The New Yorker, a copy of The New York Post, and drank a smoothie purchased by Jillian, who was with me. For the first time I can ever remember, I enjoyed standing in a line. There was the feeling of taking in a moment. People were visibly excited. Everyone had the energy people have when they know something different is happening. Something historic. Every day is seemingly the same .. But that day once every few years that are not the same, everyone seems to know. There were reporters, cameramen, police ... This was a day that people wanted to be sure they touched, so in twenty years they could sit around a table in someone's backyard, drink a few beers, and talk about the day. I don't think any of us feel we are just voting for some black dude. That's historic, sure. But we're voting for a different direction. Rejecting the depression of the past eight years. Doing something drastic to change course. But the odd thing in the line was it clearly was not just me who felt excited about him .. He's essentially excited an entire country that needs exciting. I'm guessing most of the people were like me: Long-term cynics who were disappointed by the public one too many times to believe in much, but were coming out of their cynical shells, giving optimism one last chance. If the line was any example, there are a lot of people like that .. Apparently, I haven't been the only pissed-off blogger these past eight years. There's a lot of them. And we all seemed to be standing in the same line.

So let me capture this moment, with a few hours left to go before we know if we as a country can start being optimistic again.

Confidential sources within the Zivkovic campaign have told SFNinja that Slaven Zivkovic was in fact married this past Tuesday, October 28, to Lejla Sahinovic at New York's City Hall, at 1 Centre Street, 2nd Floor. The ceremony was reported to be unassuming and small, presided over by a legal surrogate, with only two guests in attendance. A representative for Mr. Zivkovic neither confirmed nor denied the allegations, although SFNIinja finds it revealing that the usually reticent Mr. Zivkovic has yet to issue a denial.

SFNinja sources within City Hall have provided the following images as evidence of the legally-binding marriage:

Mr. Zivkovic's marriage ends fifteen years of speculation as to the winner of a bet made between SFNinja co-founder Mark Anderson and Slaven Zivkovic as to the first to be married. With Slaven's marriage, the list of survivors (in order of most likely to be the next married) now stands as the following:

1. Paul Kohli (his charade as a heterosexual has never fooled SFNinja).
2. Neal Arthur
3. Bart Barden
4. Kendrick Kwan
5. SFNinja co-founder, Mark Anderson

To the last-man-standing, as per the rules stated on the fifth day of December in 1994, all signees must provide a 40-ounce of Bud Ice and a to-be-determined certificate.

SFNinja issues their warmest and sincerest regards to Slaven Zivkovic and new member of the SFNinja family, Lejla Sahinovic.

Sao Paulo, an inland city of eleven million heaving, passionate Brazilians, is the biggest city in South America (and in fact, in the entire Southern Hemisphere) and the second biggest city in all of the Americas (right after Mexico City). This random demographic information is relevant simply because I am presently writing to you from the middle of Sao Paulo. I'm near the Parque do Carmo, a vast circle of dark-green trees, trails and museums which provides the only relief from the endless sea of skyscrapers. The thick line of skyscrapers perch like hungry sharks circling prey, waiting to engulf the only remaining open land in southern Brazil. The city stretches endlessly (the entire metropolitan area includes close to 20 million people), somewhat like Los Angeles, if Los Angeles was entirely built out of the NYC skyline and jungle trees and cool people (actually, out of respect for Sao Paulo, I would like to withdraw the comparison to the shit that is Los Angeles).

I arrived here unexpectedly on Thursday morning, with two day's notice from work. I'd explain exactly why I'm here if I thought you find it interesting, but by the time I reached "Brazilian Yahoo", you'd be bored.The flight is roughly ten hours, and confirms the fact that it is better to fly for ten hours internationally than three hours domestically. International flights go to lengths to make you comfortable. Domestic flights pride themselves on doing every thing they can to ruin your day, such as maximizing out the number of irritable babies they can shove in one plane.

I'd always wanted to go to South America, although perhaps under different circumstances. I've been working twelve hour days, and traveled exclusively between the office and my hotel. Fortunately, I've been able to squeeze in three client dinners in the past days, all of which were unique and delicious. As you might imagine, the seafood in Sao Paulo is intensely fresh and diverse. I've had Amazonian fish, which was thick and white, like Mark Wahlberg, if he was a fish in the Amazon that tasted like butter and cod. I've had giant (as in cat-sized) prawns, squid, fish broth soup, and a number of other items I was unable to identify due to both their odd appearance and Portuguese name. The breads here are also fantastic, including a wonderful invention called Pao De Queijo. which is a bit like the cheesy biscuits at Red Lobster, but lighter. The steaks are monumental: My one steak order included two full steaks, with an endless number of sides. That is the beauty of eating here: Like many European countries, the residents of Sao Paulo enjoy eating full and proper meals. That means that from the moment you sit down, before you actually place an order, a number of tapas-like appetizers are brought out. Calamari in copper bowls, zucchini chips in porcelain cups, grilled vegetables with an olive oil glaze, fresh breads of all kinds. You then order a fresh juice of some sort: pineapple with mint, watermelon, grape. With your meal comes an army of waiters to adorn your plate with sides. You didn't order them, but they are there. If you order a beer, your glass is filled as soon as they detect it is empty. In short, you are treated like an emperor. While it is true this is the expensive business dining culture of Sao Paulo, it is immensely better than service at similar places in New York City.

I've said before that cities are, to some extent, the same, no matter where they are. That doesn't mean physically; it simply means philosophically. They all have tall buildings, lots of people, and cabs, and you mostly eat, drink, and go to museums. It's what makes a city a city, not a town. Whether the buildings are filled with Chinese people or German people, the cabs are Fords or Citroens, and the street food is hot dogs or shwarma, the drink is wine or beer ... The premise is similar. Because of that, it is the small details that define a city. And the details that define Sao Paulo make it great. Most particularly, the people.

My trip to Maui was my first-ever attempt at a wellness vacation (not to be confused for a Loch Ness vacation). I've fantasized about such a vacation since I was 19-years-old, sleeping in the cramped passenger seat of Hector's Nissan Pulsar, penniless after a rough night at Reno's Silver Legacy Casino, unable to afford a motel room or warm breakfast. From then, I trudged through the typical trips of a college kid and, later, a twenty-something: maintaining drunkenness for as many days as possible without sleep, eating daily meals at Carl's Jr., sleeping with six grown men in the cheapest available room, farting, waking up hung over to start drinking again. Now, without mistake, these trips were fun, but they certainly weren't beneficial to my overall mental or physical health. As I aged, and life inevitably became more .. complex, the need for a true vacation (vs. a trip) became more pressing. Vacation, by definition, means escaping the routine of home. For many people who do not live in a city (and whose day-to-day home life is a tad more responsible than mine), a vacation means drinking, staying up late, and going to expensive dinners. However, I do this every day at home, so my vacations are only different if I eat vegetables, use treadmills, and go to bed before 3 am. For a variety of reasons, I've never been able to take a vacation like that.

Until Maui.

To the backdrop of volcanic air and tropical birds, I ran in the morning. I ate yogurt and fruit for breakfast, fish for lunch, Round Table Pizza for dinner. I went to sleep around 9 PM. I never drank enough for a hangover (ok I'm exaggerating that point a bit for affect but please allow it for the overall structure of my story). And, as the ultimate mark of a wellness vacation, on my final night I reserved a 50-minute Heavenly massage at the Westin Spa. At a $150 dollar charge, this was exactly the kind of experience I'd dreamed of so many days ago. It was grown up and relaxing and would recharge my soul. By Heavenly, I fully expected I would be set on the wings of an angel while a batch of cloud-virgins danced upon my back with feet made of mist and childish joy.

Moments upon arriving at the beach-front parlor, the concierge brought me into a plush locker room, where I changed into the acupuncture sandals and expensive robe. She told me to spend ten minutes unwinding before the massage: Enjoy some pineapple-infused water. Loosen up in the steam room. Shower in the dual-headed stone showers. Try the exotic fragrances and lotions. Shave. Listen to music. Relax, relax, relax.

When ready, I was to go into the waiting room where my masseuse would come for me.

After ten minutes, I had achieved the calm preparation needed to enjoy my massage.

I nearly made it out to the waiting room, before realizing my boxers were still on underneath my robe. Hmmm. My inexperience was showing: Do you leave your boxers on during a full body massage? Or are you naked? What if you are supposed to be naked and then the female masseuse says, "Um, douche bag, your danky boxers are on?" But then again, what if you are naked and she says, "You pig! This isn't a fucking whore house!"

I was paralyzed by indecision. This was critical. Fuck! How could I be so clueless at 33-years-old? Do you take your boxers off during a massage? Or leave them on? Where are all of your fuckers when I need you (by "fuckers" i lovingly mean the two of you who still read my blog, Kohli and Kenta)

After five minutes of doubt, I decided to compromise. I would keep my boxers on, covered by the robe, until I reaching the massage room itself. At that point, I would evaluate the situation and make the final call.

Within seconds of stepping into the waiting room, a thirty-year-old woman clothed in all-white entered and ushered me up a set of stairs and down a hallway. She brought me into a small, gently-lit room filled with sounds of meditative music (basically a flute and bagpipe playing at 1/4 tempo). In the center of the room was a massage table covered in five layers of crisp white sheets. She told me to get undressed and get under the covers.

"I'll wait outside", she said, "and knock before entering."

Well, here it was. She said, "Get undressed." So that means, be naked and get under the covers, right? That's what "get undressed" must mean, right? Although, on second thought, maybe she just meant take off your robe and get under the covers with your boxers. Shit. What should i do? What is protocol here? I wish I were a well-tanned, old golfer executive type from Phoenix, who got lots of massages and knew exactly what to do in this situation.

I took my robe off an hung it. Then I started getting under the covers of the massage table with my boxers on. Then I crawled back out and stood up, confused ... Then I took my boxers off ... Then I put them back on .. Then I took them off again ... Then SHIT! Bitch, you said you would knock!

Well, she didn't. There I was, naked as shit, my 18-inches hanging out. And there she was, staring. After a few seconds of silence, where I was frozen like a mouse who just got caught gnawing on a piece of cheese in your kitchen, I spoke.

"Umm, whoops. Sorry, um, I was, um ..."

"I'm so sorry," she said, "If you could just ... get under the covers."

So she closed the door quickly. Red-faced, I got under the covers, sans boxers. The decision was made by fate. She's seen me naked, so it can't matter any more. A few moments later, she knocked, and I told her, "Ok .. you can come in."

She knocked again.

I said, "I'm good! You can come in!"

She kept knocking.

"OK! I'm all good! I'm ready."

She still knocked.

I said nothing.

She finally came in, and, without words, began my heavenly massage.

50-minutes later, I was confident I had made the right decision. When getting a Heavenly massage at a Westin Resort, naked is the way to go.

In 1989, I took $200 dollars I had earned busing tables at the Remington Club in Rancho Bernardo and opened a savings account at Great Western Bank, on Bernardo Center Drive. A year later, after growing my bank account by 50%, I took out that same $200 dollars to buy two 12" woofers to fit in the back of my Hyundai Excel (along with a 200 watt Linear Power amp which lasted four chest-pounding years before being stolen by a group of San Diego rebels).

In 1997, Washington Mutual purchased Great Western Bank for $6.8 billion dollars, 500 dollars of which was mine.

I received a new account number, ATM card, and branding colors.

I've stayed with Washington Mutual since that time, not because it was particularly good, but because it reminded me of Rancho Bernardo, and with direct deposit, changing banks is a bitch.

Earlier tonight, Washington Mutual failed, was "closed by the U.S. government" and sold to JP Morgan for $1.9 billion dollars ($2,000 of which was mine. In 19 years, I've managed to quadruple my net worth).

From Great Western, to Washington Mutual, to JP Morgan.

A quick reminder that even if you don't seek change, change will seek you.

I don't need to provide particular details about my feelings towards cats, as I'm fairly sure I've written a blog or two describing my position. In summary, since I was in 6th grade, mauled by my aunt's cat in an attempt to pet it, I haven't trusted any cat i've ever come across. Cats are bitches. They are disloyal, boring, selfish, unappreciative, and, most importantly, untrustworthy. You can feed and provide shelter to a cat for twelve years and, on the first day of year thirteen, the cat will rip out your eyes and piss in your skull without a second thought. I am certain of this.

Problem is, Jill doesn't feel the same. She likes cats. She had one growing up. For the past two years, she's asked me every day if we could get one. Knowingly, I refused. A centaur would enter my apartment sooner than a cat.

Unfortunately, Jill doesn't respect a goddamn word I say. On Tuesday, she IM'ed me to say that her friend had found a four-week-old kitten in shivering in front of a Kinko's on 56th street @ 8th avenue, and that it needed a home. Without consulting me, she told her friend that we would take the kitten. After a night spent at a shelter, where it was examined and given all necessary shots (no Feline HIV or Feline Leukemia. Maybe I'm a cat-hater, but the thought of a kitten with AIDS simply doesn't do it for me), Jill brought the alley kitten to my apartment.

Ultimately, I somewhat respect any young creature that can survive for four weeks at 56th and 8th avenue without any cash, identification, or parental supervision (I certainly couldn't). Perhaps this little furry survivor deserved the benefit of the doubt.

Without futher ado, let me introduce you to "fifty-six" (name still pending):

I personally find fifty-six a bit ugly, if I am to be honest. Her lower-jaw is too narrow, making her look like her dad was a possum. And, as you can see, she's got random colored hairs everywhere, as if she was the result of a feline gang-bang .. A little bit of everything went into her making. I'm also struggling with the fact that I didn't get to pick her. I didn't walk into an animal shelter or pet shop and find the cutest kitten there. I'm a particular man. I like particular things. Had I had a choice, I wouldn't have picked this particular animal.

But here it is. Meowing from the bathroom as we speak (it lives in the bathroom for now, until it grows a bit and stops getting caught behind our appliances .. Suffice to say, she doesn't appreciate my morning fecal deposits).

As much as i've warned Jill, I fully expect to come home in a few weeks to find my tv and laptop missing, with a note from the kitten as follows:

"Thanks for letting me crash the pad, humans. Sorry about the TV and laptop, but a cat's got to eat ... See ya on the flip side .. "

If that doesn't happen, i'm quite sure i'll come home to find her and her friends drinking my beer, playing music way too loud.

Cats are not to be trusted. Ever. Especially this one:

So when I come home next week, and all my shit is gone, I can't say i'll be surprised. In the meantime, any name suggestions are welcome. Fifty-six simply isn't cutting it, and Jill has flat-out denied my other suggestion: Criminal.