“Tichelle’s Bogus Journey”


3 September 2022

chapter one: Monsters in the Nest

It’s bad enough He’s been up all night, wasting perfectly good boxes by putting useless stuff in them and closing them up. He didn’t even come to bed, and come daylight He’s still up wasting boxes and then, MONSTERS show up and suddenly they’re rampaging through the nest trying to kill and eat me, but He lets me out the back so I can hide under the shed when EVEN MORE monsters show up and they start hauling our stuff out and putting it into their big box in the front. During the morning’s assault, He comes down a couple of times, offering me a little kibble and faucet juice, but no egg slop or milk lickin’s. Jerk.

chapter two: The Bad Bottle Smell

Later in the day the monsters finally gave up and left, taking their giant box with them. He called me up from the shed, offering food, proper scritches, and apologies on the back deck, none of which were nearly adequate to compensate me for this latest offense. I decided it was safe enough to check out the damage inside, so I told Him, and He let me in. It stank. It stank like some of those bottles that He and That Woman sometimes brandish when they’re running around the nest. And ALL OF MY STUFF WAS GONE! He opened the Door That Never Opens, and it seemed to smell a little better in there. It smelled a bit more like Him, and That Woman, and a few other strange animals, but not nearly so much like the bad bottles.

He fell across the emergency back-up bed and stayed there until the next morning. I slept with Him off and on, ate a bit of what He left for me, visited the Dirt Patch (which at least didn’t smell like any other cats!), and looked for our stuff, but the rest of the nest just continued to stink, so mostly I slept with Him. That’s not so bad. The bed smells like us, and it has our quilt on it. He may have let most of our stuff get away, but at least we’ve still got our nest, food, faucet juice, a Dirt Patch that smells like my butt, and our own quilt. And Him. I guess we can get along.

chapter three: The Big Bouncing Box

Daylight again, and He’s up already and feeding me and now it looks like He’s going to lock me in for days again. His arms are full of stuff as he goes out, and I can hear Him opening and closing the Big Box outside. After a while He takes away my food and faucet juice and my Dirt Patch and then He picks me up and carries me out and puts me in the big box on top of our quilt, then He gets in and stares out the window while the box bounces around. I don’t know what He’s thinking. We just sit in that box and bounce, and He’s got that stinking Dirt Patch in here with us. And not two steps away are my food dishes. What does He expect me to do? Eat and drink right next to that? Or use it while this stupid box keeps bouncing? What’s wrong with Him!?

After a while, the box stops bouncing, and He gets out and it smells different. I crawl into a nice dark place and try to ignore him, but he comes back and starts talking to me and moving stuff around back here until He finally stares at me and makes noise with His face. Then He gets back in, and we start bouncing again. He does this several times during the day, and I always try to relocate so He can’t bug me, but He always stares me in the face and makes noise until He gets tired of it and sits back down and stares out the window and we go back to bouncing.

chapter four: The Evil One

FINALLY the box stops bouncing for good, and He drags me out of it into a new world that smells too strange, and then into a nest that smells of monsters and CAT! Because He wouldn’t stop that bouncing box long enough for me to crawl out and pee in piece, as He hoists me into that strange stinking nest I piss down His leg and onto the floor in an attempt to counter all of the foreign smells and make it a little homier. He doesn’t seem to notice, offering not a word of thanks for my contribution, but deposits me on the floor of this strange nest and I quickly find refuge in a dark place. While I’m sheltered, the Evil One comes to talk to me and tells me to get out of her nest and I try to explain that I would love to, but she doesn’t seem to care what I have to say.

Eventually she goes away. Then He comes back with our quilt and lays it beside my hiding place where He so rudely saw me while I was being invisible! Then He puts down a little food and water. The quilt smells better than the rest of the nest, so that helps a little, but I am still not happy, and not about to eat any of that kibble. I watch as the Evil One eats it, then licks herself just a step or two away from my safe place. In addition to the Evil One, the nest is full of other monsters and He and they spend the night laughing and shouting and just making me miserable. After a while it quiets down, and as I hear Him snoring in the distance, I go to sleep too.

chapter five: Back in the Bouncing Box

After making me endure this horror all night, He takes away my dishes and our quilt, then He scoops me back up and puts me back in the big box with the Dirt Patch still in it. I haven’t shit all night, or all day yesterday, nor eaten. But while he’s back in that other nest shouting with the monsters, I think I can manage a token protest turd right in the middle of our quilt. THAT’ll show ‘im! When He came back He picked it up, got rid of it, and then got into the box and stared out the window some more while we resumed bouncing. All day. Again. Sure, with occasional breaks when He’d get out into a different smelling world. But mostly, we just sat in the box. He must have gone insane. It seemed, as it was getting dark again, and we were STILL in the box, that this might be what our lives would be from there on out.

After the dark had settled firmly outside, He started to get out more, shout for a while, get back in and we’d bounce a little, but very soon He’d get back out and shout some more. So I started shouting too, trying to explain to Him that I was getting fed up with this whole situation and we should just get out and run around for a while. Maybe kill some string or sticks. This box is boring. And the Dirt Patch is too close to my dishes! I must have gotten through to Him, because He finally did stop, and he carried me into yet another strange nest, but at least this one didn’t smell of cat, only of the monsters who were already there. He deposited me in a corner of the nest and soon had brought in my dishes and our quilt and the Dirt Patch, but at least everything was properly separated and not all crowded together like they were when we were in the big box.

chapter six: The New Monsters and Biggins, Beef Biggins

Things seem to be settling down a little. He’s been feeding me regularly again, and the Dirt Patch doesn’t constantly bounce like it did in the big box outside, so that’s no longer an issue, and our quilt still smells like us, and this nest has new dark corners to explore. We’ve been here for days, and the new monsters mostly leave me alone. The quiet one is nice. I’ve brushed against his leg a couple times and he properly scritched me between the ears, but mostly I try to keep my distance. The other one is loud and shrieky, and she’s lunged at me a couple of times, but lately she’s been a bit quieter, but can still get a little shrieky sometimes. He and the quiet one and the shrieky one often gather in the center of the nest to make noise and clouds, and sometimes He gives me a little dry grass, which is nice to roll in. And sometimes, when He is gone all night, the shrieky one gives me food.

When He and the monsters are gone, I like to sit on the back of the couch and watch out the window. There are cats and other animals and monsters living just outside, a short sprint from this nest. Sometimes He catches me looking. He spoofs me as I watch the handsome cat. “Biggins, Beef Biggins,” he says as I watch the agile tom stalking his prey and I imagine that I am hunting with him. “Biggins, Beef Biggins,” He laughs and scritches my head and goes away.

chapter seven: The New Nest

I don’t know what His problem is. It seems we were all getting along fine. The new monsters turned out to be not so bad. Never once did either of them ever attempt to kill me or eat me, and they even scritch and feed me now and then. But one night, for no reason, He and the shrieky one take away my dishes and our quilt and the Dirt Patch and then put me in the big box. They both get in and stare out the front window while we bounce for actually not very long, then we’re getting out and he’s carrying me down this strange corridor smelling of monsters and cats and other animals and into this weird box, then down another stinking corridor and finally into ANOTHER NEW NEST, but again, this one doesn’t smell like any cats at all, barely a trace of monster, with yet a comforting whiff of Him. And the Dirt Patch.

Day after day He brings back more of our stuff that He had hidden somewhere, and the new nest smells more and more like us and our stuff, and I’ve got more secret caves all the time. Eventually even our bed returns, and I can sleep on top of it, with or without him, or hide underneath it from monsters. Because He still lets monsters in, but not very often, except mostly that shrieky monster, and sometimes the quiet one, too, but generally it’s just Him and me.

And about time, too!

17 November 2022
Au revoir, Tichelle LaBelle.  Bon voyage, mon pauvre petit chat.

The Ups

24 December 2017

As long as I can remember I’ve been beset by The Ups.

Because I am lazy and averse to confrontation, I tend to let small offenses slide. Since many nuisances are ephemeral, there’s often no practical benefit to correcting the thoughtless and the discourteous. Rather than SPEAKING UP about a small issue, I’ll blow it off. Unfortunately, to the commonest form of ignorant savage, such a demeanor is oft taken as approval of their misbehavior, so they “think” that “it don’t matter.”

Then, once I’ve reached my saturation point, I will elaborate over what I see as an accumulation of offenses, and what the malefactor feels is an isolated incident. So I’ll go on and on and on to the point of hectoring tedium. In short, I have a hard time, once I get started, with SHUTTING UP.

Finally, as a frequently stubborn monomaniac, I can immerse myself in a puzzle or problem or project, often to the point of oblivious unconcern for other pressing issues. Once I get my teeth into a problem I am disinclined to let it go. As an engineer or an accountant, I understand that we will reach an “optimum solution” to a problem, or a realization that said problem is not really worth pursuing, but as an up-challenged fellow, I still have a very hard time GIVING UP.

I rarely quit, and if it appears from the outside that I have, I would caution observers against mistaking giving up for chickening out. I’m no quitter, but I am a coward. And that explains my relationship with tobacco. I love tobacco. I love the smell, the taste, and the psychoactive effect. It’s a wonder drug! I did not love the rattle in my chest when, as a much younger man, I had simply trotted up two flights of stairs. I have not tasted it since 1989, and, like Killer, what I miss most about it is blowing smoke in the faces of people who tell me I should quit. But I’m no longer a practicing butthead, so I don’t get to do that anymore.

above, Killer and his pal Beetle Bailey hitting on an Italian babe.
by Mort Walker

A Cost/Benefit Analysis

4 September 2022

correspondents Jizeg and Ffjigh wish to make it known that it costs only $0.00 to remind someone that they are not alone in the world.

I’m not convinced about that figure.
Not knowing the exchange rate, the fact that it requires finite time and effort is still not sufficient information, but it seems likely to be over $0.00.
Unless it is being suggested that that is the net cost, in which case it’s still amazing that the costs and benefits would so exactly match each other!

Frankly, I think I’m actually getting the better end of the deal.

Because, at least in the philosophical all mankind sense,
I love Jizeg and Ffjigh and you.
And I derive benefit from sharing that.

Because it’s never not about Trump

15 August 2022

I swiped the above graphic from correspondent BA, who lifted it from Balance of Power, and I think it’s cute, and even apt in light of the current battle in The War on Orange Hitler. Still, I am put off by its singular focus. The crimes of the ruling class are vast and various, and El Donaldo’s constitute kerfuffles in comparison. Still, dead Yemeni children is sobering… Correspondent HJ goes so far as to recommend dusting off Ol’ Sparky as a solution to our “Trump problem.”

As I am opposed to the State administering a death penalty, in my ideal scenario, after their war crimes trials, Tjump, and Obama, and Dubya, and Bubba will all be cellies assigned to cleaning the restrooms in VA hospitals. (Of course, if they tried to escape, they should be shot down like the mad dogs they are.) Poppy is excused on account o’ bein’ dead, and Jimmeh should be sentenced to time served with his Habitat for Humanity gig.

Randolph Agarn

for Larry Storch, 8 January 1923 to 8 July 2022

The end of a long sweet life drew near,
and not unexpectedly.
A man of irreverent good cheer…
Retired! And expired!
At peace! Be he!

Tenth Amendment supports Dobbs

24 June 2022

Nowhere in the Constitution is the federal government authorized to regulate abortion (or other homicides), or larceny, or education, nor are such legislative prerogatives denied to the States.

By pitting the rights of mothers and their pre-born children to be secure in their persons, the Fourth Amendment cancels itself out on this question. Depriving a mother of her liberty without due process versus depriving the pre-born of life without due process defuses the Fifth Amendment defense. And the Ninth‘s protection of unspecified rights is too weak when attempting to counter the actual deprivation of life that every abortion necessarily entails.

addendum 220709 — upon reflection, it occurs to me that the Fifth also supports Dobbs, if life trumps liberty.

addendum 220904 — whereas the Third supports Roe, though tenuously, in its (admittedly more specific) prohibition of involuntary quartering and sheltering. I think many Rothbardians embrace this in spirit through their “Trespass Doctrine.” (I am rather less genteel than they and suggest instead that the rights of the host supersede the interests of the parasite.)

Spec-Fic Conditioning

30 November 2019

One of Ray Bradbury’s greatest motives in writing speculative fiction was not so much to predict the future, he said, but to prevent it.  I flatter myself, and I declare that I am trying to follow in that tradition.  Not every future, of course, but some, and especially this one. There are better futures that I can imagine, but I’m not about to write about any of those.  Happy stories are boring.

One of the great benefits of reading spec-fic, according to Isaac Asimov, is that it trains the mind to appreciate unfamiliar circumstances.  Because we immerse ourselves in these strange worlds regularly, we can relate to all manner of unusual lifestyles, technologies, physiologies, and cultural norms.  Habitually relating to scuttling arthropods living on a neutron star, their majesties’ bucketeers, or the cyclical transsexuals of LeGuin’s left hand, we have rather less trouble adjusting to the new neighbors from strange lands abroad or who practice unusual rituals.

It makes us better neighbors, and it also makes us better historians.  “Presentism” tends to not color our judgment as much as it does most.  We judge different cultures and communities less from our own personal biases (“The way it’s s’posed ta be”), but from a broader view of ideological coherence (or its more likely absence).  Rather than condemning Jefferson or Lee outright on the sole basis of “owning slaves” we are able to place their behavior into a context that demanded behaviors from them that today’s society would not.  It’s easy to condemn Washington’s physicians who bled him to death, but like the cop who witnessed a “furtive gesture” towards the waistband, they were just following established procedure.  Today’s physicians might have saved many of the limbs that were amputated by Union and Rebel surgeons. 

And, conditioned as we are, we can see that today’s sensible statists who prefer central regulation to market discipline (or taxation to freedom, or protecting global democracy to non-intervention) can be easily substituted for the 1840’s main-stream anti-abolitionist who favored a more gradual approach to emancipation, rather than sabotaging the foundations of civilization. 

Slavery, and taxation, and conscription, and prohibition, and murder, all worked to the advantage of the established social order.  Prudent conservatives are loathe to tear down things that work.  And when it comes to the state and its prerogatives, most “liberals” are conservative, even as most “conservatives” are collectivist.  Readers of spec-fic, due in part to our peculiar conditioning, are generally both liberal and conservative, and rarely democratic.

Long Live IDIC

8 March 2022

Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations is a Trekkie credo.

We use it poetically, of course. As an engineer and a scientist, I know that human beings cannot exhibit infinite diversity, because there are only a finite number of us. And frankly, some combinations just can’t work. But as an artist, and more importantly, as a fanboy, I understand that “infinite” means “beyond my immediate comprehension” or “vast, unlimited, or unrestrained.”

It’s partly why we dig science fiction, and one of the main reasons I love Star Trek® and The Legion of Super-Heroes® both. In addition to their generally optimistic view of the future and of civilization, they were early in putting women into positions of authority. Captain Pike’s First Officer, Number One, and The Legion’s second Leader, Saturn Girl, were both unmistakably female. Years before “Women’s Lib” entered common cultural parlance.

And a year before the Virginia v Loving decision striking down anti-miscegenation laws, and two years before “Plato’s Stepchildren” wherein Captain Kirk and Lieutenant Uhura engage in some (unfortunately involuntary) on-screen lip wrasslin’ the Legion managed to stealthily showcase inter-racial romance (albeit between a Coluan and a Kryptonian), while such real-world trysts were still outlawed in some States by lingering Jim-Crow-mocratic legislation.

Long Live the Legion’s Star Trekkian philosophy of IDIC! Probably why I did, and still, love both continuities.

correspondents JT, PK, & SK point to the Legion’s other cultural firsts in mainstream comics, notably Element Lad, the first gay super-hero (introduced in 1963), Lightning Lass and Shrinking Violet as the first gay couple (circa mid ’80s), and of course, yet another inter-racial couple, Mon-El of Daxam and Shadow Lass of Talok VIII. Also not mentioned were Colossal Boy (Earthman native to Mars) and Chameleon Girl of Durla. While Light Lass’ and Shrinking Violet’s romance was deftly and subtly, yet unmistakably (The Levitz Himself IS that good!) introduced in a Code Approved book, Element Lad’s alleged first is arguable, insofar as his present sexuality was not asserted until 1992. But there’s no necessary contradiction in continuo. He may well be bisexual for all we know. Or he may have been confused or frightened. He did squire many a young lady, but he never seemed to have a steady. Nevertheless, the Legion’s many fans can take enormous pride in our team’s relentless pressure on the frontier of cultural evolution. As well we should, it’s taken the rest of you decades to catch up.

Supergirl® and Brainiac 5® are the creations of Otto Binder,
Al Plastino, Jerry Siegel, & Jim Mooney,
and are held de jure by DC Comics & WarnerCom
Used without permission.

(Thanks to correspondent Golpoyez Jpexynt for push-starting this essay.)

Black History Month, part VII

Lewis Black (190225)
In spite of our constantly irritating him, Lewis Niles Black continues to tour. Railing against a universe riddled with absurdity, stupidity, and venality, he punctuates his volcanic ire and his diarrheic rants with the psychotic gesticulations of a man on the verge of emotional collapse. In 1981, as dramaturge in residence at an artsy little theatre in New! York! City! Black first stepped into stand-up by way of introducing his and his collaborators’ compositions, and/or stalling for time.

Black History Month, part VI

Karen Blanche Ziegler Black
1939-2013

She went Black in 1960 when she adopted her husband’s name, and never went back, despite subsequent marriages, because the Screen Actors Guild is strict. In 1975 she terrified this teen-aged cinephile with the magnificent Trilogy of Terror, a rare televised presentation of a trio of horror-fantasies by Richard Matheson. Her screen credits are in the hundreds, most notably Nashville, Burnt Offerings, Five Easy Pieces, and Day of the Locust. (190221)