Second verse...

drastically altered from the first.

Boots.

A cat named Boots.

I hate cliches so fucking much.

I tried to explain this to my Mother, obviously to no avail given the fact that this feline had ultimately been christened Boots. We get it, he's a black cat with adorable tufts of white around his paws, but isn't naming him solely based on his appearance sort of judgemental, if not racist? Shouldn't you get to know your pet's personality, and then come to a conclusion on what moniker best fits him?

But what does it matter, he was a cat.

I hate cats so fucking much.

There is no personality to a cat, they all have the exact same one. You can't hang out with your cat, take him for walks, teach him tricks. The most you require from a cat as a pet is that it exists when you come home, acting as a levee to the tides of loneliness that must surely be lapping at the shore of your life, evident by the fact that you have a cat. If the cat is present, then that is a score in the win column for the expectations of cat pet ownership. You've had a bad day at school, your girlfriend dumped you, and the mailman has yet again delivered your neighbors pornography, which wouldn't inherently be a bad thing if his tastes weren't so far flung and creepy  that you debate whether legal action is warranted, and you get to come home to the solace of cat.

"Oh, I'm so glad I'm home to the loving embrace of (cat). How was your day man? Come here so I can pet you and give you hugs and feel like I have some remote connection to another living thing!"

"Feed me."

"Ok, ok, I'll get you your food, you've had a long day laying around my apartment, spraying everywhere so that whenever I'm here I'm reminded of the fact that all these possessions are yours and that I'm merely here to operate a can opener. I wish I could hate you to death."

*Kitty proceeds to purr, rub against leg, and then bat around a sock with the most sickeningly efficient choreography of cute ever perceived by man. Had the cat not contained himself, and unleashed the raw power of its cute, your face would melt as if you simultaneously saw the face of God, looked in the Ark of the Covenant, and discovered the 32nd flavor of Baskin Robbins.

"Awwww."

God forbid that the damn thing be an outside cat. At that point you're merely taking care of an arrogant four legged hobo. The little bastard will show up for food, watter, maybe a few scratches in those hard to reach places, give you a purr, and be on his way. Occasionally, as a form of offering, he'll bring you dead things on your doorstep. "No need to go to the market, we've got enough dead bird to last us a fortnight! Thanks, Boots." If that cat is such an outstanding hunter, then why in the hell do I have to spend money on cat food? He's got the predator thing down.

Despite these reservations, though probably not as eloquently stated as my 12 year old self would've been able to convey (he REALLY loved the F-bomb... and booby-fart), I had found myself in 'possesion' of Boots the cat, or as much so as you can be of a stray that shows up at your house that you just start feeding, so he continues squatting.

As usual I get home and the damn thing is at the door waiting for food. He's gotten so impatient that now he's whining and making a fuss. I go down to give him a passive pet, and see that his left eye is dangling out of it's socket. He looks right at me with his good eye, and continues to whine, except now it's not annoying or grating or insistent, but desperate. I'd like to think the downfall of people being manipulated by pets is man's ability to project emotion onto animals, but to see that poor creature whining and in such pain, I was convinced that there was genuine sorrow in his eye. I ran inside and proceeded to pester my Mother for an hour before she'd go outside to look at the pitiful bastard, and of course the instant its suffering is apparent I'm berated for not getting a grown up sooner for such a serious matter.

We get in the car and drive to the vet, not expediently though. The maternal chauffeur is so concerned for safety that it  was a standing rule to never go faster than 5 miles  BELOW the speed limit, because of 'all the crazies'. Boots just lie in my lap, as each second I grew increasingly emotionally traumatized by the whole ordeal. Do I just pet him, try to comfort him? How do you comfort an eye dangling from the socket? Is that possible? Do I try to cradle the eye to take pressure off the optic nerves? Do i cover the gaping hole where an EYE is supposed to be located?

Clearly 7th grade biology is a travesty in our public school system for not having properly prepared their students for such trials.

 Apparently this is standard fair for a veterinarian. I gathered as much when he said "This is pretty standard fair for a veterinarian." I should hope so, since it's your job to fix animals.

Boots was repaired as best as possible, apparently we didn't have animal insurance, nor the private funds, to give him 'Six-Million Dollar Cat' capabilities, so he made due with half decent vision in his left eye for the remainder of his life.



I fucking hate cliches.

But I don't think a boy and his cat have ever really been one.

(*I know this is very rough, and the tonal shift is kind of harsh between the preface of the concept of cats as a species to my personal experience, but I'd really appreciate any feedback on this, cause I think I can really make it into something worthwhile)

And into the night they go...

not in a depressing way though, just in an 'it's inevitable cause the Earth rotates' kinda mood.

The Dead of Winter- Like all graphic medium, this piece is successful because of the subtlety in which it is executed. The tone is revealed through the style and characteristics of the art, as opposed to just word choice. Whether it's the abortionist non-chalantly whistling while performing his due diligence, or the casual way the sister's arms are drawn as they carry on normal conversation following the procedure, we have a clear picture of how well Lily is taking this, or seems to be. Throughout, and especially during the dream sequence and closing panel, the eyes are what sell the soul and emotion of the character, allowing the author to be minimal with words without underselling the gravitas of her dream epiphany. In my opinion, the story ends hopefully, as she kisses her baby goodbye, and walks back inside with a slight smile and engaging eyes.

Caring for Your Introvert- The piece turned me off with the opening lines of rhetorical questions. Leading into the second paragraph it took a supreme act of will to not read it like a super cheesy late night infomercial, where-in caring for my introvert could also lead to the procurement of a Snuggie, free of charge. This wouldn't be so problematic if it didn't conflict so harshly with the tone of the rest of the piece, which I thought was well served by the rhetorical questions. The prose was informative without being dry. Overall, I enjoyed reading this piece, but I would personally rework or cut entirely the opening paragraph.

A Yo-yo Going Down...- Mr. Conroy's passion for the physical manifestation of abstract mathematical theorum in the operation of a yo-yo is a remarkable way to open this essay. It works excellently in that grey area between non-sequitir and directly related to the story as a whole. Mostly, it serves to pull the reader into his style and tone, as well as give a peek inside the adolescent mind before delving into the story as a whole. Maybe it's because I read this following the painful intro of 'Caring for Your Introvert', but this stood out as a great juxtaposition of a great opening.

You Know it's Sad but True...

   A near death experience can make you introspective and sentimental, which comes across as kind of creepy if you're 12. At a ripe young age, being faced with your own mortality after a nice serving of sirloin tips from the sizzler as a result of a trucker careening into a parking lot not suited to his lower middle class chariot doesn't make you a 'life of the party' type. Although, at that age, a role like that seems to extend as far as the mastery of holding your punch and blindly throwing tails onto a varying assortment of mammals, depending, as always, on the party's theme.
  
   After the accident, it was imperative that a new vehicle was obtained posthaste, because despite His divine providence, apparently God does NOT in fact teleport you to all prayer circles and bible study groups taking place within the Northwest-Florida tri-county area. With such a holy mission set before it, any contender to be a new mode of transportation for this family clearly had it's work cut out for it. Or at least one would hope. Clearly the universe has a sense of humor, although being in a small, white, Judeo-Christian community located in the south with strong military ties probably tilted the odds pretty strongly in the favor of our fair galaxy's laughter.

  Touring the used car lot brought the overall level of hope in the promise of a new car to mediocre. As in, "Maybe they'll be something available that won't make drowning in shame" seem like a probable outcome of the purchase. Then, low and behold, a successor was chosen, on a barometer that couldn't quite be understood by any rational being.

Was it a newer car? No.
Did it have low mileage? No.
Were all seat belts functional? No.
Did the speedometer work? No.

Yet despite all the pitfalls that would have discounted any normal car, there was manifest destiny, or some other french word, at work. What the car didn't have in looks, charm, features, or basic safety functionality, it more than made up for it's stance in spiritual warfare.

Did it have seating for 8, to help accomadate as many neighborhood children as possible in their travels to Youth groups and Vacation Bible Schools? Yes.
Did it have a 'Jesus Fish'? Yes.
Did the car salesman, out of good Christian sentiment, decide to include some of his wife's organically grown watermelons, from his home, for free, at no charge, included? Yes.
Did the car happen to be the exact same make and model as the one that gave it's life in exchange for a delicious trip to half priced sizzler Wednesday? Yes.

   And that's how a soul crushingly gunmetal grey Buick Century Station Wagon with 120,000 miles, limited safety features, no heat or a/c, and a vanity plate reading "GODZ4U2" became the principle form of transportation for the formative years of my life, again.

... Tragically, I am not adopted.

A Thorough Response to Writers who are better than me...

(Please note that the title's demographic includes almost anyone, including your mother writing a grocery list)

David Sedaris' "Big Boy"- This short story does a remarkable job of pulling off what I like to call a 'hard left' (it's copyrighted, don't steal my colloquialism), although the span between the set-up and the uncovering of the ghost poop is only 2-3 sentences, you feel as if you're being led into a very pleasant story. With the backdrop being succinctly set at an outdoor afternoon picnic on Easter, David's valiant yet panicked battle with another's abandoned bowel movement is possibly the last thing you see coming. Once we get into the altercation, we immediately identify with his terror at the prospect of everyone forever associating the poop that wouldn't go on to it's great reward. Of course we've all read 'Everybody Poops', but, as David pointed out, this knowledge does not make us feel any more secure in what we think others might perceive us as following a peek into one of our most vulnerable acts.

Stephen Ellioit's "My Little Brother Ruined My Life"- The leading line loses me initially, because it's the 'shock and awe' strategy that a lot of short stories use. An author writes something outlandish, dropping the reader in the middle of the action, immediately grasping your attention because you want to find out what is happening. Usually this is followed by it turning out to be something taken out of context. This is not to say that this tactic is always unwarranted, but it just didn't work for me in this particular story; it felt cheap. As we read the story, it takes us to extreme emotional peaks and valleys, celebrating the evolving bond between estranged half-brothers, and reveling in Stephen's torment at the hands of their father. Overall, it felt like too much. The issue isn't the writing style, but the content is over the top. I do not question the validity of the claims, although certain concessions are to be made that all authors embellish, but there is so much that by the time you reach the conclusion of the story, you're at the very least numb to what I thought was the allusion to his brother dying in a plane crash.

Jeffrey Brown's "Six Panel Auto-Biography"- I'm a big fan of comics, so I don't know where to draw the line between short story and illustration, since something this minimalist wouldn't have worked without his art. Maybe because my recent reading has been Scott Pilgrim by Bryan Lee O'Malley, I couldn't help but read his story with that tongue in cheek tone in my head. This definitely showcased how much you can convey to your audience with the right word choice and careful consideration of what events are truly important. Although not the most disciplined writer myself, I do understand the importance of editing, and the polish on something this short tells me that although it seems simplistic, I can imagine the editing process was lengthy (or he's just talented and got it on the first try. The most applicable thing I can say is to paraphrase Voltaire, 'I would've written a shorter letter if I'd had more time', and Jeffrey's autobiography exemplifies that sentiment.

Maybe it's computer issues, but I can't open Sarah Vowell's "American Goth". Unless of course the piece isn't so much a story as it is abstract art, saying that being an american goth is a black screen in .pdf format, mirroring the tortured soul of those that accepts humanity's bleakness and futility in a universe so large.


...Although it probably is just a formatting issue.