Experimental Cat Post

It has been a very long time since I have written a blog post. Why? Maybe laziness, maybe exhaustion, maybe fear. Yes, I said fear. But fear of what, you may ask. Great question! Thanks for asking! It's the fear of inadequacy in the face of new technology. Specifically, I'm talking about AI and the fear of robot writers replacing real life writers like myself. They say, though, that you should face your fears head on and in today's blog, I will do just that. I have decided to write a blog post about the fact that my cats are simultaneously cute and gross. I then provided ChatGPT with some specific prompts on the same topic. I will post both versions below without telling you, my faithful readers, which is which. Now it will be your task to: a) guess which version is mine and which is AI, and b) tell me which you like better. If AI wins, I'll hang up my writing gloves. If I win, I'll start my novel tomorrow. (No pressure, even though my entire future is in your hands.) Now, read away...

VERSION 1

Cats are the epitome of cute and gross all rolled into one fuzzy, little package. I should know, because I’m the proud owner of two feline terrors – Muffin and Ping. These two furballs bring a unique blend of adorableness and repulsiveness into my life every day. It’s a never-ending rollercoaster of emotions, and I wouldn’t want have it any other way.

Let’s start with the cute. Muffin and Ping are the poster children for feline cuteness. When they stretch out in the sun, their tiny paws curl and their eyes squint, making them look like fluffy, contented marshmallows. I can’t resist snapping pictures of them in these moments and bombarding my friends with endless cat photos. I’ve even considered starting an Instagram account just for them. Cute cats could potentially be my ticket to internet stardom. So, you see, the cuteness is undeniable.

But then, there’s the gross. Cats have a knack for finding and playing with the most disgusting things. Ping, for instance, has a weird obsession with rubber bands. I’ll be sitting at my desk, working diligently, and then I’ll hear that unmistakable ping of a rubber band being flicked across the room. Ping has managed to collect an impressive assortment of rubber bands from the far corners of our house. I don’t know where he finds them, but I suspect there’s some sort of secret underground rubber band marketplace for cats. It’s a mystery that may never be solved.

Muffin, on the other hand, has a love for hunting. While it’s a natural instinct for cats to catch prey, Muffin’s idea of “hunting” involves tracking down flies and eating them. Yes, you heard me right – eating them. I once caught her mid-bite with a fly’s wing sticking out of her mouth. It was both impressive and nauseating at the same time. I had to give her credit for her resourcefulness, but I also couldn't help but cringe at the thought of fly wings being consumed in my living room.

Cats are also notorious for their less-than-pleasant bathroom habits. The litter box, or as I like to call it, the poop palace, is a necessary evil in any cat owner’s life. It’s a never-ending cycle of scooping out clumps of litter mixed with cat waste, and it always seems to happen right after I’ve cleaned the darn thing. Muffin and Ping have impeccable timing when it comes to leaving their gifts in the litter box.

And let’s not forget the joy of being woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of Muffin and Ping having a WWE-style wrestling match in the hallway. There’s nothing quite like being jolted out of a peaceful slumber by the sounds of crashing furniture and hissing cats. It’s as if they’ve decided that 3 a.m. is the perfect time to reenact the Battler of the Bastards from Game of Thrones in my living room.

Despite all the cuteness and grossness, I wouldn’t trade Muffin and Ping for anything in the world. They bring endless entertainment, and their antics keep me on my toes. Sure, they may have a knack for finding and playing with gross things, but they also have a way of making me smile even on the toughest days. The ups and downs of cat ownership are all part of the adventure, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. So, here’s to Muffin and Ping, the dynamic duo of cute and gross, and to all the other cat owners out there who can relate to the chaos and joy that comes with these furry little companions.

VERSION 2

There are dog households and there are cat households (and I suppose a few hybrid dog-cat households) and we fall squarely into the cat household category. That means, in addition to the four human inhabitants in our domicile, there are two feline family members walking around. Well, let’s be honest, they’re mostly lying around, but you get the point.

Our cats are Ping (black and lean) and Muffin (grey and round) and they bring much joy to our lives. Their hobbies are being cute, purring when petted, and begging for food every time we sit down at the dinner table. They also have their own little interesting eccentricities. Ping, for example, will headbutt me in the knee when he wants cat treats, while Muffin will aggressively meow at you if you sneeze. (I’m pretty sure Muffin thinks that sneezing is equivalent to roaring or growling, so when it happens, she has to stand her ground.)

As much as we love our cats and absolutely swoon the two or three times per year they show affection toward each other, there is an ugly side to cat ownership that few people talk about. I’m going to be brave, though, and discuss the topic that is often swept under the rug…cats are gross.

There, I said it. Adorable as they are, cats can be disgusting. On multiple occasions I have unwittingly stepped in, or sat in, cat puke. (Well, I guess it would have to have been unwittingly—who would wittingly do such a thing?) In fact, just a couple of weeks ago I had to change from shoes to sneakers right before going to work, because I stepped in a puddle of sick moments before leaving the house. Luckily, even though my work dress code forbids sneakers, nobody in my office happened to look down that day.

And then there’s the litterbox, which must be changed daily. Scooping up another creature’s waste is never a fun undertaking to begin with, but one of our cats, who shall remain nameless (Ping, I’m looking at you) doesn’t know how to cover their own poo. Oh, he tries—boy does he try. He’ll spend a good five minutes after he goes, pawing all around the litterbox, thinking he’s actually burying his business, when in fact, the litter has been sent everywhere except where it should have gone. Then he will casually walk out of the box as though everything is hunky dory, leaving one of the humans (generally me) to finish the burial process for him.

At times I wonder why I put up with such revolting behavior. Why must I spend a significant portion of my waking hours dealing with the bodily emissions of someone other than myself? Then I remember that I have kids and that for the first two years of their lives, I spent even more time dealing with their heinous waste than I ever did with the cats. And the kids aren’t even as fun to pet as the cats.

So, I guess we put up with the gross stuff because they are cute, and because they are part of the family, and because, in the end, love is stronger than poo.

A Voice From the Past

 

Recently I had to call my financial institution to resolve an online banking issue. These types of calls are usually about as fun as getting hit in the kneecap with a sock full of nickels. So, as I made my way through the dozens of automated prompts to get to an actual living, breathing human, I was experiencing a fair amount of anxiety. Eventually, I pressed the right sequence of buttons and a representative got on the line and said: “Hello, this is John. I’m going to be your banking concierge today. How can I help you?” Right away I smiled.

You see, as soon as John started talking, I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he must have grown up very close to where I grew up. In fact, the more he talked, the more convinced I was that not only was this guy originally from Brooklyn, but quite likely grew up in the very same neighborhood as me, so specific was his accent. The more he spoke, the more nostalgic I became.

John was tenacious in trying to resolve my issue. In fact, he said, “I’m not going to get off the phone with you until we get this fixed. I don’t give up.” I found his persistence reassuring and his accent comforting. There were moments of downtime while he was waiting for something to update on his end. During these silences, I wondered if I should ask him where he was from. I was conflicted, because asking this question could go one of two ways: 1) he happily tells me where he’s from and we start having a conversation about the old country, or 2) he gets annoyed that I’m crossing a personal line during a business call and is less inclined to help me.

People have varying reactions to being called out for their accent. The truth is that many times, people don't think that they have much of an accent since everyone they grew up with talked the exact same way; so if it’s called out, they may get annoyed. I certainly wasn’t aware that I had a Brooklyn accent until I moved away from Brooklyn. The first couple of years that I lived in Arizona it was very common for people who I just met to ask me where from New York, or where from “back East” I was from. This rubbed me the wrong way at first—like a secret part of me was discovered. But soon I owned it, and was happy to reveal my background, which many people seemed to find exciting or exotic. The longer I have lived away from Brooklyn, the more subtle my accent has become, so these days it is rare that any new person that I meet asks me about it anymore. If they did, though, I would be fine with it. But how would John react?

Eventually, John reached a point while working on my issue where he said it could take up to 15 minutes for the online platform to be updated, but he would stay on the line with me to make sure it worked. Fifteen minutes is a long time, so I decided to go for broke.

“John, I’ve got to ask what part of the world you’re from, because I’m pretty sure we grew up in the same neck of the woods,” I said, holding my breath.

“I’m from Brooklyn,” he said, with a chuckle.

“Me too,” I said. “Bensonhurst.” Mentioning my specific neighborhood opened the floodgates.

“I’m from Gravesend. I grew up on East 3rd and Avenue U during the disco era, when everybody wore chains, and all your friends were named Tony.”

I told him where I grew up, which was about two miles from him. For the next few minutes, we waxed nostalgic about the old neighborhood. We talked about going to rival high schools—Lafayette for me, Lincoln for him—and about how cool it was that we could walk to anything we wanted or needed when we were kids. He told me that he loves it in Arizona, but he misses being in a place where he knows everyone in the neighborhood. I was just about to turn the conversation to the virtues of a good slice of pizza when he said, “Okay update your screen and I think you’ll see what you need to.”

I updated my screen and saw that my issue had been resolved. I was grateful for that but was a little bit sad that this conversation was about to come to an end. It was a Saturday morning and I had nowhere to be, so I could have talked to John for hours, but he was at work, so I’m sure he had to help more customers. I thanked him profusely and told him I enjoyed talking to him.

“Yeah,” he said. “We did some banking; we did some bonding. It was fun.”

It was, indeed, fun. It kind of makes me want to grow my Brooklyn accent back, because not once has anyone ever called me out on my Chandler, Arizona accent.

 

A Tale of Two Concerts

The first concert I ever went to was when I was 16 years and 6 months old. This was way back…way, way, way back in 1986 when the price of a floor seat ticket to see Rush at Meadowlands Arena was $15.50. Yes, there is indeed a dot between those two fives. That’s right, I paid less than twenty bucks to go to that show and sit in the 40^th row.

The monetary cost of the tickets was not, however, the only price I paid to go to that concert 37 years ago. That concert also cost me my integrity. Knowing that my overprotective parents would never let me go to a rock concert in a million years, what with the loud noises and alcohol consumption and people wearing leather, I lied and said I was going to the movies and then sleeping over at my friend Chris’s house. The second part was actually true—I did sleep over at my friend Chris’s house that night, but we did not, in fact, go to the movies. This lie was the most rebellious moment of my young life. I was terrified that I might be caught in the lie, but my excitement over seeing my favorite band outweighed my terror and I did the horrible deed. I felt guilty about the lie and proceeded to have the time of my life.

Cut to last night. My oldest son is currently 16 years and 6 months old, and I took him to his first concert. We paid a mere $75 per ticket to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers in the upper, upper deck of State Farm Stadium. Indeed, if we were any higher up, I think local air traffic controllers may have had to help us navigate to our seats.

Despite the dizzying heights at which we sat, my son and I had a blast. Yes, famed bassist, Flea, looked about the size of a flea from our vantage point, but there were two massive screens on either side of the stage showing close-up views of the band, so we were able to keep track of their frenetic movements throughout the entire 90-minute show. And while there were definitely loud noises, people consuming alcohol nearby, and even one dude wearing leather (despite the fact that we’re in Arizona and it was close to 100-degrees out) I didn’t feel like I was corrupting my son all that much. Instead, we were just digging on the music together. While my first concert was a rebellious moment, my son’s was a bonding moment.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not naïve enough to think that my son is never going to rebel as long as I keep on buying overpriced concert tickets. I just know that for now, I’ve thwarted that rebellion for a little while longer. Truly, I’m fine with him eventually rebelling, as long as he does it when he’s in his 40s when I’m too old and tired to care.

My son and I several miles from the stage at State Farm Stadium

(Photo Credit: Someone sitting behind us who may

have consumed alcohol but was not wearing leather.)

Queue Up the End of DVDs

 

Yesterday I got an email that will change my life forever—or at least change my movie-viewing life forever. The email, ominously titled “Our Final Season,” revealed that on September 29, 2023, Netflix DVD will ship its final red envelope. When I read this horrifying bit of information, I let out an audible gasp. Had there been anyone around at that moment to hear my gasp, they would surely have asked “What’s wrong?” and I would have told them. But there was no one around at that moment to ask, so now I’m telling you instead.

First off, I’m not a complete idiot. I recognize that DVDs are an outdated technology and it’s highly likely that at this point the Netflix DVD subscriber database consists of me and about 14 other dinosaurs who just can’t let go of the 1990s. I get that keeping a multi-million-dollar enterprise open for 15 nerds isn’t a sustainable business model. So, I’m not outraged, just sad.

I should also mention that I do stream movies all the time, not only on Netflix but on Prime and Hulu, as well. In fact, I watch streaming movies way more than DVDs. So why am I so sad, you ask? I will sum up my sadness with one word—SELECTION.

Yes, streaming is horribly convenient, and there are certainly thousands of titles to choose from, but almost all of those titles have come out in the past two decades. Sure, there are a handful of flicks available from earlier than that, but most of those are either very popular flicks that I’ve already seen or, frankly, they’re hot garbage. For a movie geek like me who wants to see films like Going My Way (1944) or Vampyr (1932), waiting around for them to be available via a streaming service could take a very, very, VERY long time. Yet I was able to get both titles on DVD through Netflix without any problem.

So now I’m faced with an interesting dilemma. I am on the two-disc per month plan, which means that between now and when Netflix DVDs are gone forever, I will be able to rent 10 discs. How do I possibly choose the 10 movies I will see? These may be the 10 most important decisions I make this year.

There are currently 38 movies in my DVD queue, which means that 28 of them will have to be thrown by the wayside. There are a handful of movies in my queue that I’ve already seen and wanted to see again, but given the gravity of this situation, rewatching a movie would be downright irresponsible. No, all the movies need to be ones I’ve never laid eyes on.

There are some movies that have literally been sitting in my queue for years. I often reorder my queue, moving things to the top that I suddenly have an interest in seeing, so some flicks keep on getting jumped over by others. Maybe now is the time to see something like Romance & Cigarettes, an indie musical from 2005 directed by John Turturro, one of my all-time favorite actors. It has been in my queue for more than ten years, so up to the top you go!

One by one I will have to make these crucial decisions, choosing each film I rent with the utmost care. How many horror flicks should I choose? How many Best Picture nominees? How many silent films? And once I watch my last ten rentals by the end of September, the other 28 films in my queue and the thousands more that I never got to will be lost to me forever. I, and my 14 brethren sitting in front of their DVD players, will all shed a tear on September 29^th as the credits roll on the end of an era. I’ll be sure to wipe my eyes with a red envelope.