Books for Everyone!

2 April 2022

Black Cat Ears

Today, I’m thinking ahead — to Halloween.

My Halloween Cat Costume of the mid-1990s got “re-purposed” for Dear Daughter, sometime in the early 2000s. She looked adorable in the outfit, which included a tail; and I showed no inclination to ask for the black-cat get-up to come back to me.

I’m not sure what became of the black-cat costume. My real-life black cat, Annabella, came into my life during the spring of 2008. Since that time, I’ve not looked back much in terms of my black-cat life.

Those 9 lives to live are still ahead of me!

I nonetheless need the proper ears with which to hear the incoming signals from my celestial cuddle, my Annabelle.

I therefore decided this morning to purchase an adult set of cat-ears, a headband with modestly pointed ears. The tail remains optional. My online search revealed to me several indications of the messed-up world of fiscal reality parading in various outlandish costumes.

I refuse to purchase Chinesium, anywhere, so that ethical choice eliminated the junky-jungle selling platform. I did notice, however, that the onslaught of cheaply-made Chinese goods has been vastly replaced by even cheaper (if that financial black hole is even possible) merchandise made in Thailand, Cambodia, and — India.

Beautiful long skirts sewn by seamstresses in the Republic of India are flooding the digital marketplace. Some of them are crafted from high-quality silk, and fetching respectable prices; others are wholesaled to the online customer in lots of 15-30, at prices that defy respectability. I am sure that the American women who glommed dollar-a-dozen dresses from the sweat-shops in Communist China are presently thrilled to be glomming dime-a-dozen skirts from sweat-shops in India.

I’m not saying that the East Indian workers are slaves, or treated as sub-humans in that sub-continent. I am saying that trading one set of ills for another is not progress on a moral scale.

But back to the ears!

There are all sorts of furry, fuzzy cat ears being hawked in online stores. The Ariana Grande Headgear has really taken off!

Punk Ears, Pink Anubis Ears, Goth-Cat Ears, PC-Woke-Cat Ears, Sparkle Ears, Gray-Ears (for the elder-care-kitty), Sequined Ears, Crocheted Ears, Leopard-Ears, Cheetah-Ears, Tie-Dye Ears, Neon-Light-Up Ears, Gold Rhinestone Ears, and Hyena Ears (which is a different type of cat altogether).

I then began to see cat-tails that have been messed with, in ways that ought to bring the wrath of PETA upon these hucksters.

It became clear to me that the protection of various species has become a gimmick of ginormous proportion and immense degradation, for the human more than for the animal.

I promptly decided to forego any purchase online, or even in stores — as if I can find one still open in California!

The feline costume market has been infiltrated by the most vile of creatures: Political piranhas and pawns.

That consequence has been a long time coming.

When the adults took over what is essentially a child’s holiday, sometime during the 1980s, the likely conclusion was the politicization of yet another venue in life. During the past decade, I’ve worn Halloween costumes on the appropriate day — at home — in the house. Halloween garb is not for public display anymore. At least not with elected savants for whom Halloween is everyday.

We’ve got guvs, prime ministers, and potentates who resemble Dracula, the Bollywood Princess, Orson Welles with a bad wig, Maleficent, James Bond villains, Walter the Dummy, Cruella de Ville.

I did not wish to mention an unmentionable copyrighted fictional character from a dying corporation. But if the mask fits . . .

The Transylvanian Count of California has been sickeningly smug for about six months now, even since he plunge-bought his way out of The Recall. He’s been seen doing his favorite thing, taking selfies in socially significant settings. The Dumb-Guv is the only one in all of America, in all of the World, who cannot press a Selfie of Himself by himself:

He hires an entire crew of staff digital photographers to do it for him.

I am waiting for him to show up at a Me-Phone Op, soft-handed and muscle-clad in the military green t-shirt of Volodymyr Zelenskyy. Theme-wardrobed, he shall fight the drought that the evil oppressor, Climate Change, has caused to fry the fish in the heated-up rivers that always get hot in the summer, since the dawn of time.

Gavin’s got Maltese cross envy, but I am sure his Handlers have advised him not to go down the hoodie-path of Boy Macron. Besides, Gavin thinks he IS the eco-patron saint of the Golden State.

The latest narcissistic-supply shot showed him enthroned, in a restaurant chair, somewhere, looking, deeply, into a book, one that’s been banned in his own State, while he condemns the banning of ‘literature’ elsewhere in the USA.

The cat does not have my tongue on this idiot-in-office. He’s running for re-election as the giver of all government-goodies, refunding tax-monies as required by the State Constitution, but posing at the Godsend of God-Goods to All Good Californians.

I am contemplating not voting at all this fall for the high and mighty stinking post of Governor. I’m fed up with the fantasy of an election, any election, in California. And I am sick and tired of hearing the cries of “Save California” from people who have only recently noticed — !! — this paradise is drowning in fecal matter, debt, joblessness, business flight, business death, business-sickness, criminals on parade on the streets and in the Legislature, suffocating regulation, silly laws, tax-strangulation, stupid politicos, adreno-chromed crazies, homeless psychotics and drug addicts lining entire cities, and, oh, bad schools.

Where have you been???

And why have you shown up, asking for contributions, in my e-mail stash, with messages of crisis-mongering that will immediately get trashed?

There must be big money to be made in the Fight to Save California. The 2010 SaveOurState SOS campaign sunk like a granite rock in the Sacramento River.

The federal-level races shall be, at the very least, competitive, and I’ll show up for them at the Placer County Elections Office in November 2022, much like I did in September 2021:

Ready for a fight.

My fellow jaded voters, whom I saw this past mid-September — all five of them wore the look of hostility and fierce determination. I’d had no intention of leading them to the front counter to claim their ballots — in the flesh — but somehow I was the first to get in line, and then to define for my fellow patriots:

“If you vote here, the ballot is counted here.”

The mad dash to the counter-window was on — fast!

Five years ago, when Dear Hubby and I purchased our three acres of land upon which to build our Dream House, two aging refugees from Oakland bought a fixer-upper down the lane. Their attitude has remained unchanged toward all of the old-timer residents around them:

We can homestead and live off-grid just as well as you hicks can.

Not really.

But I’d be the last to inform them of their pontificating folly. Such is the case with a pompous narcissist who was hissy-fit to be tied at the profane prospect that he’d be a One-Termer as a California Governor. Horror of horrors!

That second term is assured, now that the GOP won’t run anyone remotely resembling a winner, or even a Republican. Why bother? Larry Elder, a black businessman from L.A. got shredded as a white supremacist in 2021. He lost the only race he ever ran, and ever should run, politically.

They (whoever “they” are) say that sometimes an addict must bottom-out before he faces the truth. I say a certain type of addict can bottom out, and still not face the truth. The Golden State is saddled with such a perverse personality in the governorship. The bottoming-out will be the fate of the boneheaded people who still look to the Getty-Oil brat as someone who can save their bacon, or their tofu, or their windmill, or whatever else they count on a grandiose loser to protect for them.

With my home-made cat ears, I’ll be prepared for Halloween, and for the future in a welfare-state that’s bottoming out. I plan to also create a baseball bat of a cat-tail for myself, just like the one that my Annabelle possessed. That feline tail is not to be confused with the cattail, the tall, reedy plant that thrives in marshes, and, especially, in the tules of California. Cattails are the latest in eco-cuisine for the off-the-grid citadins to harvest and grill.

Those bare shelves do not, as yet, extend into the warm-waters of Delta, located in the geographical armpit known as The Bay Area.


Those swampy tules have become deified as Wetlands in a land that seems to attract drought like bad luck. Not only have the gold-digger socialists destroyed the business cycle, they’ve annihilated the drought cycle of seven years as well.

Playing God has its downsides, its down-down-down to the rock-bottom sides.