27 November 1998
 
Spodie and a Macy's Thanksgiving   
 
    Spodie is stalking about my bedroom, stealing glares at Misha the Only (formerly Other) Dog, his white legs stretching up tightly, his multi-orange back arching, stripes waving and spots flowing all about his fur.  Don't think I've ever seen a cat with stripes and spots.  He's beautiful.
    I spied Spodie and two of his brothers in the pet shop window down in Farmingdale a week ago.  Normally I shy away from puppies and kittens in pet shops because they usually come from breeding mills that are the ultimate in animal abuse, and people who would do such a thing need none of my money for encouragement.  But this particular shop I knew didn't carry puppies or kittens for this very reason, so it was quite surprising to see them there.  Turns out that the whole litter of six had been deposited on their doorstep at the age of three weeks, and had been bottle fed to survival.  Not until they were three months old were they finally going out into the world.  By last Saturday, when I went in to choose one, only two remained.
    Spodie's name refers to a mixed drink that involves very expensive imported rum, fruit punch, and vanilla cola.  The cat himself shares nothing with the drink, as far as I know.  It was just that the second Sly uttered the word after a party a few weeks ago, it struck me as the perfect name for a cat.  Musical and tough all at once.  Perfect.
    Spodie is box trained and doing well with it, though I intend to introduce him to the toilet very soon.  He eats well and has a lot of frisky energy.  He's incredibly affectionate, which gives him very high marks in my book.  The claws are another matter.  I had intended to just endure them until he learns restraint, as declawing is something I feel very uncomfortable about.  I hear now that there is a procedure whereby little plastic tips are superglued onto the ends of the claws for three months at a time.  This is painless to the cat and leaves no permanent effect.  This might be the way to go.
 
    My Thanksgiving began at 1:45 am, when the alarm clock went off and I jabbed it wildly, completely throwing its settings off so that when El Prez called me at 2:15, that call was the only thing standing between me and oblivion.  I threw on some clothes and met him at the office for our long ride over to pick up Sly in Staten Island.  The ride was long because commercial vans are not allowed on the fast routes.
    We collected our comrade and headed into the City.  The low clouds bothered us as we pulled up next to the diner at 55th and Broadway, but we had to get our balloon up, and the effort involved in that would take all our concentration.  The power converter just might not be powerful enough.  We unrolled the giant inflatable bottle of blue bubble gum soda onto the roof of the van, tying down the bottom to the eye hooks El Prez had installed.  He hooked up the power and we watched it fill slowly, the neck of the bottle finally becoming rigid.  But it wouldn't stand.  There just wasn't enough oomph to get upright, even with the light bulb switched off.
    The person working at the diner, the lobby guy in the nearby hotel, even the city worker who came by to supervise the swinging of the stoplights out of the path of the parade, none of them could be sufficiently bribed to let us tap their power.  We were on our own.
    El Prez disconnected the power and the thing quickly collapsed.  He reconnected it directly to the battery, bypassing the lighter, and it gave us slightly more power.  It still wouldn't rise on its own, but we hefted it up and it was just enough.  It never stood completely straight, but it could at least bear its weight with only one crease across its middle.  It would do.
    We slept until shortly after eight.  Finally people were beginning to cluster, and umbrella sellers were wandering, sometimes running in panic (from the cops I presume), through the crowds.  It was miserably wet and cold, yet the people were out, bringing their kids in crayon colored ponchos.
    El Prez spied a furniture truck across the street and pointed it out as a perfect shooting location.  We had the use of a video camera, complete with scuba cover for the nasty weather, and needed good footage of this event.  The furniture van rolled open to reveal a small crowd on lawn chairs inside.  At his prompting, I ran across the street to exchange a case of soda for use of the ultimate vantage point.  They quickly agreed, and I climbed up the front of the van, thoroughly soaking the bottom half of my orange Jones jumpsuit in the process, as well as everything I was wearing underneath.  I would be wet and cold for hours.
    He was right; it was the perfect spot.  I could see at least sixteen police officers in charge of this corner alone.  Across the side street from me a news team was setting up and filming, the correspondent appearing luxurious in her leather jacket with such a fluffy collar and her red beret.  The rain beat down.
    El Prez on his ladder on the other side yelled that the band Seven Day Weekend had finally arrived.  I was so relieved.  We'd left messages at our original location that we'd lost use of that spot and had a new one, but I doubted they'd get them.
    Something nailed me hard in my shoulder, and I turned to see a rock bounce off the top of the van.  I looked everywhere for the source and finally saw some kids on the street behind me waving.  Not little kids, twelve to fourteen year olds.  They turned and strutted down the street.  I reached for the rock to send it back, but it had gone over the side.  They stalked away around the corner.  The whole rest of the time I kept checking my six, my eye out for them.  I was completely defenseless, but left unmolested thereafter.  The bruise is still there.  If it had hit my head or the camera, there would have been no footage, for sure.
    After a century or two, the police motorcycles and the Macy's star balloons came, bringing the beginning of the parade with them.  Float after float, balloon after balloon, I shot everything I deemed to be of significance as it passed by our inflated soda bottle.  The balloon of Arthur seemed to reach out to grab it.  What a great shot.  Several times people saw me shooting and waved special attention at me, especially huge crowds of cheerleaders who noticed me right off and went nuts with jumping and screaming.  I dunno why my activities inspired that kind of enthusiasm, even if I was highly conspicuous on top of a cube van in a bright orange jumpsuit using a bright yellow underwater camera, but it made for good shots.  The rain stopped for awhile and I praised god, as I was running out of dry bits of shirt to wipe the water off the lens with.  That was short lived though, for it came down in buckets and the temp seemed to drop another fifteen degrees.  My fingers went numb and I began to use some shirt from under the chest zipper.  The tail was thoroughly soaked now.  I never, in all my childhood and adult years, ever, wished so hard for Santa to hurry the fuck up.
    Finally, finally, he rolled along with his entourage of singers.  I shut down the camera and slung it across my back, gratefully accepting the help of the van driver getting down, as my fingers would no longer grip anything sufficiently to let me climb down.  As I crossed the street, one of the guys from the band shook my hand and slapped a copy of their CD into it before telling me they had to go now.  I was bummed, hoping they'd want to hang awhile, but I guess they had T-day plans.
    Back in the van, El Prez and Sly praised me highly on what a trooper I'd been in that miserable weather.  I was just glad to be done with it.  In the back of the van I shucked everything but panties and got into a dry jumpsuit.  I hung out in the passenger seat heating up my feet, letting my shoes dry in the floorboard while they deflated and packed the bottle.  I put my still wet shoes on so we could go inside and get some hot grub.  The chili with cheese, onion, and sour cream was exactly what I needed, with coffee.  The trip back to Jersey took hours in the holiday traffic.
    I saw the footage in color on a TV screen today.  It came out surprisingly well, considering my shivering and distraction.  There are a couple of portions with that telltale frequent zooming and panning of the novice camcorder operator, but mostly I kept a grip on the tendency.  The rain isn't very visible and the colors are vibrant.  The antics of the cheerleaders play a lot more charmingly on the TV than on the tiny black and white viewfinder.  I think Urban will get a kick out of it.
    I slept off most of the rest of the day.  Neither the kids nor I were hungry, and the Huz and I never found an open restaurant, so we went back to his place and I just crashed out on the sofa.
   		 Previous 
List 
Next 
  
Names 
& 
Terms