I like that they call the Pope's plane, "Shepard One."

I like seeing white birch tree bark flap in the wind.

I like rearranging my furniture.

I like the fuzzy pads on the legs of my furniture.

I like knowing lots of high school seniors won't be going to college right off.

I like spring for being able to see the contour of the landscape.

I like toweling off after a shower with a soft, fresh towel.

I like pepper floating on my tomato soup.

I like staring at wood grain.

I like being substance free.

I like not caring who wins.

I like beans even though as I age they become more substantial regards to digestion.

I like all things in support of lumbar.

I like Yoga and Fung-Shi, though I don't practice them.

I like stretching.

I like how the area surrounding my cat rattles when she stretches.

I like knowing clever people make things from white birch tree bark.

I like those who don't like me.

I like the word, pet, used as a term of endearment.

I like going to the dentist, the doctor too.

I like it when a college President's residence overlooks the campus.

I like the Pope's white hair.

I like, as you have read, two things about the Pope, even though I'm not Catholic.

I like burping up sour bile every now and then cause it makes me aware that there's serious stuff going on down there.

I like it when a cat will bear down and hiss a good long hard one at a much larger animal.

I like hearing and watching babies crying in earnest.

I like using clipped fingernails as floss.

I like humidity.

I like liking.

I like looking at vacation photographs of people I've never met.

I like ownership of liking what I like and not having to share.

I like out of control laughter. Mine, yours, and theirs.

I like getting gift certificates to restaurants.

I like being alone as much or more than I like being with other people.

I like knowing what I like and I like knowing the list of what I like is endless.

I like that I could spend eight hours a day, every day, until I die, writing down things I like, and still not have time to write down all the things I like.

I like that the two lines just before this one are the same but different.

I like the sun, moon, stars, rain, clouds, fog, mist, snow, sleet, and all things in the family.

I like the Popemobile. Three things.

I like shedding things. Things I own such as clothes, old school exams, my skin.

I like that my carbon footprint is two points below average according to a study.

I like that my heart hasn't stopped beating a groove since when ever it started.

I like knowing, when my heart finally stops for good, that all living things matter.

I like knowing things I like aren't necessarily things I love.

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I like that you like things even though I don't like all of the things you like.

I like to feel like it's not important for you to like all the things I like for you to like me.

I like understanding things you like that I don't like.

I like not being someone who says, "like," in the course of normal conversation because if I was one of those people this piece would be over the top.

I like taking time noting things I like. Try it.  

Ask me about any of the above and I'll tell you why.

I don't like garlic.

I've been on vacation for three weeks. I'm self employed so a vacation for me means, staying put because of needing to always be around to keep track of in-calls for jobs that will book during the other 49 weeks of the year. So vacating for me is turning my head away from most things present that I could be doing, but that can be done in the near future. It takes discipline to put things aside that I could easily be doing, but I've gotten the hang of it, and rolling through the day following my whims (laying beside a swimming pool or swimming hole, going to Burlington for the day, hiking, hiking, hiking, seeing movies, seeing friends on friends boats, staying home during an all day rain reading, buying a cat at the cat orphanage and spending the day getting acquainted), has become second nature.

My sister visited from Albuquerque New Mexico. She hasn't visited during the summer for three years, and that was when dad was in the nursing home so she didn't get a lot of time to enjoy and relax. Holly stays in a cozy bedroom on the bottom level of my house which has a double bed, side table, lamp, alarm clock, wicker trash basket, closet, and five-drawer chest. The chest is made from maple. It's large and heavy, about fifty years old. It was my dad's.

I was looking through it before my sis arrived, going through some of dad's stuff that I'd not gotten rid of during the clean out, when I noticed a worn, supple black leather money fold. There was money in it, $165.00. It was money dad accumulated from what mom would give him which amounted to his allowance. Dad never dealt with the family's money. He made it, and had equal if not controlling direction on how he and mom cared for it, but he didn't carry any on him. If he needed a "finski" as he called it, for gas, he'd ask mom and she'd hand him a fiver.

I have a favorite restaurant and my mother, sister, and I planned on going during my sister's visit. When I found dad's $165.00, I thought it might be cool to pay for the dinner with it, and in doing so we might feel that dad was paying for dinner, and in turn was along with us.

I wasn't sure if mom or Holly would feel the same as I did about using dad's final $165.00 to pay for our grub. I thought they might think keeping the money in the bill fold in perpetuity might be a more sensitive way of honoring dad regarding his stash. I thought maybe they would feel like we were stealing from him if we spent his bucks on our extravagant meal.

When Holly arrived I asked what she thought and she agreed that we should use the money for our fancy dinner. I waited until the dinner to run it past mom. When I pulled out the bill fold and explained to mom I'd found the stash, and that my idea was to have dad pay for dinner, she couldn't have been more pleased.

Showing them the money acted as a catalyst that sent us off on a long string of dad related stories.

As we finished desert the bill came and it totaled $165.00. I'm not kidding. Can you believe that? I could hardly. Are there any mathematicians out there? What are the chances of that happening? I had to look at the bill again and again to make sure the restaurant folks hadn't found out about the dad stash we'd brought to pay, and for effect made the total of our bill come to the exact amount.

Do you believe?

What made me go rummage around dad's chest in the first place? What made dad's final deposit to his allowance bill fold end at $165.00? Why was my desert $9.50 instead of $7.25? Why did Holly who wouldn't usually have desert, have it this time?

Surely you're not saying it was dad's spirit that caused all the above to fall in place, and that somewhere somehow he was hovering over our dinner?

You'd be better to think it was coincidence wouldn't you?

Choose one. Spirit – coincidence

I choose Spirit. How could you not?

Off came her shoes, and with them her socks, revealing cute bare feet, and she shimmied her sweatshirt over her head which pulled her thread bare retro t-shirt up till it hooked and clung to her bra, and her still wet-warm-morning-shower-hair smelled baby fresh, so thick, the blond ends dangling midway down her bare back coaxing the eye to survey the beltless top of her loose hip hugging blue jeans, and she answered, "yes, I think so," when I asked if my laptop should be separately binned, her words pumped full of air, sent into space tangled in smoke from a Crown Royal Whiskey night spent listening to hits from, The Best of Dean Martin. She was one in ten million.

I'll search high and low before I'll find a scene more erotically charged, more slow motion, more  Angie Dickinson from A View to Kill, than what unraveled a foot in front of me this morning at the check- in for my flight to Albuquerque. I didn't realize you practically have to undress before they'll allow you passage onto a plane these days. It's a good thing mind you, and mind you, yes, George Bush has said it, but not too many others, that is, we've not had another killer terrorist strike since the big one, and had it not been I was dizzied by the fetching gal ahead of me, I'd still be stunned at the thoroughness of the once over they put me through today before boarding the plane.

There she was, looking and smelling and simply being hotter than a pepper sprout stewing in a pot-o-lava, waiting for the drab grey bin carrying her little socks to appear from the x-ray scanner, conveying itself to her spot in line. There she was, a foot from me, folding at the waist, straight legged, using the palm of her hand to pad airport carpet dirt from her clean white soft powdered feet. There she was, smiling at the thought of, well hell I have no idea what she was smiling at, but I could dream … , and I did somewhere over the Rockies. There she was, re-dressing at blowing in her ear distance (her socks and shoes on, her sweatshirt tied around her waist, her still damp hair flowing in concert to the beats of her heart). There I was trodding stocking footed through the x-ray doorway that used to beep at my belt buckle and steel toed boots, making me look and feel like a man, with working hands, the kind a Kathleen Turner voiced girl would like ("Body Heat" Kathleen Turner), a man for which sporadic beeps sound from the steel in his libido alone.

Now we strip before we go through the x-ray doorway, our boots and belt buckle dismissed by the x-ray bin.

There I was most definitely invisible to the beautiful girl.

Looking on the bright side, the folks checking to make sure none of us are going to blow-up the plane, are so very nice and so very good. I can't remember the last time I read or heard so much as a pin being found on a passenger. I don't fly often, but when I do I look around at my fellow passengers and can't understand why more crazy people aren't doing more crazy crap as we fly the friendly skies.

The friendly skies indeed in no small part because of the gang at the Burlington International Airport who assure our flights are safe. I say thanks because your job is thankless. You stand there saying, "take your belt off, your shoes, put your laptop in a separate bin …" over and over and over, and so few of us strippers say thanks or even look to you with a smile, let alone tell you what a fine group of a well honed unit of workers you are in your uniforms, uniforms that probably itch. The job you do is very busy, often, often it's not, which are times you might find yourself nodding off, and if you do nod off, for even a split second, you might miss the one in a million person who sneaks aboard with a pocket knife hidden, with the sole intention of cutting a flight attendant's pinkie finger, just to get his or her mug on MSNBC and CSPAN.  I know you're awake during your shift looking for dozens of those type things and thousands of others that I'm not the slightest bit aware of, that could cause havoc to the nation.

I'm aware you are doing a hell of a job simply because; I don't have to be aware of anything but the girl ahead.

Thanks again.  

I hear Burlington has a new motto: "Burlington, the West Coast of New England." I hear whom ever is in charge of hiring a group to think up the new motto hired an out of state company and paid them 30K to think it up. Burlington, "The West Coast of New England." Don't you think it would have been cheaper to post a note asking us folks who live here and who've been hanging around Burlington most of our lives to come up with the motto? I do.

Isn't there another marketing slogan here in Vermont that promotes buying Vermont? I think the motto is, "Buy Vermont." Apparently the folks who hired the out of state company didn't hire the same company who thought up the, "Buy Vermont," motto. Or maybe they did, maybe the, "Buy Vermont," motto was thought up by an out of state firm too. I doubt it, but it would be funny if it was wouldn't it?

I believe in the "Buy Vermont," concept, but I also think that if there's a better product made out of state, it shouldn't be counted out as buy worthy. I do think for sure some local company or even just a local dude or gal off the street could have come up with a better slogan for Burlington. As long as they were throwing money around I woulda thunk them up a goodn for $28,750.00.

..:NAMESPACE PREFIX = O />You might ask why a city needs a motto in the first place. Well, a motto is used to attract people to the city its mottoing. If that's true, then I think, "Burlington, the West Coast of New England," sucks as a motto.

Why, if you are trying to attract people to Burlington, Vermont, would you use the words west coast within the motto? That's like trying to get your girlfriend to get frisky with you by showing her a picture of Brad Pitt. 

Besides, saying Burlington is like the west coast is a lie if you ask me. Are west coast cars full of rust? Does the west coast have ice storms? Does the west coast have deer flies?

Not comparable to good ole Burlington, Vermont it doesn't. In turn, does Burlington have the ocean? Ha, no way man! It has North Beach. It's funny to think of some west coast sun and sand worshippers hearing about Burlington being west-coast-like, then coming here to tan on North Beach in their thong swim suits and getting good sized rocks stuck in the crack of their behind. With that in mind maybe a better motto would be, "Burlington, 2.8 miles of beach – come stand on it."

We here in Vermont are all puffed up with ourselves, all proud and all, and always wanting to say we're leaders in this and that, like with stuff about saving the environment, and being open and liberal minded with our politics, and we have Jim Jeffords who broke camp on the strength of his independence and Howard Dean who blazed a trail signing the Civil Union deal, and we support independent workers whether they be farmers, bakers, or candlestick makers, and we're always boasting about how we're still standing strong on principals and morals instead of letting ourselves be swayed by the media and our closed minded government.

We're grateful and blessed to be thought of as independent minding strong willed people who stand on our own whether it's the popular thing to do or not, and above all we're happy with who we are. That's all good stuff, so why when it comes to telling the world about our largest city do we publish a line that says we're like someplace else?

I'm not busting on the company who thought up the motto because I'm sure they put a ton of time and energy into getting the exact right set of words to go together, and I'm sure they for sure think they've written what's best for our Queen City, and I'm pretty sure they handed a handful of mottos to whom ever picked the winner, so maybe its not even the motto companies fault. In fact there is no fault in this case because I can't say the motto isn't going to be effective, because maybe it will. All I'm saying is I'da never picked it. Nope, no way. I don't think it's accurate.

I consider myself very fortunate to live in Elmore. Elmore is a small town that still maintains the old-fashioned small town feel. Elmore's kids go to kindergarten through sixth-grade in the same small school house for one thing, and another cool thing is it's motto: "Elmore - Beauty Spot of Vermont" Now that's a kick butt motto. It's simple, clean, and to the point. (Not like Montpelier's motto, which is: "Montpelier, the Newport of Central Vermont") I also don't believe Elmore paid probably more than 30 bucks for its motto.  

 
Here, take a gander and see if you don't think one of these mottos might not be better at getting folks to come to Burlington.      

"Burlington, the Burliest of the Ingtons"

"Burlington, it's in Vermont"

"Burlington, it's nothing like Elmore, but it used to be"

"Burlington, we finally got a Hooters!

"Burlington, we're not the coat factory"

"Burlington, not the one in Massachusetts"

"Burlington, close to Farms"

"Burlington, if you like the west coast, don't come here"

"Burlington, home of the Green Mountain Boys"

"Burlington, beautiful weather … quite often"

"Burlington, look over there, its Plattsburgh"

Some of those mottos may bring folks here, some may keep folks away. All of them are accurate.

Only way I'd keep Burlington's new motto would be if San Diego promised to change it's motto to: "San Diego, the New England of the West Coast"

I got a cat. I love it. It's called Scarlet. That's what it's name was when I chose and bought it from the cat orphanage. I learned something at the cat orphanage. Girls who like small animals are attractive. They're attractive in a, not-afraid-to-lug-litter way. Luggin litter isn't something you learn in college, you learn it if you put excess time in caring for small animals. You want a gal who cares for small animals to excess, it means she'll care less about what you do, and less, in many cases, is just right. 

This isn't a blog about litter luggin lovelies; It's about my feline, Scarlet, and what she's taught me about feeling.

I was startled to be finding full cat toenails lying on the floor. I assume a cat's sharp nails are important for their all around well being, and seeing entire strong curved and pointy cat nails lying about alarmed me. Imagine a home with full human finger nails spread about? I wondered if it was her diet causing the nail loss, but was pretty sure I was feeding her the best food because I buy it at a feed store from a hot animal loving not-afraid-to-lug-litter babe, who went to animal food school (so the girls at the orphanage told me). When I asked the food school graduate girl about the nail loss, she told me she'd sold me the best cat food on the market, and assured me it was totally natural that Scarlet be losing her nails, "It's the new nail growing in," she said. I was relieved, and very happy. Now I no longer spend evenings gluing Scarlet's old nails back on.

Scarlet's a great cat, she doesn't get into stuff like plants, and cupboards, and toilets and bathtubs, and my inner thoughts. She does scratch my hemlock beams, but that's perfect, they're huge and hard and take the brunt of scratching from the soft furniture.

Ha, I just wrapped an afghan around little Scarlet, all curled up snake-like, cozy, warm, on the couch. Then I stepped back and performed for her a swivel-hipped jig, ala John Travolta in "Pulp Fiction," to the country tune, "A Little Less Talk and Allot More Action." With only her cute little head visible from under the afghan, Scarlet watched me dance. Her face had on it the look of an old woman in a nursing home watching a game of ping-pong; Steven Spielberg couldn't have directed her to a more appropriate look.

Gol darn she's a cute little cat. She's black and white, and I pick her up, one hand beneath her behind, the other in front of her chest, held firmly between her front legs. I walk to the window, and together we look out across the valley to the mountains. When I kiss the top of her head her front paws come into view, side by side, whiter than white, and soft looking; She's happy I'm holding her, and she begins to purr. I begin to melt.

I have a cat. Haaa haaa. I lay on the couch, and in a freaked out baby voice I talk to Scarlet like I'm some fruit cake, as she jumps up onto my belly and starts kneading. She kneads, and kneads, and kneads, and to you folks who've had cats it's not a big deal, but I find it strange, and really, really painful. I mean this cat kneads. I've got so many tiny holes in my stomach and chest that when I drink standing up my shirt becomes drenched. I'm glad she doesn't decide to knead a little south, cause if she did, my generaltalia would end up generally confused.

After she eats she clicks across the hardwood floor toward me, meowing thank-yous in short, medium, and long blasts. I love that.

Scarlet's meows are less like meows and more like words than one could imagine. She'd get the job over any cat at an audition for one of those annoying meowing, barking, Christmas Carol records. In fact, she nonchalantly meowed a "Pa rum pum pum pum" the other day that would have made Bing Crosby blush. I love that. 

I'll be standing, or sitting, and I'll look down to see her mimicking my posture to a tee. I love that.

Sometimes, during the wee hours of the night, she rises from bed, gets the scrub-brush and cleanser, and tidies the master bathroom. I love that.

Mornings I stretch on the floor, and she sits up against me, her little mouth turned up on each side. She's smiling. I love that.

From 9:00 to about 10:15 Thursday mornings, she starts running from one end of my great room, and when she gets up a good head of steam, she belly-flops to the floor and glides. She's my little cat central vac. I love that.

There are thin, wispy, light colored, long fur hairs coming out of her ears. I love those hairs.

She's clean to the point that she has a perpetual new cat smell. Her fur glistens, it's soft and smooth to pet. I love that.

She doesn't have extra fingers on her paws. I love that. Some cats do have extra toes on their paws. I'd love that too.

She answered an ad in the paper for a heavy construction equipment operator. I think she misread construction as catstruction. Well anyway, she got the job. She's running a D-6 Cat dozer. Her take home is more than mine. I love that.

I even love her yawn breath.

I find it odd that we can have such unconditional, pure, clear, non-judgmental, unquestioning, healthy, natural, easy love for animals, while at the same time find it sometimes unbelievably difficult to conjure similar feeling for humans.

Maybe Evel Knievel said it best when asked why he was a daredevil. "I can't help it. It's born in me. I can't help it."