For the first time ever, Buddy is at a loss for words.
Little Runt Who Talk Too Much,
Me hear fat little tabby cat claiming he is strongest cat in world. Me crush fat little tabby cat! He is perfect size for breakfast sandwich! I put him between slices of bread and mayonnaise. Muahaha!
Name place and time, we see who is strongest cat. Hint: It is me.
– Murderclaw the Disemboweler
Could there ever be more than one Buddy? What an absurd question.
Dear Buddy,
I came across this article about a cloned kitten who looks a lot like you did as a baby, although not as devastatingly handsome.
What do you think about cloning? Do you want to be cloned?
– Wondering in West Virginia
Dear Wondering,
You’re right, that kitten isn’t nearly as good-looking as I am.
What do I think about cloning? Well, the article says these people in North Carolina paid $25,000 to clone their cat, Cinnabun.
Twenty-five grand is a hefty price tag to clone a cat with such a stupid name. Do you know how much turkey that could buy? Well I don’t either, but I know it’s a lot!
Twenty-five thousand big ones could buy me a huge cat condo, one of those fancy window hammocks, a lifetime’s supply of Meowie Wowie and Purple Passion Meowijuana, plus all the toys I want!
But I don’t need that stuff. Although he has many faults, Big Buddy does a fine job of anticipating my desires and always serves my meals precisely on schedule. My bowl runneth over with turkey and salmon. The guys at the shelter, though, they could use it!
Speaking of shelters, you know who’s not getting a real home because these people decided to “create” Cinnabun 2.0? Some poor shelter cat who’s been in a cage for two years. (To their credit, the Bullerdick family, Cinnabun 2.0’s servants, say they donate to the Humane Society.)
The people who had Cinnabun cloned say they were inspired by Barbra Streisand, who cloned her dog for $50,000. What do you have against shelter pets, Barbra Streisand? Hmmm?
And no, I don’t want to be cloned! There’s only one Little Buddy! If Big Buddy clones me, I’ll come back to bite him and poop in his shoes!
– Buddy
Buddy’s servant has returned to do his bidding!
Buddy gave me the cold shoulder after I returned from Japan and it lasted all of 30 seconds before he couldn’t contain himself and began rubbing up against me to mark me with his scent.
Cats have scent glands all over their body, including their cheeks and foreheads, and scent is one way they establish familiarity and “ownership.” They’re comforted by the presence of their own pheromones, which is why products like Feliway — an artificial cat pheromone in a spray bottle — can help anxious cats chill out.
When a cat rubs up against a human or another cat, they’re essentially saying “These are my people!”
Or in Buddyspeak: “This guy is my servant! My servant has returned!”
Upon my return from an extended absence Buddy will not let me out of sight and will cry loudly and incessantly if I so much as use the bathroom without allowing him in, as is tradition. And this time around he puked when I returned, as is tradition.
I suspect it’s his way of processing relief, similar to the way some animals shake when overcome with anxiety or emotion. I try to remind myself that if it feels like I’ve been away a long time, for Buddy it must feel like a much longer time has elapsed — and there’s no way I can communicate to him that I’ll be back soon, so there’s an additional element of anxiety-provoking uncertainty.
Regardless, the king is happy again. Long live the king! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a plate of turkey pate to serve…
Some 30 million visitors a year come to see Tokyo’s oldest Buddhist temple, which has been a religious site for more than 1,000 years.
And making a whip of cords, he drove them all out of the temple, with the sheep and oxen. And he poured out the coins of the money-changers and overturned their tables. And he told those who sold the pigeons, “Take these things away; do not make my Father’s house a house of trade.” – John 2:13-16
Growing up Catholic, I heard the story of Jesus furiously expelling the money-changers and merchants from the temple at least a few times a year in church gospels.
The message was clear: Houses of worship are supposedly to be solemn and hushed places where people can speak to God in peace.
Sensō-ji temple is quite the opposite.
Sensō-ji is not only Japan’s oldest temple, it’s one of the most-visited spiritual sites in the world, with an estimated 30 million annual visitors.
It’s also one of Tokyo’s most-accessible shrines, just a short walk from a subway stop in Asakusa. All that foot traffic makes it irresistible for local merchants, who sell everything from traditional lanterns to t-shirts, stuffed animals, shoes, bags and hats.
On the day I visited a steady rain hadn’t put a dent in the mixed crowd of locals and tourists.
A giant lantern hangs beneath the temple gate, which was rebuilt in 1960 after a fire destroyed its predecessor. While most of the structures at Sensō-ji are reproductions, the area has been a religious site for more than 1,000 years.
“Hey man!”
I turn to look. This is the first bit of English I’ve heard all evening, and sure enough it’s directed at me, the blue-eyed, red-brown-haired, bearded ‘Merican who couldn’t blend into the crowd if I had a human-size Cuisinart.
“Come check it out,” says the speaker, a sharply-dressed guy in his 30s, gesturing toward a drinking establishment just off one of Shinjuku’s busiest streets. “I’ve got the girl of your dreams inside. You like Japanese women?”
“We’re good,” my brother says.
The salesman ignores him, singing his pitch like an R&B ballad.
“You like Japanese women, man? I know you do. We got Japanese women waiting to meet American guys.”
My trust in my brother is absolute, this bar dude is acting sketchy as hell, and I’m not that much of an idiot, so I take my bro’s cue and follow him toward the intersection.
“What was that all about?”
The guy who approached us was an extortionist, my brother explained. They’ll invite you into the club, let you order a few drinks but neglect to tell you the drinks are 10,000 yen each, or about $90 USD. If you refuse to pay they’ll call Tokyo police, who will take the word of a local business owner over the word of a tourist in what they see as a legitimate dispute.
“Or they’ll spike your drink,” my brother said, “take all your cash and run your credit cards to the limit.”
Japan’s not the kind of place where you worry about pickpockets or getting jumped by local thugs, but it’s a mistake to assume crime doesn’t exist here.
Tokyo may be one of the world’s safest cities, a place where you can leave your door unlocked or leave your bike unattended while confident no one will steal it, yet tourists are universal easy prey.
While walking through Shinjuku’s busy streets I was reminded of an interview with the great novelist David Mitchell, who spent several years in Japan teaching English before returning to the UK.
Moving through Tokyo as a westerner unable to decipher Japanese writing, Mitchell noted, is like being cocooned in your own personal anti-advertising buffer. All that hiragana and katakana written in neon might as well be mood lighting — it’s there, but if you can’t understand it, it can’t invade your headspace.
Mitchell said he found that obliviousness calming and conducive to keeping to his own thoughts on writing. Being there in person and experiencing it for myself, I could appreciate his point.
Another famous feature of Shinjuku is the giant Godzilla head, which looks like the King of Monsters is looming just behind a pair of buildings overlooking the neighborhood’s central crossing.
Pain In The Bud 