My cat and the 21st President of the United States, undeniable differences!

Despite the uncannily similar sense of fashion which could be described as "dandy" or "foppish," a striking physical resemblance manifesting itself in a shared affinity for amassing girth and alluring facial hair, and a common namesake (both go by "Chet") there are surprising, some might even say shocking, differences between my cat Chester and a one Mr. Chester A. Arthur. Although perhaps not obvious from the above photographs, Chester the cat is a neutered male cat while Mr. Chester A. Arthur was, according to all historical accounts, an unneutered human man. That small point aside, let us delve into the more subtle yet infinitely more important differences between these two political figures.

Mr. Chester A. Arthur served as Quartermaster General of the State of New York, as well as Collector of the Port of New York, the latter of which was a position bestowed upon him by eighteenth President Ulysses Grant. Although a stalwart supporter of the political process and an active member and volunteer at his local 4-H headquarters, Chester the cat has never held public office. Additionally, poor fundraising and networking skills as well as a general inability to master coherent speech have, time and again, dashed Chester the cat's hopes of being nominated to a winning Presidential ticket. Contrastly, Mr. Chester A. Arthur will forever retain his position in history as our nation's twenty-first President after serving as Vice President under James Garfield. Chester the cat is an avid reader of "Get Fuzzy" and hates the comic strip "Garfield."

Mr. Chester A. Arthur held presidential office for three years and did not seek renomination in 1884 because of failing health. Chester the cat has held the office in our apartment for over 6 years and has no intentions of leaving said office or of ever dying. At this point I should disclose that our cat, like Chester A. Arthur, suffers from acute health concerns. Currently, we have him on a prescription urinary tract food to prevent future infections. But might I also say that all research and firsthand journal accounts have led me to conclude that Chester A. Arthur's bladder and urethra functioned admirably throughout his lifespan. There is absolutely no evidence to suggest that our twenty-first president EVER required precription urinary tract food.

In regard to public policy Chester the cat couldn't be more of a polar opposite to Mr. Arthur. While Chester A. Arthur's Federal Immigration Law excluded paupers, criminals, and lunatics, Chester the cat is an open advocate for paupers, criminals, and lunatics... particularly lunatics. Although embarassed by annual surpluses in government revenue generated by high tariffs Chester A. Arthur ultimately succumbed to congressional pressure and signed the so-called "Mongrel" Tariff Act of 1883. Chester the cat hates dogs!

I expect that all serious readers of this entry will be compelled to fact-check what I have written. However, I am confident that any additional findings will only help to buttress my argument. Despite amazing physical similarities, the mountain of differences, as slight as they may be, must lead one to conclude that Chester the cat and Chester A. Arthur, twenty-first president of the United States, are completely autonomous figures, uninfluenced by the other's public policies and personal opinions. And with that, Mr. Chairman, I would like to yield the remainder of my time to the gentleman from North Dakota.

Send in the clowns!

Apparently, my step-grandfather is a clown. Time to eschew obfuscation you say? Alright, my grandmother on my father's side of the family recently re-married after being widowed for several years. I know this because she included pictures of the wedding in this year's electronically sent annual Christmas letter, which came up as an Excel spreadsheet on my computer. The spreadsheet was full of delightful descriptions and photos of happy people enjoying a moment of wedded bliss. Seemingly unconnected with the rest of the document, in the upper left-hand corner appeared a grainy JPEG of a clown's head labeled with the text: "Buzzy" the Clown. Buzzy was the name also given to the man in the photographs who was holding my grandmother's hands reciting marriage vows, so I'm going to assume that both pictured men are one in the same. I suppose since the name Buzzy was treated with quotation marks and the words "the Clown" were not (the opposite of what I've done here) it is possible that a.) he is not actually named Buzzy, and b.) he is almost certainly a bona fide clown and not just a clowny, jokey sort of guy. Notice how the meaning completely shifts if one writes: Buzzy "the Clown."

Being a rational person I can see the positives and negatives to the new extended family dynamic. Having a genuine certified clown in the family has distinct advantages. A family member who can provide his or her own juggling pins, seltzer bottles, and purple 1970 VW Beetle filled with 48 clown friends is a financial goldmine come family reunion time. No longer would one have to hire "out of house" for such vital reunion necessities.

On the other hand, I can't say I look forward to the countless Christmas and birthday cans of nuts filled with springy fake snakes. Also, I'm not sure how many times I'll be able to take the inevitable squirt to the face from the pansy on his lapel. Nor do I imagine that a clown suit is machine washable. The dry-cleaning bills will most likely be astronomical for my grandmother once cream pie throwing season arrives. That's why I hope that Buzzy (if that's even his real name) is that kind of hobo clown who wears only a barrel with suspenders attached to it. Easy cleaning and maintenance!

If you would like to hire him for birthdays or Bar/Bat Mitzvahs please contact me. I am told that his schedule for 2007 is pretty much full, but there are still many dates available in March and August of 2008. Book before September and his services will include balloon animals for a party of twenty-five. High-diving trick pony is extra charge.

Explanation

I can't really take credit for the title of this blog. Having a third grade vocabulary has allowed me to read and/or comprehend little more than books 1-3 of the Harry Potter series, Encyclopedia Brown and the Case of the Disgusting Sneakers, and Choose Your Own Adventure: Your Code Name is Jonah. That's why I like the funny pages, or as I prefer to call them: extremely short graphic novellas. Having moved to New York, my wife and I subscribe to the New York Times, which evidently doesn't have an extremely short graphic novellas section, so I have to pretend to "read" the annoying wordy part of the paper, which is everything. I'm sure our cat thinks I'm that two-headed monster from Sesame Street, "Hez......bollah, Hez.....bollah, Hez....bollah, Hez...bollah, Hez..bollah, Hezbollah!!!!" Without a doubt, I'm the only person in my building squealing with pride after sounding that one out. And I'm certain that by printing the word Hezbollah on this page I will now longer be able to board an airplane. Have a nice day.

Anywho (I'm told that's the hip way to write "anyhow," kind of like using this thing --> ;) or these --> LOL, BFF, BTW, POS, ROTFL, and who can forget THWEOQYIUATYOZXMOMP), the phrase "eschew obfuscation" means to deliberately avoid or abstain from being confusing, unclear or unintelligible, and while writing this sentence I had to refer back to the dictionary six times, Oxford not Websters, biatch! A good friend of mine had a t-shirt with this phrase printed on it. He wore the shirt in 1996, and I finally figured out what it meant last July, thanks owed to another good friend who works for the State Department and her boyfriend who is actually a member of Mensa, no joke, he took the test and everything. They also pointed out to me that there is, in fact, irony intended by this phrase... you know, like rain on your wedding day, or a free ride when you've already paid.

Honestly, I just kind of like the way "eschew obfuscation" rolls off the tongue, like those Japanese pop songs made up entirely of random English words that the artist or singer thinks sound nice together. And slap a Hello Kitty picture on this and it could be the next hot thing on that little island in the Pacific!

I began this page as a challenge to myself. I simply must eschew television-watching. If the energy I devote to this blog has the potential to distract me from tuning in to TBS to watch Blade II or Legally Blonde for the twenty-seventh and nineteenth time, respectively, then mission-accomplished. I think my problem with time management as it relates to the television is owed in large part to my career, which has me frequently staying in anonymous hotel rooms. No, I'm not an employee of the "oldest profession," but rather I am a "vocal performance professional" and yes, there is a distinction between the two. Right, time to eschew a little obfuscation: "vocal performance professional," or VPP for short, means I use my voice to earn a livelihood, like Pavarotti, Mandy Patinkin, or Oliver Twist. Other famous VPPs include William Shatner (vis-à-vis his Beat-Poet stylings in the Priceline commercial), Moses, and The Naked Cowboy at Times Square. My job demands constant travelling. Travelling to strange and enchanting new lands. Places like Cleveland, Ohio. Surrounded by such exoticism, I find myself longing for the familiar and mundane, thus I turn to television... or JoAnn's Fabrics, but that's another entry.

So, I'll thank you now for your infinite patience in reading the above ghost-written entry and in the truest spirit of Choose Your Own Adventure I will close with:

THE END...?