New Feature

As a tribute to those, shall we say, "artistically challenged" among us, Zin will occasionally post some really bad art. All entries come unedited, directly from the Museum of Bad Art.





THE ATHLETE

If Cats Could Talk

This is what they'd say.

Who Said That?

Ain't Got No Turduken

We didn't go with this year's trendy Thanksgiving feast; seafood dressing stuffed inside a boneless chicken, stuffed inside a boneless duck, stuffed inside a boneless turkey. What will they think of next?

I think I know.

My brother, our family's holiday cooking specialist, has his own version in development. The final recipe is still hush-hush but I understand that at least two of three ingredients are road kill. The third may be a pocket pet. Can't wait.

Special Thanksgiving greetings go out to all family and friends and especially to cousin Dan in Iraq.

Have a wonderful holiday!

A Matter of Taste

It seems that the celebration of Christmas comes earlier every year. I don't know if it's true loathing of Thanksgiving and leftover turkey sandwiches or a lack of interest in the Macy's Day Parade now that Macy's has diluted the brand with Bon-Macy's, Burdines-Macy's, Goldsmith's-Macy's, Lazarus-Macy's and Rich's-Macy's. Who knows?

What I do know is that neighborhood exterior decorators now skip right from Halloween into Christmas. The puckered, gap-toothed pumpkins disappear the same day the strange nodding white deer show up to graze in select lawns. The deer often hide among a stand of circular-wound lighted trees that roughly resemble miniature evergreens.

The timing bothers me but perhaps only because I have to look at these holiday aberrations longer every year. On top of it all, there's simply no accounting for taste.

Traditional Christmas decorations have been elbowed out by a mob of swaying fan-powered PVC lawn Santas and digitally choreographed metal trees performing synchronized lighting themes in a spiral of multi-colored flashes. Strobes blare emphasis on house mounted wreathes and flapping red ribbons.

I'm an "old fart" Christmas holiday traditionalist. In fact, I'm so old I remember the strawberry-sized bulbs that came only in primary colors. I probably have a few strands stored away in a box of old Christmas decorations someplace, because they were non-disposable.

The light strings required a careful examination every year before they went up. Blown bulbs would be replaced carefully so as not to bounce the lights off the floor and ruin otherwise functioning bulb filaments. Bulbs with chips in the color would be replaced with shiny new ones, mindful of keeping the proper color sequence. The light strings were designated either strictly for outdoor use or inside only. I'm not sure why, they looked the same.

The inside bulbs had handy metal clips attached to the base of the bulb. This made for handy attachment to the tree branches so that the bulbs could be judiciously placed for proper spacing and color mix. A talented tree lighting specialist was considered an artist.

Once the lights were mounted to the specialist's satisfaction, the second team would come in to hang the ornaments and tinsel. Ornaments required the same equal spacing and the tinsel would be hung one strand at a time to get the right look. No shortcuts.

Crusty old curmugeon I am, over the years I've conceded the large bulbs and tinsel to strings of small disposable lights and garlands. Lights are mostly white now, but that's strictly a matter of personal taste. The multi-colored lights don't throw me off.

I prefer a few window wreathes and have caved to the icicle lights that hang classically from the eaves and follow the roof outline around the house. My sacrifice to tradition, I suppose. I just can't abide the swaying PVC lawn Santas.

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Dr. Zin's Weird Science

Ever wonder where yellow snow comes from?

Cat Humor

"If you want a dog to take a pill, tape it under another dog's tail."

Oops

-The trebuchet was invented to serve hot meals to soldiers stuck at the rear of the column.

-Carrier pigeons were summarily shot for delivering bad news, hastening their extinction in France first.

-Hitler alternately wore men’s and women’s underwear on alternate weekdays . Weekends were reserved for “freefall”. Stalin wore fur-lined underwear every day and kept fire ants in them.

-The Scots wore kilts so they could poo while they retreated.

-On his way to the executioner, King Charles I invented slouching.

-On his way to the guillotine Louie XIV invented Crab Louie Salad. He kept the recipe in his head so it remained undiscovered for many years.

Pucker

"Wow, that juice is tart"

Cats and Dogs

"So, whatchu doin' after the shoot, big guy?"

Whence the name, Dr. Zin?

That’s the question my friend Camy asked after her first visit here. By the way, Camy’s blog is linked at the right. Go visit; she’s a wonderful writer. And go visit my niece, Plum, also a peach of a site. First, back to the question of Zin.

Camy’s question came up before I changed the text under the Dr. Zin title, so a better question might be: “Whence the name, Dr. Zin, and what on earth does he have to do with Mark Twain?” Good question. First, Dr. Zin.

It’s a story from my last birthday. In the last few years I’ve taken to celebrating birthdays with a few close friends, friends I can bribe with good whisky to buy their silence. My last birthday was something of a milestone I’m told, so I decided to gather up my brother Joe and best friend Jon for some harmless debauchery fueled by whisky.

Brother Joe, best friend Jon and I holed up in my kitchen with the door to the rest of the house closed, choking down a gallon of Jack Daniels (Sorry, did I say good whisky? My best friends aren’t that particular, which is why they’re my best friends. And, they have a tendency to blab anyway. Jack is plenty good enough for those reprobates.).

Sometime around 2:00am the conversation swerved/stumbled/swayed into the 60s TV cartoon, Johnny Quest, and our collective, trivial, alcohol induced, inspirational wellspring began to bubble.

Yeah, Dr. Quest, Race Banon, Johnny and pal Hadji, with Hadj’s magical climbing rope trick, all drowning in the noise of that annoying, constantly barking little white dog. What was his name? We worked feverishly to brand that animal. The breakthrough finally came when I decided I’d hop down to the floor, bay and bounce around, offering a bit of inspiration to my saturated pals.

At this point brother Joe, certain we’d forget all this great material by morning, began taking notes. For posterity, of course. However, either his pen malfunctioned or, more likely, the nerve synapses in his hand lost contact with his arm synapses, his shoulder and finally with his brain. By the next morning his notes and creative artwork looked like some form of hieroglyphics and was, mostly, unintelligible. Except for two items.

Apparently, we had decided that the stupid white dog’s name was Badger. I’d rather not say how we arrived at that conclusion, but at the time, we were fairly certain on the point. Secondly, no matter how many brain cells we bathed in Nectar of Jack, we simply could not recall the name of the evil genius that stalked Race and the boys every Saturday morning. The bald guy with the cool henchmen. And that’s exactly what brother Joe’s note said – “henchmen”.

In another life, I’d be that bald guy with the cool henchmen. In fact, I’m working on it in this life. If you knew brother Joe and best friend Jon a little better, you’d appreciate that I’m off to a decent start.

As for Twain, I simply believe that he’s one of America’s greatest authors and probably her finest chronicler of the human condition.

Twain has nothing to do with Dr. Zin, and the dog’s real name is Bandit. Heh, heh.

Haven't Quit Yet

I just returned from a long business trip to discover that my wonderful niece, le Plum has added me to her blog roll. This immediately threw me into an uncontrollable fit of French. Always happens when I'’m under pressure to perform.

Ma ni'¨ce, la prune m'a identifi. Maintenant je dois produire beaucoup des mots ©crits ainsi ses amis ne me trouvent pas pour ªtre un ªtre terrible.

Don't bother trying to translate, my French is horrid. Roughly, my niece has put me on the spot (which is OK) to produce much words that make no sense so her friends wonÂ't consider me an awful bore.

I'’m flattered, nonetheless. Thanks, Kris.

Ciao'

Cruel Shoes

Dr. Zin's prescription for restorative arch support.

Cloven Horrors

Why parents should not trick-0r-treat with their children.