THE PIMP KITTY

Nature abhors a vacuum. I know this to be true because I once spent an entire summer trying to train a ring-tailed lemur to perform simple household chores, and the damn beast kept pitching the Hoover out the window. But Nature also hates a bleeding heart, and it sometimes punishes those who would presume to interfere with its harsh arithmetic.

People in general hate to see the subtraction, especially when it involves the cute and the furry. We see a stray kitten or puppy that is clearly not long for this world, and, like a missionary swooping in to save a pagan from perdition's maw, we want to snatch it back from its grim fate. But we never think that maybe Nature had a reason for wanting that animal dead. So, to teach us a lesson, Nature lets us keep the stray.

And sometimes we find out just why that animal deserved to die.

That's the lesson I learned from the misguided compassion that that led me to Pimp Kitty, the tiny tyrant who now rules the house where my apartment is.

Pimp Kitty ( I'll explain the name later) was the gift that my housemates and I won on a guilt trip. About a year and a half ago, three cats, a young gray tabby, an older gray and white cat and a black cat, were fixtures around the house where I live on College Street. They were all that remained of a group of feral cats that had been at the house for at least as long as I had been there. Each of the three cats would beg for food, but the gray and white did so the most assiduously. She was pitiful, wretched and sickly, sort of like a feline Mimi from La Boheme.

Sadly, this cat took her efforts to play on our sympathies too far by dying. I found her body lying beside the garbage cans, which was kind of convenient. But though her body was disposed of soon enough, it was too late to stop my housemates and me from reproaching ourselves.

And so bowls of cat food began to appear out on the front porch. The food bowls did their job; neither of the other two cats died conspicuously. Yet the food delighted several rats as much as it did the cats (leaving food outside is the quickest way to get rats inside), and the rats were far more enterprising. At least two took their search for the mother lode to my apartment, touching off a furious battle that I chronicled last year.

Once the rats were subdued (by that I mean poisoned or crushed by snap-traps; I hated those vermin), I insisted that the food bowls be moved about 50 yards away from the house. This new arrangement seemed to be working well, but I eventually saw the food bowls on the back porch of the house. I didn't want to tempt a renewed rodent onslaught, so I moved the food bowl inside the house and placed a water bowl beside it for good measure.

It was a terrible mistake.

Looking back, we should have recognized trouble once the black cat was no longer seen. We should have realized that the remaining cat, the gray tabby, had kicked his sibling off the gravy train so he could ride it all himself. We then should have demanded that the cat subject himself to an interview and produce three written references before we showed him any more favor. We should have noticed the little things more, the signs that the beast was a major opportunist. We should have done something to learn of his true nature.

But most of all, one of us should have put on the daddy pants where the cat was concerned. But no one did. No one took the time to explain to him that only houseguests of the lowest breeding defecate and spray in the foyer. Worse, no one took him to a vet to get fixed. (Hey, don't look at me; I can barely afford to fend for myself on what this newspaper pays me.)

And that was a true problem. As I saw it, unless we got the cat fixed, there were only two options: I could give the cat a firm lecture about sexual responsibility, or I could get him a gold collar that said "Play-ah" on it. I thought for a while that my lecture had worked ... until the sound of feline amours began to waft up to my window. It was here that I named the cat "Pimp Kitty."

Having taken the measure of his housemates and decided we were suckers, Pimp Kitty began making greater demands upon us. If he was trapped inside the house at 3 a.m. and love was beckoning outside, he whined until one of us got up and let him out. He began turning up his nose at some cat foods. Once when he heard my door open, he stormed up the stairs, meowed indignantly and flew back down the stairs to his empty food bowl and began glaring at me reproachfully. I dutifully filled his bowl and realized that though I have two college degrees and about 12 years experience in newspapers, I am still valet to a beast that can't even sign his own name.

Well, cats are snobs, and it was a bad idea to give this one any advancement; it only spurred him to begin acting like a destitute French aristocrat forced to move in with his steward. Or maybe it's just that he has an atavistic notion that he should be worshipped as cats were in Egypt. I don't know. All I know is that he is a stern taskmaster.

But there are times when he suffers me to pet him, and he purrs as though he were enjoying it. Then he springs toward his food bowl with a sort of "Yeah, yeah. That was great for me, too" dismissal.

But at least he pretends, and it looks like that will keep him here for as long as he wants.

IT'S IN THE STARS

Sometimes, not too often but often enough to muddy the waters, Hollywood decides to portray newspaper work as breathlessly exciting and heroic. The cinematic newsroom is a hive of Fourth Estate virtue as committed journalists toil valiantly to protect the public interest. Their work matters, they know it and they are rewarded and validated by breaking The Big Story.

Naturally, the real buzz is a lot different.

A real newsroom is a little like something out of the Cold War. It is a realm of simmering frustrations and resentments in which peace exists as long as everybody stays within acknowledged spheres of influence. I don't tell reporters and shooters (photographers) how to do their jobs and they don't tell me how to do mine. Break faith with me on this, and I will trim your story by taking out every other word instead of cutting from the bottom.

You see, our spheres of influence can be pretty small, which is a tough truth for people who got into this biz looking to save the world, so we tend to be pretty protective of them. We just want to hold on to whatever shreds of power we have, so we can tell ourselves that we are, indeed, helping to save the world.

But copy editors have something that shooters and reporters don't have: an almost godlike way to reach into individuals' lives and shape them. We get to edit the horoscopes and advice columns.

Syndicated horoscopes are the kiss that newspapers blow to the gullible, and, as far as divination scams go, are up there with the Oracle at Delphi. The oracle was a priestess of Apollo in Ancient Greece whom anxious pilgrims would consult when facing a difficult decision. By some accounts, the priestess was a virgin who would -- provided the pilgrims made sufficient sacrifices and payments -- inhale noxious gases, go into a trance and then prophesy. Unfortunately, the prophecies were hopelessly vague and open to wide interpretation, but the oracle did booming business for centuries. And so you have one of the great oddities of history: the ancient Greeks, who produced Plato, Socrates, Pericles, Aeschylus and other great minds, hazarded travel and fortune to talk to a stoned, teenage girl when they wanted to learn about what really mattered to them.

(Which brings us to an interesting question: What would modern American parents -- in debt up to their eyeballs -- do if their 15-year-old daughter began accurately predicting stock market trends after taking a few bong hits?)

Syndicated horoscopes take a similar tack, speaking in chirpy generalities that you might hear from your mother or an enthusiastic elementary school teacher. "Be optimistic." "Persevere through difficulty." Don't lose your temper."

Well, if that's the best that the stars can offer us, why shouldn't I add a little kick to the horoscopes, y'know; add some specifics.

For instance, here's a typical horoscope item: "Exert yourself at work. Someone will notice." Wouldn't it be better if it had been this instead: "Exert yourself at work. Someone will notice. And tell the boss that you screwed up." Or what about this: "Romance will bring a surprise today. You will find out that your girlfriend is really a guy." Or this: "Share you feelings by making a gesture to somebody, like a slow-moving driver on Interstate 75."

Horoscopes also play it safe way too much of the time. You'll never get arrested for following their advice. But bad people need love from the stars, too. So couldn't there be an item or two like this: "With Mercury rising in your sign, the chances are good that you will get away with whatever you are planning. The widows and orphans fund is just sitting there. Go for it."

But, really, if I am going to play with the horoscopes, I should make them work for me, like this: "Look for romance with the erudite and learned, yet financially humble. Throw yourself into the arms of a copy editor. Trade sex for tutorials about the subjunctive mood. You'll be glad you did."

Advice columns offer even more ways to control the masses because they are more specific about what should be done. But they, too, often play it safe. Whenever a wronged party writes into Dear Abby, wondering how the world can be so cruel, Abby usually says the same thing over and over: Get help.

But some of these people don't want help. They want revenge. And they should be encouraged. Sometimes their self-pity is so nauseating that they deserve the harshness that Abby just can't dish out.

For instance, suppose you read a letter from a guy who was jilted by a woman whom he had sheltered in her hour of need -- just cast aside as soon as she found somebody richer and better-looking.

The normal Abby response would probably be something, "You sound like a really great guy, so don't give up hope. But if you do, then get professional help. And I don't mean a hooker."

But maybe the best advice about how to deal with a broken heart comes from the guys at the Gas 'n' Sip in Say Anything. So the response should go something like this:

Dear Sad Guy: The only way you are going to get over this woman is find somebody (not a cross-dresser) who looks just like her, hook up with her and then dump her. Only then will you be able to look yourself in the mirror again.

Or maybe this:

Dear Sad Guy: B-----s, man! (Rhymes with riches. Sorry about the dashes; this is for a family newspaper, after all)

There is, however, something creepy about guys this "caring." They reek of that sort of sympathetic, sensitive weasel who looks for women in distress. Those guys prey on vulnerability and use it to manipulate some poor chick who's on a losing streak.

These guys need to get out of the gene pool.

And so maybe the best answer would be this:

Dear Sad Guy: The world is just too ugly for a soul as beautiful as yours. I suggest you head to the remotest part of Wyoming, where there is a monastery for guys like you -- The Sacred Order of Holy Celibacy. It's best for you. And us.

Yes, changing around horoscopes and advices columns is totally unethical and would totally get me fired. But we in journalism live to do good, and I could do a lot of good this way. Why, failing to do so would confirm what Cassius told Brutus in Julius Caesar: The fault lies not in the stars, but in ourselves.

A THOUGHT FOR VALENTINE'S DAY

Why doesn't Hallmark have a card that commemorates the most famous thing that happened on St. Valentine's Day: The St. Valentine's Day Massacre. Y'know, something like an illustration of Al Capone's boys taking out Bugsy Moran's crew with "Lover, you slay me" underneath. Sure, that's a little sick, but we really need a break from fat cupids and heart-tipped arrows.

HEADLINE I WISH I HAD WRITTEN

Often in my job, I come across a story that screams for a headline that is unsuited for a family newspaper. I want to put that headline on the story. I REALLY want to put that headline on the story. But I also want to keep my job, so I play it straight.

Not here.

This story moved last night on the AP wire:

COLUMBIA, S.C. — In a Victoria’s Secret store, surrounded by frilly
bras and blown-up images of barely covered models, Lori Rueger says she
was told to find somewhere else to breast feed.
Rueger’s testimony in support of a bill to ensure breast feeding is
allowed in public places so angered a state lawmaker that he’s urging
women to form a national Mothers Against Victoria’s Secret movement.

This is the headline it should have gotten:

"Breast-feeding ban at Victoria's Secret store has lawmaker's panties in a twist"

Ans so I now take my bow.

WHO WILL SAVE OSCAR?

The motion picture academy announced the Oscar nominations last week, which is a depressingly certain sign that there will be an Academy Awards show this year.

I'm no fan of the Oscars (or any awards show for that matter). Any sane person who has worked at an East Coast paper on Oscar Night has probably wound up screaming, "Make it stop!" at some point. The show celebrates fabulous, highly paid stars who don't know when to shut up (apparently, the obligations of gratitude are pretty steep in Hollywood) while drab, underpaid journalists who don't know how to get a better job are watching their deadlines shatter with each giddy acceptance speech.

Inevitably, some actor will try to ennoble his award by attaching it to some cause or grievance. "Like the character I portrayed -- a blind, gay, black stock car racer -- many people in this country are struggling to be accepted for who they are. I hope this award shows them that there is hope for that acceptance." Such moments are a lot like getting a PopTart with socialist rhetoric inscribed on it.

The greatest sin of the Academy Awards show, however, is not the bloviating but the tedium. The show is flat-out boring. It's as predictable as a Soviet May Day parade and as entertaining as a third-grade Spring Sing. There is no reason an industry that has created such riveting entertainment as "The Godfather" and "Chopper Chicks in Zombie Town" should serve up such fare on its signature night.

But there is a way toward a better show. All it takes is a rule change or two and a little cosmetics.

The process of handing out the awards should definitely be changed. The current process allows too much room for water-cooler cinema buffs to trap their co-workers in "Well, the Oscar SHOULD have gone to ..." discussions. So there should be a system that allows challenges.

Here's how it would work: Actors who win an Academy Award still get to bound up on stage and make their acceptance speeches, but they must end the speech by saying something like. "And so I claim this prize, by right and by favor of the Academy. If one of my rivals disputes my claim, let him (or her) come forward to do battle and so let blood settle the matter." The challenger who decides to come forth would then have three minutes to wrest the statuette away from the holder and then beat him until he is incontinent. Only one challenge will be allowed, and a challenger who loses will have to forgo working in movies for a year and instead do commercials for personal hygiene or sexual dysfunction products.

Showing clips from the Best Picture nominees should be changed, as well. Most people have already seen the movies, so this part of the show adds little. But in this era of computer enhancement and all the marvels therein, it's not that much of a stretch to see how the Best Pictures could be even better. For instance, "Citizen Kane" is widely considered the Best Movie of All Time. But there is no question that it could have been better if it had included the dancing gopher from "Caddyshack." Similarly, "Brokeback Mountain" appears to be the likely Best Picture for 2005. But instead of starring Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger, wouldn't it have been better if it had starred Heath Ledger and Groucho Marx? So I say that the clips should be altered to show what the movies could have been, instead of what they are.

Acceptance speeches have got to be reined in. The affirmation of getting an Academy Award often proves to much for some actors, and they begin raving so incoherently that it's difficult to tell whether they are elated or in the grip of LSD. Worse, they believe that we actually care what the award means to them and want to listen to 10 minutes or so of shared feelings. There must be a penalty for such excess. So I propose that any acceptance speech longer than three minutes becomes fair game for a special section of hecklers. And not just any hecklers -- the best. That's right people -- Eagles and Jets fans.

Finally, there should be some sort of analysis done of each award, sort of like what ESPN does with on Draft Day. Each award will be scrutinized in the way that Chris Berman, Mel Kiper Jr., Tom Jackson, et. al. go over each draft pick, and a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down will be given. That way we will learn whether Philip Seymour Hoffman or Joaquin Phoenix deserves the Best Actor award. And whether Hilary Swank would be the Falcons' answer at strong safety.

Of course, theses suggestions are not likely to see the light of day, but Hollywood might do well to heed them. Playing it safe and serving up the usual pablum on Oscar Night is not necessarily a crime, but it is dull. And when hoi polloi are no longer dazzled, revolution thrives. So the Academy Award show can either drop musical numbers in favor of the best kill scenes in splatter flicks, or it stick to the tried and true and tempt the real thing: actors being hauled off to the guillotine.

Either way, I'll be entertained.