Paris Hilton has gotten . . . (well, it rhymes with "hat")

Those who know me, know that I am fan of nice hats. I suppose that's what makes Opening Day so much fun--it's just amazing to see so many spectacular hats off the rack. And those hats are spectacular.

But there is more to me than just a simple hat fancier. Readers of this blog know, for instance, that I am something of a cat fancier. But even though "cat" does rhyme with "hat," I am afraid that to the best of my knowledge Paris Hilton has not gotten a cat.

No, the sordid truth is that the innuendo in my title is that Paris Hilton has gotten fat. It's true that just this morning I was reading that she has also gotten busted for possession of cocaine, but that does not rhyme with hat. My interest is only in the fatness of Paris Hilton.

And, of course, the only Paris Hilton I am interested in has never been near cocaine.



You don't really need to tell me that "short" does not rhyme with "hat," either, but the fact is that this photo should indicate that without getting any taller, poor Paris weighs more now than she used to. If you are not convinced of this, let's go to the aerial view:



Yes, gentle reader, that is not so much a photograph FROM a blimp, as it is a photograph OF a blimp. Poor little Paris, who still scoots around pretty quick on those stubby little legs is officially wider than tall. The reason for this turns out to be pretty quick to identify. Being close to the ground and all, Paris seems to get to the hay in the pen before anyone else. And, like any good hardtime inmate, now that she has weight, she has apparently learned how to throw it around. Notice, for instance, how the taller (more slender?) supermodel goats give her room:



The first remedy for this was a common-sense initiative: limit her rations by relocating her to a pen where she would not have an unlimited supply of hay, and give her only straw for bedding and a daily food ration for nourishment. But it only took a day or two to realize that once she finished breakfast, she went right to work on eating her bed. So before long, the Paris Hilton solitary confinement diet was born: bare dirt to sleep on, and only minimal feed. With any luck at all, she will soon be looking less like Rosie O'Donnell and more like her namesake.

Fortunately, there does not seem to be similar issues with the burritos, 1 and 2.

Burrito 1 . . .




. . . and Burritos 2.

Hats For Sale!

It seems forever ago that I read that book . . . it might have even been called "Caps for sale." And it had monkeys in it. That's about all I remember.

But it also seems like forever ago when I went out to Del Mar, and that was only about six weeks ago.

The Opening Day at Del Mar is kind of State Holiday in California. Almost everything stops, while people announce the final summer season by trekking down I-5 to Bing Crosby's favorite track. The paddock at Del Mar is a kind of floating cocktail party on Opening Day, as Peb has caricatured in his mural:





But that, of course, is only art.



Life itself is less organized, more chaotic. And on Opening Day, it is about one thing . . . hats.













There are little blue hats and LARGE RED HATS.


There are quiet purple patterned hats . . .



. . . and loud, flashy turquoise hats.
















There are red hats . . .






. . . and brown hats . . .













. . . and softly elegant black hats;















There are even L O U D flowered hats




And more sedate floppy brown hats



There must be, of course, pretty pink hats . . .



. . . just as there must be smiling brown hats.





There are huge flocks of hats . . .




And a few tasteful individual hats like Miss Saigon and her rose-tinted topper . . .













There were hats everywhere. Well, almost everywhere. If you looked hard enough, here and there, you might find someone who was topless.



Fortunately, after all those hats, it was possible to go back to the farm and get a chiropractor to come straighten the kinks out of your back and help you relax.





All things considered, it's a pretty demanding life.

Summer Reset

Eagles? Lakes? Where did the summer go? How did I get here?

Let's try to reset the last month. Perhaps narrating my daily progress will wind up looking like Tristam Shandy's autobiography--getting further behind every day. But I will attempt it anyway.

About a month ago, I was in a frenzy of packing and sorting. Having returned from England (a lot more that needs to be posted retrospectively, I see), I now had to get ready for back-to-back journeys, to California and Michigan.

The young are light and frivolous and can journey halfway 'round the world with what they can put in a backpack. But as I age, I overpack. I imagine that by the time I am ready to journey to the next life, I will have to take most of the earth with me when I go--or, at least, 30 cubic feet of it.

Any way, when they detect signs of impending travel, the cats like cluster about for reassurance. Remedios, if she can, will sleep on my lap; Shiva will curl impossibly into his wicker basket. But when I am also typing, Remedios can't claim the lap, and has to settle for the basket on the dresser.

Herein lies a humorous tale.

For she had put herself happily to sleep in this location, when Shiva wandered in on what the poet once alluded to as little "cat's feet." So softly did he pad into the room that I never heard him. Nor did, apparently, Remedios.

But Shiva did not curl in his basket. Instead, he waited patiently for Remedios to move. And when she didn't . . . he--lightly, quietly--jumped up next to her.

This woke her just enough to scare the hell out of her--while leaving her in no position to argue, or even move much. Check it out:



I am not sure if you can see how vigorously (albeit, passively) Remedios is announcing her displeasure with this arrangement, but after taking a photograph, I thought it would be a good idea to wander over and offer comforting reassurance.

I was repaid with a reciprocation from Shiva, who wanted me to know that he was, himself, utterly and completely innocent, and had never in his life contemplated anything more menacing than peaceful coexistence. Really. Look into my eyes if you doubt me, he said.



Like a sensible cat--and I realize how strange an epithet that seems for Paxil--Remedios's brother had followed a prudent course of action. When Remedios first voiced her panic, he did what any intelligent male sibling would do. He ran away as fast as he could.

But four or five minutes later, the sounds had subsided. And, indeed, there were no raucous chase sounds. All in all, one had to admit, it was quiet . . . perhaps TOO quiet . . .

And, so, with the stealth for which he is famous (the only cat I know who has managed to fall off a table while sleeping at least six inches from its edge), he too padded into the room.

And, of course, he too wanted me to know all about his innocence. Look in my eyes, if you don't believe me, he said.




I took this as a sign that detente had succeeded, that there would, indeed, be peace in our time; and that I was free to travel west in order to renew old friendships and make new acquaintances.



These shall have to be narrated in subsequent posts.

Last Days of Summer

What was I thinking when I called this "DAILY Paxil?" It seemed a good idea at the time.

But unlike some people, I have never mastered uploading photos to laptops, or even doing much web-surfing on laptops, so my travels this summer have interfered greatly with my posting.

The good news is that I am now back home; well, I guess that is only good news in some ways. But I am back home with more photos than I can possibly write posts for. Unless maybe I start now and just keep throwing something out there frequently.

Maybe even daily.



This is what I have been looking at daily for the past two weeks.

That and birds. Lots of birds.

Especially bald eagles.



This one was in the tree in my backyard. The image of the light on the lake above was in the front yard.

I'll post more soon, but that's it for tonight. Maybe tomorrow I should return to updating about cats.