The Boat that Wouldn't Float

I'm nothing if not a planner. I may not have my Masters Degree in the subject like some of my favorite San Diegoans I know but I'm always thinking ahead, always trying to figure out my next move. One step ahead would probably be my middle name if it wasn't Edguardo. That's why during this time of a potential state government shutdown I've devoted many of my hours thinking about how I would continue to pay my mortgage and other bills and afford my addiction to cannoli if I were to suddenly have no income coming in.

My first thought of course was the easiest thought- imitating everyone's favorite, Roxanne, and selling my body to the night. The problem being I'm encased in a rapidly aging shell, with a numb, bum left shoulder. People aren't exactly standing in line to get a piece of me (which very well could have something to do with all the extra cannolis).

My next thought was a life long ambition- busking. Since I haven't been disciplined enough to learn how to play the guitar my father gave me for Christmas this would entail wheeling my 100 year old piano from bus stop to bus stop. Not exactly conducive to the necessary artistic inspiration such an undertaking would require. Sure I can play every Beatles' song on the piano but could I do so convincingly after lugging around a thousand pound instrument?

I put my thoughts on hold temporarily when a bolt of lightening struck- why not combine my true love with some money making affair? Last year I was among the rare privileged to be able to collect all four bobblehead dolls the Twins gave away during an otherwise dreary season. I wasn't sure whether or not I would fight the masses and try again this year during a season that has been slightly more energetic. But when I saw what the dolls were fetching on Ebay I thought this may be my fall back option. Anyone want my Harmon Killebrew for $5,000?

So there I was on a beautiful sunny Friday afternoon (the perfect new stadium weather) arriving five hours before the gates would open, hoping to get my Bert "Be Home By Eleven" bobblehead doll. The day didn't start so promising as those bastards at the Star Tribune just had to run a front page story about bobblehead mania, alerting those who weren't much aware of the special day ahead to get their little Mama Cass booties down to the Metrodome to compete with ME! for MY doll.

When we arrived, thankfully the gate we were at only had around 30 people sitting restfully and just as thankfully they were sitting behind a metal barrier that would hopefully prevent some of the tension seen last year as people tried to better their place in line. Buttin' I believe some call it. The five hours flew by as fast as five hours sitting on hard concrete with a bunch of comatose ceramic collectors can fly by. And when the gates finally opened I was more anxious to devour a brat then I was to get my Blyleven doll. But I got both so I went home a semi-happy, if not rather weary Twins' fan. And by the way, they actually won the game.

The whole ordeal got me rethinking my latest income related strategy. I couldn't part with my doll for all the cannoli in the world. And then I got to thinking I'm not the only one in this household why couldn't the other contribute a little towards the cause? My furry lil feline friend after all is pretty irresistible to all who know him and that ought to be worth a quick buck or two shouldn't it?

So we set up a photography session to be able to send out images of the real star of the house to all those lucrative cat food advertising deals that are as plentiful as wild catnip (part of the mint family, recognizable by its square stem, and no it's not a weed, it's a legitimate plant because we all know that man gave name to all the plants and to be a weed is to be just as worthwhile as you or I).

The photographer was a bit late in the appointment having had holes poked in her to deal with a habit that is as unnecessary as it understandable. She sounded a tad groggy as she told me she was soon to be on her way over. She brought with her said wild catnip that Mr. Max went gaga over like it was ganja. The end result were some rather startling photos of the star. She really captured for posterity some of the essence I will dearly miss when the little guy decides it's time to move on to another place. I was rather glad I asked her over and rather pleased by the end result.

So now I just have to find someone willing to hire the most personable and picturesque pot- bellied kitty I know. But I remain hopeful, the paychecks may stop rolling in very soon but somehow I've become reconciled that things tend to find a way to work themselves out in the end.