I thought Kim Novak was silly in Picnic—and so was William Holden, so maybe it’s Picnic (or me!) that’s silly—but I became a huge fan when I saw her playing a witch in Bell Book and Candle.
And not just any old witch, either! Novak’s character, Gillian Holroyd, has a Siamese cat named Pyewacket as her familiar. See the pic above? That’s Novak with a whole clan of Pyewackets! A role so important it required not one, but multiple meezers to fill!
This week’s a real nail biter, so I’m dedicating today’s post to all of us with chewed-up fingernails, ripped and torn cuticles, chipped polish and heck, why not anxiety-induced eczema while we’re at it?
As in CHEWing on your fingers…get it?
P.S. Artwork courtesy of Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux. This is “Ugolino and His Sons,” featuring the dude from Dante’s Inferno. I’m not quite as pale, and I’ll bet he didn’t just get a manicure with “Midnight Cami,” but I think I’ve made a face like that before.
It’s no secret that Siamese cats are featured regularly on this blog, but it might be a secret that I like the song that accompanies this post. You will, too! Sing it loud, in honor of Presidents’ Day, and let’s hear it for our 39th president!
P.S. Amy's kitty, Misty Malarky Ying Yang, wasn’t the first meezer in the White House, but I’m betting she did have the longest name.
P.S.S. In the 1970s, they'd have these ads in the back of magazines wooing would-be songsmiths with the promise of a top-10 hit and the chance to "set your poem to music." This is one of the best out there. The second guy in the video is the author of this magical ode to President Carter; the first guy is Tom Ardolino of NRBQ, who really likes this genre of music. Raise your hands in the air for the poet in everyone of us. Yee-ha!
I gots me two kitties. One’s a blabbermouth, punctuating his daily activities with a running commentary, from howl to chirp to mmmm and mumble and back again. The other’s a cat of few words, unless you happen to say, “Bing, wannaeat?” in just the right cadence. Should he say anything else at any other time, I know he really means business. Derrick, on the other hand, is extremely sensitive to certain things he hears on TV, avoiding the immediate area or even slinking away when, say, Judge Judy calls someone as dumb as a bucket of rocks.
Me, I’m like Bing. Growing up in a “children should be seen and not heard” sort of environment, I didn’t say much at home, preferring to express myself through manic dancing (musical accompaniment optional) and short stories about a family of mallard ducks that had to stockpile food for the winter (must have been the “Little House on the Prairie” effect). I did often go outside and lie in the grass and talk to the clouds and Queen Anne’s lace, but try telling a person what you’d say to a woodpile—it doesn’t really translate.
Anyway, after years of becoming pretty good at capturing the gymnastics of my thoughts via the written word, I still find verbal communications, particularly in a professional environment, a bit of a challenge. I was reminded of this again at the yoga, astrology and chakras workshop I went to a couple weeks ago. The instructors said, based on my natal chart, that I should talk more because I am too reserved. Harumph! But what I write is simply so much more accurate… why talk in black-and-white when you can write in zebra stripes?
Because, well, we don’t walk around with a set of flashcards or a pad and paper and jot stuff down and pass notes to each other. We verbalize. We bullshit. We speak. We talk, and someone else talks back. It makes perfect sense! It’s not like you get a wordcount for the day, and you automatically run out if you go over the limit.
On the flipside…why couldn’t we get a little less conversation from the narcissistic cellphone talkers, or the parents who yell obscenities at their kids on the street, or the lady who stands in the middle of the subway car and says over and over we need to repent NOW (hey, Jesus is just alright with me, but don’t shove your little girl so hard when you move to the next car) or we’re goin’ to hell..
Ooof. Writing about talking is almost as bad as talking about writing. Or talking about talking. Can we please just listen to some music now?
And if your dream leads you to a sidewalk on the Upper East Side, a-glitter with last week’s auto emission-tinged snow and cigarette butts…well, these songs probably won’t make you feel any better. Sorry.
P.S. New Yorkers and others, you may recognize the mattress art, courtesy of De La Vega.
That has gotta be the ultimate bait-and-switch headline…sorry—we’re not talking buns, hon, but the plight of this poor gal who has to look at the back of the Emerson Inn in Rockport, MA, in perpetuity. Don’t you think she might like to see, not just hear, the roar of the ocean behind her?
(Yeah, I know, this song would be more appropriate if it were titled “I want YOUR back.” But I dare you not to like it.)
