The 99%

Please say it isn't so…

Looking through old journals today and came across this entry from, hmmm, about 13 years ago…

A pigeon came to M's window today and she said 'Ewwww! Gross!!!' I got sad and angry, and her response to this: '99% of the people hate pigeons.' That can't be true, that just can't be true.

Have you looked at a pigeon lately? 'Cause if you haven't, they're absolutely beautiful. Iridescent feathers all grey and green like abalone shells, and some are even white with black speckles that remind me of chocolate chips. And then of course they bob and strut like the funkmeisters of the bird world. It's not their fault they suffer from the not-so-rara avis syndrome. 99% of the people would like pigeons if there were 99% less pigeons.

Anyway, I like pigeons, everybody…SO THERE!

P.S. I came upon the sweet one in this photo during the aftermath of Hurricane Whatshername last summer. I didn't want to bother him, but was happy to see he didn't remain in the doorway too long.

Wow, hard to believe no one's in the stands in this next one. It's like when Spinal Tap played at those fairgrounds in like, Idaho, and there were like 23 people in the audience:

My Sweet Sixteen

Happy 16th birthday to the brush-tailed Binglet, feng shui master and cat of my heart. He of complex mind and simple pleasures, who knows that what surrounds it is often better than what's in it…




I thought I'd never think of the right song to go with this one, but the answer came as soon as I powered up my computer at work this morning. I got all impatient and was pounding away at the keyboard like a freakazoid because the keys were sticking. Just 2 though… the 'A' and the 'S' …Hmmm… that'll do just fine!

Wordless Wednesday: Return of the Grievous Pancake

Bloodshot blueberry eyes, leaking strawberry tears.

It's a sad day when comfort food needs to be comforted. Perhaps the musical accompaniment can provide spiritual sustenance for our battered (thank you, Stephanie) friend.

Meezer Monday: You're Getting Very Sleepy...

Every morning at 4:40 for the past week or so, I've woken up to Bing poking me in the face repeatedly, not stopping until I pick up the comforter at the exact height that allows him enough room to walk under, turn around and hunker down. At the same time, Derrick walks through the house all sports commentatorlike, doing his trilling/thrilling play-by-play of how exciting it is to be alive, yet again. If it were summer and the windows were open, he'd be just in time to join in a chorus with the twittering birds who begin their day with a reverie that sounds like "Derek Jeter Jeter Jeter Jeter Jeter." (Of course they're Yankees fans.)



This next one is here by virtue of the name of the album it's from... Susan Sleepwalking. I used to think this was so beautiful and haunted, and fake drum beats didn't bother me then.

Meezer Monday: Dream A Little Dream

For just a few months in between kitten and cat, she fit perfectly into this little box. She'd fetch mousie and jump right in, ears-up pleased and whisker-proud to fill the Puff-sized space so snug. This little Polaroid makes me so happy--she's like a little kitteh-sized loaf cake. When she got bigger, there were bigger boxes, of course, but none ever seemed so custom-made.

It's kinda like the tiny window between sunrise and moonset, when the sky sighs to make room for both. Blink and one sinks. I was lucky to be on the beach in Seattle as this happened last Wednesday morning, the blueberry-raspberry sky blushing right on my left as the silver moon made a lynxpoint connection with a demure cloud in the cosmos next door. A day starting as shy as a cat, whisker-whispering a dawn-blue hello.

For Puffelina, born January 14. The title is in reference to a dream she sent me that I was planning to write about. But this came out instead. : )

Bend, Don't Break

Nah. Take it from someone born with a double dose of doormat--being bendy is overrated. Oh sure, it's one thing to go with the flow, but too much adapting and accommodating and you wind up like this crusty, cranky, bitter old rubberband I found on the floor in my office last week. (I know, I know, it looks like lo mein.)

It all starts when you're young and impressionable or, like me, clueless. Like on the day in 5th grade that Anne Marie Grum challenged me to a fight. We were friends up until a minute before, but now she hated me and wanted to beat me up. I was confused, of course--this was Most Holy Trinity, where I wrote poems about the resurrection and we all went to the see the Pope at Shea Stadium.

Nevertheless, the fight would take place during recess on Thursday.

It was Monday, so I had a few days to think. Or, as it turns out, not think. I had no idea how to fight, but I also had no idea I had a choice in the matter. Someone asked me to do something, so I had to do it--that's pretty much how I thought life worked.

That's really the sad part here--not that three or four other kids came to watch as Anne Marie tried to get all Muhammed Ali on me, making fists and throwing punches. I'm pretty peaceful by nature, but I wasn't about to just stand there, so I started making it up as I went along--scratching, kicking, smacking, slapping. (Do girls inherently know how to fight like girls?)

I will never forget Anne Marie's trembling bully chin, in shock that somehow during the scuffle I scratched her cheek and it started to bleed. Quite a feat, as I'd nervously bitten all my fingernails off earlier that week. Needless to say, the fight ended with bloodshed and we were never friends again. And if anyone challenged me to a fight now, I might take them up on it only if we could turn it into a dance-off.

I heart this next one. You'd really have to stretch to find anyone who could pull this off today. I dare ya...



Bendy strikes again, but with a twist...I knew a guy who had a beautiful guitar, and this goopy Raspberries tune is the only song I ever heard him play on it. He told me people who have blond hair shouldn't wear yellow bell-bottom suits, so I dyed it brown. My hair, that is.

Meezer Monday: Seitan Is Real

Screw the eff word--I can't even write the ess word. It's certainly not because of my mom, who'd regularly pull out the powerful, "Tell the truth and shame the devil!" when I was growing up. That actually worked on me, my seven-year-old self imagining the devil--think hunchback goatlike creature with skin like a well-done hot dog, complete with pitchfork--melting like the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz with every statement of third-grade veritas I made. "It was me! I ate all the mini peanut butter cups!"

At least that brand of devil is understandable and beatable. Just be honest and he loses all power, a big windbag who tells lies. (Incidentally, not unlike many of the people who come before Judge Judy on Channel 55 every night at 10 PM.)

It's the kind of d/evil that I can't understand that makes me shiver--or, if I'm feeling particularly Pollyanna, puts me in a serious state of denial. Or I'll read stuff like Helter Skelter and The Executioner's Song, antsy and agitated the whole time, trying to find the answer to that $25K question--why would someone do that? They all leave me in a nightmare, facing a brick wall behind which there is…no door number 3. No answer.

Groan, another post gone south. Like way south. And I really just wanted to show you how un-evil my little Bing is, even when dressed in this Halloween costume I bought him 2 years ago on a business trip to Evanston, IL. I think they also sold candy that was supposed to look like snot, but no way would I buy that.

P.S. Incredible book, and I'm still trying to stop squirming so I can finish it: M. Scott Peck's People of the Lie: The Hope for Healing Human Evil