Wordless Wednesday: Extra Texture

If you ask me to catsit, I'm totally going to look in your refrigerator. Not to eat anything necessarily, but to procure intel about you that I couldn't get anywhere else. Unless, of course, the vinyl in the other room calls me like a siren song, choruses circling like a sleepy, shiny vulture. You get that itch in your fingers that only flipping through the stacks can cure.

So, yeah, this photo shows where my fingers first landed.  I've told you my theory of Pines, right? A Pine is a visual or aural pacifier, something that's instantly, inexplicably calming. This photo represents a double shot--a visual Pine and a tactile Pine in one. I love the ragged-rainbow patterns that the jackets make, carving out the path that took me to perfect---a completely black room with a tiny window through which light shines. In my sonic journey I've never, ever listened to Mr. Monk, but clearly it's time.

The following song is the ultimate aural Pine for me. I don't know why, but the banging keyboard parts are just sobbingly beautiful. I never thought about it much, but maybe the answer is in this comment left by this annoying show-off on YouTube: "I love the contrast between the A-flat Major and the F-flat(E) Major 7th (equal to an A-flat MINOR triad over an F-flat bass). Then, going from the Fbmaj7 to B-flat Minor 7th is a very daring move, the farthest chord away!" 

I have to admit, the chorus on this next one is totally Pineworthy. I'm sure the annoying Smile show-off could explain why, but Def Leppard is probably too plebeian for him. (And Hello! Who knew it was about Marilyn Monroe?)

Meezer Monday: Butt Seriously

You can tell that a cat feels good when he or she displays Butt Pride. If you have a cat, you know exactly what I'm talking about---that happy tail-up trot they do when they're about to get something good or see someone they like, or when they're just in the moment, just naturally "being cat." Or sometimes they'll just shove their furry asses in your face. They have no shame about displaying what's under their pantaloons, ever, and if the tail has a slight bend at the tip, OMG. Total Butt Pride.


Poor Renz. Yesterday he was either startled or miscalculated his usual ascent of the 6-foot-tall bookshelves, and he fell backwards. When he got up it looked like he'd hurt the area around the base of his tail--the seat of all Butt Pride--in the process. He wouldn't/couldn't put his tail up all the way and instead it hung sadly, like a drooping flower. I have a call in to the vet, but I think he will just need some time to heal--he's doing all the other Lorenzo things he always does, like zooming, fighting with Derrick and sprinting after the ball and then looking at it. Today his tail can go up a little higher, so it's like we're slowly raising the flag back up the pole. Please send the little shorty some healing vibes--I'll let you know when he's flying high again.

Wordless Wednesday: Better Red

"While stars sit in bars and decide what they're drinking…"

For some reason, I like to interpret that lyric literally. Like…stars, as in the massive-sphere-of-plasma kind. They don't sit on bar stools, silly, but sparkle outside all firefly-style, projected on a big screen like at a drive-in, tinkling and twinkling.

Their drink? Cosmos.

Sunday Sidewalk Surfin': No Bun Intended

I can't help it, but I take hot dogs personally. I don't like to get on a soapbox much here on ssspunerisms, but I guess I'm about to. When someone eats a chicken wing or thigh, it is clear that an animal is being consumed. But a hot dog? Each one is an anonymous death on a roll, no indication whatsoever of who or what it was before it became smooth and pink, briny and bulging and bellybuttoned at the tip. And that just makes me so, so sad.

The dang shape doesn't help either--it's just so freakin' archetypal, so caveman, so primal… Who knows what sort of switches that eating something even vaguely resembling a schlong triggers in the subconscious mind? It's the same way that you often can't help staring at breasts, no matter your gender or age or sexual preference. They represent mother/lover/safety/pleasure--whatever thrills you, whatever kills you, you know? And would more or less hot dog-eating make for a better, more peaceful world? That not even Oscar Meyer could answer.

So, for all intents and purposes, and to put this poor blog post out of its misery, let's pretend this photo is of a dapper but sleazy tofu pup, hitting the town in style with his twin buns.  Oh crap, all I wanted was to find a few words to go with something funny I saw on 22nd Street earlier today and it sounds like I'm describing Charlie Sheen.

Wordless Wednesday: You're Still In the Pink

What happens to a Hoppity Hop deferred?

I didn't want dolls, I didn't want an easy bake oven, I didn't want a Big Wheel, I wanted a freakin' Hoppity Hop like the one the girl down the street had, and I never got one. If they sold them now, crazy bleach-blonde size, I'd be outside in the street bouncing on it.





"To the virgins, to make much of time," Glimmer Twins style: Put your hand on the heat…