I definitely hail from the same lineage as the Apple Scruffs, the quirky group of fans who'd wait all night in the winter for a glimpse of the Beatles. Even when invited in, most times they preferred to hang outside, on the edges like shy cats in half-shadows. Not to be confused with the fans who stole Paul's pants, or groupies like Penny Lane, these muses were looking at the same thing that Mona Lisa was, if you can imagine Leonardo a Liverpudlian.
P.S. As a kid I also sat in mud puddles (scruff factor 23) and, a few years later, waited every Saturday for my Afghan hound friend from down the street to visit. His name? Apple, of course.
I was one of those dreamy kids, the kind that don't really exist anymore, mostly because of the Internet and because moms would totally get crap for letting their children do, well…nothing. Each hour spent looking for four-leaf clovers I swear made room for something new in my head, like the imagination is this giant hole only you can dig for yourself, its adult size determined by how much space you can shovel into place by the time you are, say, 12…
I walked to the library every week and carried home my loot--goopy Nancy Drew, bad dream-making Alfred Hitchcock. I talked to the flowers in the backyard, scared to touch the bleeding hearts, lightly fingering the churchy Queen Anne's lace… I danced to my sister's terrible records (for hours!), drew ladies in ruffly, bustle-y dresses, raided the bathroom cabinet and mixed up concoctions in the sink, explaining to the television audience (the one behind the mirror, of course) exactly how to combine the ingredients.
I remember clearly one Saturday afternoon in late winter, when I took my red, white and blue basketball (cue up the Harlem Globetrotters theme song) and walked up the road and through the field to the basketball court at Most Holy Trinity to practice by myself. We had just formed our first girls' basketball team, and I was the center. I was 11 and there was nothing I couldn't do--keep up with the boys during sprints in gym class, hit triples during our lunchtime baseball games, get 100s on my tests, write, sing and perform my entry in the school song contest (to the tune of "Camptown Races," the only other song besides "Jingle Bells" I could play on the guitar)… So on that March day, I was full with potential, like the forsythia buds that my mom had brought into the house to force-bloom. As I looked up at the net I had this vague feeling that things were going to get complicated in the distant future, but in that moment, at least as far as I could see ahead of me, the world was kind and mine.
I'm pretty sure that's a basic rule to live by if you're a kitten like Ira, and I would do anything to keep his life--and that of his big brothers, Lorenzo and Derrick--that way, always. Dogs and cats have that pureness and sureness I get really fierce about protecting, because it seems like even kids have to let it go sooner and sooner… and somebody has to have it or we're all screwed.
At 13 weeks old, he reminds me that with every day dawns a whole new world, and there he is waiting for the sun. The first time he met Derrick and Lorenzo, he launched himself at them like a rocket, a kitty Odysseus finding his long-lost friends. (They reciprocated…a month later.) When he's hanging out on his cat tree or perched on the foot of the bed and sees me walk by, he gets so excited that the force of his wee-kitteh happiness knocks him off balance, and I am forever making sure he doesn't fall. He can't quite yet contain his meows either--I'll say his name softly, Ira, Ira, Ira, and he does this redonkulous bobble-head thingie, his whiskers start wiggling and only then does the meow come, like it's something he's still figuring out the choreography for… Can you imagine if you got that happy to be recognized, when they called your name at, say, jury duty, or when you're next in line in the post office?
When Derrick showed his little bro how to play Bathtub (Cat A jumps in bathtub and uses magical kitty powers to make sure Cat B, who may be otherwise engaged in another room, knows the game is about to commence; when Cat B approaches, Cat A leaps out of the bathtub; Cat B chases Cat A), they played this every morning for a week. Then one day Ira tried to initiate the game while there was water in the tub.
Well…nothing much happened. He tumbled into water that went up to his little chocolate-brown cat spats and zoomed right out, galloping through the house in celebration. The next day he was back in the tub, watching the faucet drip. I was too scared to try out for basketball in high school, and now I think I sing so badly I'm embarrassed to do karaoke (tho I practice it in the bathtub--I could probably do "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head," if they even have that one.)
Ira knows, in his tiny cat head, that it's not about how it's done, it's simply that it's done. And if you carry on as though good things will happen (like your big brothers love you even though you steal food and treats out of their bowls and push them off the prime real estate), maybe good things will happen. That people love you more the worse you sing karaoke, that it's the best feeling ever when someone's happy to see you, and that the world is big and you are small but not.
Incidentally, the MHT girls basketball team played just one game. We won, but I wasn't in it because I'd broken my finger the day before.
I'm not that surprised to see this pair, meezer and Astaire. Swellegant in spats, man's or cat's…every move a right one.
The thing that confounds me is that there's never any wasted energy or diluted intent in the dance of either of these critters. If a cat's gonna give you steer ear (you know, with both of 'em pointing in different directions, puttin' the "U" in bull…), no other part of the body is gonna move. Cats exhibit such an incredible economy of movement… the energy flows fully and completely, no tension where it's not supposed to be. It's the same way with Mr. Astaire, if you look closely. There's no tension or movement in the body other than in the part that's supposed to be moving. If you could see the energy, it'd look like stars shooting out of his fingers and toes. And whiskers and tail, if he had 'em.
In situations where I need to calm myself down or feel more secure, I sometimes imagine Paloma, Puffer, Bing and Derrick doing choreography, often elaborate line dances with other cat-dancers. It really makes me laugh, and the sky's the limit. Technically it's probably impossible for a cat to do a pirouette, but not on my dancefloor! Paloma and Puff do a fly-girl style duet to "Walk This Way," and then Paloma joins Bing in a chorus line during XTC's "The Loving." And hello! Tell me you can't imagine cats doing those really high vocals that fade out at the end of this song:
In honor of Saturday’s supermoon—at its cheesiest and pleasy-est in 18 years!!—here is Keith Moon with his wife’s Siamese cat, Fudge. I can’t find a reliable source to confirm that said kitty a) belonged to Keith Moon’s wife’s and b) was deliciously named Fudge, but it’s a durn good story so we’re going with it.
Durn? Who the heck says that? (Editor’s note: Mark Twain, it turns out.)
Anyway, I have definitely felt the pull of the moon, its champagne light glimmer-shimmering in the night like waves in a dark sea, the only thing (but admittedly, a big one) you have left in common with your unrequited love.
Alternately, I do think it’s probably made of cheese, a yummy triple-cream one like Explorateur.
Ah, the title alone...makes me wanna be/live all poetic:
Andy Partridge's demo of a Dukes of Stratsophear tune...you like?
Not necessarily my fave Who tune, but it's meezer-appropriate. And our hero is featured at the beginning.
I just can’t get enough of Dusty, the naughty snowshoe (he counts as a meezer, doesn’t he?) who has stolen 600 items, including bathing suits, stuffed animals, underwear and brazeers, from his neighbors’ backyards over the past year. If he didn’t have four paws and a tail he’d probably be locked up by now, but it’s nothing but charming if you ask me. Here he is mid-heist.
So what can a cat do with a stuffed dinosaur or a pair of tighty whities? Well, I’m not the best person to answer that question, as Dusty’s loot is actually a lot more practical—and re-sellable, for that matter—than anything I’ve kind-of stolen in my entire life.
That list encompasses: - a baby blue balloon (uninflated), lifted from a general store on Shelter Island when I was 5 - a pair of false eyelashes from a Connecticut CVS while in college (OK, I did get a lot of use out of them) - a box full of plastic 18-inch blue-and-white seahorses from Oriental Trading Company. I paid for 3 and they sent me 3 dozen by mistake.
If I think of anything else I’ll add it to the post. Until then, here’s some music to pilfer by.
I do like MJ's version best, but this isn't half-bad:
In order to be like Bing and Derrick and live life more in the moment, I’ve been systematically shredding all my journals. They’re full of crap mostly, but it’s kind of a symbolic gesture of letting go of my old baggage. Anyway, I recently came across this ridonkulous entry accounting a visit to my parents’ house, written probably about 10 years ago.
What you might need to know before reading: Bizzy was my sister’s sweet cocker spaniel, and Sister Rita was a) a nun at my parents’ church and b) their good friend.
“…Mom accidentally got peanut butter on her shoes, which Bizzy licked off later during lunch when they were telling the story of Sister Rita’s false teeth…Apparently she left the “bridge” (the back ones, like the place they go on Star Trek) at my parents’ house, and Dad had to send it back to her. He wrapped it in bubble wrap and sent it first class, and Sister Rita called two weeks later asking, ‘Did you send it yet?’ Yes, of course, he said. And then all the sisters prayed to Saint Anthony, and the next day she received them in the mail.”
What does this have to do with Siamese cats? See the ceramic meezer that Derrick is posing with? Sister Rita found it hanging around the convent, knew I liked cats and asked my parents to give it to me. I love it to this day, and I figured this was a nice chance to say that nuns can have really good personalities, in case you didn’t know that already, and good senses of humor, too.
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!
Concert, that is. I saw him on his Da Ya Think I’m Sexy? tour at Madison Square Garden, and even with my older sister for a chaperone, I’m surprised my parents let me go—I mean, this was a kid who wasn’t allowed to see a movie unless it was deemed “unobjectionable” by the Long Island Catholic newspaper. Had the editors got a load of Rod, all humping and bumping in his leather and spandex, no way would I have been standing there in my borrowed Candies heels (which I wound up ruining somehow—I can still see a greasy spot on the perforated beige leather) with my three fellow Most Holy Trinity schoolmates.
I don’t remember much of the concert, but I can still recall holding the album in my 5th-grader hands (Blondes Have More Fun!), and singing the song from whence the tour took its name—supposedly Rod’s answer to the Stones’ “Miss You”—with my classmates, screaming with laughter and having no idea if he was sexy or not, mainly because I didn’t have a working definition of sexy.
We were too young for Rod to be included on our “cute” radar (which likely targeted no male older than 15), but not too dull that we didn’t get his overall appeal. He was like one of those satin baseball jackets popular at the time, all fancy and slick and shiny, and certainly not as threatening—to young me, at least—as, say, Led Zeppelin. (I remember being unsettled and kind of frightened by “The Lemon Song,” and would always pick up the needle and plunk it down on the next track, the way, way more digestible “Thank You." ) Yes, I know, there’s a delicious irony—and something so sweet, too—in a bird-watching, sticker-collecting, genuflecting, funny-looking misfit of a little girl saving up to buy the even-then old Led Zeppelin II, isn’t there? Admittedly, I wasn't advanced enough to have made the Rod/Faces/Jeff Beck connection, though.
Anyway, thank you, Rod, for putting out (at the concert, people!) and for being a true showman. Bonus points for the meezer, too.
Supporting materials for getting your Rod on Da Ya Think I'm Sexy? video
HA!! I found the squats particularly jarring, but overall a classic.
Everything you always wanted to know about Da Ya Think I'm Sexy?
Something about the layout of the page is very endearing. Is it the melon-and-tangerine freshness? Favorite bit: “This song was used in an animated TV commercial for Chips Ahoy! where a cartoon cookie sings.”
If you didn’t know better and heard my cell phone ringtone on a day I happened to be wearing my vintage Escape Tour t-shirt, you might think I’m a die-hard Journey fan. Not exactly. Let me explain, as there are several factors at play.
Back in the day, I wouldn’t be caught dead listening to Journey. Oh no, I listened to only what Creem magazine told me to… Nick Lowe, Boomtown Rats, the Ramones, Ted-freakin’-Nugent (yes, really!) et al. Now I find I really appreciate a certain kind of earnesty (that’s not a word, is it? It’s the quality of honestly being earnest, or earnest X 2.) in music. And in everything, I guess. (I absolutely don't mean to imply that the aforementioned bands aren't earnest. I meant to imply that I was kinda lame.)
But from what I hear (literally), Steve Perry seems to be very much “Let me sing for you” rather than “Watch me sing.” Yes, even in spite of the spandex/tuxedo get-up.
He has a certain graciousness, elegance and wish to please that I also see in those Motown vocal groups (the Tempts! The Four Tops!) who do all those sweet choreographed moves. You may chuckle when you see them in unison (step-turn-step-clap!), but it’s like, Wow…they’re puttin’ on a show! They want the audience to have a good time!
So yeah, I like Steve Perry’s voice, and I don’t even consider Journey to be a guilty pleasure—the original band contained ex-Santana members (instant cred, music snobs, instant cred!) and Perry is a Tenore contraltino. Oh, and he’s got a Siamese cat. Nothing wrong with that.
What’s my guilty pleasure? I don’t think the Partridge Family counts, since the Wrecking Crew played on all those records (six degrees of Good Vibrations separation!). And the Carpenters don’t count either, since they have their own “respected” tribute album .
OK, let’s dig a little deeper, aim a little lower.
Today’s post is gonna be cornier than Kansas in August, but it’s about Bing and, well…with Bing, there are only soft edges and best angles, lovers not fighters and everyone bein’ their best selves. I’m really not sure what that means, but thank gawd art and music can say it for me.
When I first saw the above painting on eBay, there was no question—it was mine to be. (How do you find somethin’ like this? Type in “Siamese” & “60s” in the search box.) I pretend it’s me and Bing, though the cat in the painting actually has a tail, and the lady guitarist probably doesn’t take 6 minutes to get through “Lovely Rita” (dang you, chord changes).
Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell, Ain’t No Mountain High Enough This is one of my favorite vocal duets ever. Actually, it probably is my favorite, ‘cause I can’t think of anything else to compete with it. As Elyse would say, they’re totally invested in the song—ahh, it just gives me chills! And I got even more chills when I watched this video (don’t you adore her?! and he is soooo smooth) and found out that Tammi died of a brain tumor at age 24, sending Marvin off in to 4 years of self-isolation. Arrrghhh!! Anyway, the love’s here to hear.
B. Bing sings of himself… The Carpenters, Close To You Me & Bing were selected to appear in the ASPCA calendar, featuring staff and their pets, about 4-5 years ago. He was such a pro at the photoshoot it was almost scary, but it all made sense when he later told the animal communicator he sees himself as a “matinee idol,” and that all the lady cats would fall in love with him when they saw his photo (Mr. November, ahem…) He’s a dreamboat indeed, not unlike the subject of this classic song.
Too hokey for you? OK then, you go write a song like Burt Bacharach’s and then go sing it as beautiful as Karen Carpenter does. (Ooops! I guess that’s a sore point for me…)
Say you've got a Venn diagram. One circle represents a set of people whose record collection includes stuff like the Nuggets: Original Artyfacts from the First Psychedelia Era 1965-1968 box set. The other circle represents individuals who have a keen interest in Siamese cats. You know, the type who have macaroni-art Siamese cat paintings hanging in their livingrooms and wear shirts with Siamese cat iron-on transfers (OK, I know it says "Every Dog Has His Day, but the nights are for us pussycats," but it IS 70s vintage!). The intersection of these sets represents people, like myself, who would be mighty excited by the above photo.
I actually brought a teeny version of this pic of the Remains to work this morning. I thought I'd scan and share this esoteric gem I ripped from some 60s teen magazine. Imagine my excitement in finding this pic in a couple of places online, plus a whole mess of images from the same photo shoot, including one of the meezer all by hisself!
The thing is, you can find all sorts of wacky connections between things if you just look--and even if you don't. Just think of it this way...I once read in a book on interspecies telepathic communication that all orange cats know each other. (That's just too charming for me not to believe, OK?) So let's then say, for argument's sake, that all Siamese cats know each other. If you're still with me, it's not that far a jump to then imagine the Siamese companions of George and John swapping stories with the kitty in the Remains photo shoot! (The Remains were the opening act on the Beatles' US tour.) You know they probably have a lot to say to each other.
But do you figure they would then want to converse with, say, the Siamese cat owned by Journey's Steve Perry? (OH yeah! I'm saving that for an upcoming post.)
I don't know the answer. But I am happy to have a forum--right here!!--where these questions can be discussed. In earnest.
Just got an email announcing that February 8 is the start of this year’s Create Dunkin’s Next Donut Contest , and I felt that old bitterness rise up. I thought my 2009 donut designs were so stellar that I’d be a guaranteed finalist. But no! The Powder Puff and Bing-a-Ling went unrecognized.
Entries were supposedly judged on 3 factors: description, name and actual artistry/yumminess of the donut itself. How elegant is the Powder Puff, a simple white-on-white confection filled with French vanilla crème, topped with white icing and white chocolate shavings, named in honor of Miss Puffelina?
For the quasi-health conscious, I served up the Bing-a-Ling (shown above), a blueberry cake donut with acai blueberry filling, peanut butter frosting and both cinnamon and chocolate shavings. From my description: “This donut was inspired by my cat Bing, whom I adopted from the ASPCA. He’s Siamese, so I selected blueberry cake and filling in honor of his baby blues….He just turned 13—could this be his lucky year?”
Apparently not. Perhaps the shape was off-putting, though the folks at Dunkin’ say the “stick” donut is perfect for on-the-go eating. Or perhaps not even Dunkin’ Donuts coffee (which I love, btw) is strong enough to wash that pb frosting off the roof of one’s mouth?
Anyway, last year’s finalists were a dizzying, drippy dozen “bellyaches waiting to happen,” as my good friend and colleague Kathy described them. Here’s the winner, in case you don’t believe me.
But just you wait for this year, DD! This time I’ve got Derrick for inspiration. Doncha think your clientele would gobble up the Pretty in Pink Eye, a blue-frosted donut rimmed in strawberry jelly? (Just kidding! But, *big sigh*, my poor baby’s conjunctivitis has cleared up, thank gawd and Dr. Dugan at the ASPCA’s Bergh Memorial Animal Hospital.)
Actually, this year I may look not to big cats but big bats for inspiration. I’ll submit a whole “team” of donut designs—a collector’s edition dozen based on New York Yankees players past and present. How ‘bout : * the Jeet (coffee and cream flavored?) * the Mo (with extra sprinkles, as in, “I want some ‘mo!”) * the Jelly Martin (blueberry jelly filling, of course) * Bern, Baby, Bern (it’s got cinnamon red-hot candies on top) * the A-Rod (this one is a “stick” donut. Duh!) * the Yogi (this one’s a twisted cruller-type pretzel-shaped donut) and the best of all… * the Thurman Munchkin!
In fashion, like most things in life, rules are made to broken. Like I used to say I’d never wear polyester. That was before I began collecting vintage Huk-A-Poo shirts (my favorite is an unfortunate shade of brown with a dog breed motif) and way, way before I made my best ebay score EVER—Lily Pulitzer pants in a print featuring Siamese cats drinking martinis with blue olives! They have an elastic waistband AND pleats down the front, but still remain one of my most prized possessions.
On the tail of that inspired success I bid on and won the lil’ number you see here. I thought it might be possible to mitigate the Holly Hobbie factor with black harness boots and a black turtleneck. But something’s stopped me…I’ve yet to wear it…and it’s been sitting in my closet for at least 3 years. What do y’all think? It’s ok if you don’t think I can pull it off—maybe that’s actually a compliment. Just tell me the truth.
If Siamese cats sang, they’d sound a little like John Lennon. Don’t roll your eyes, you know it’s true! Take a few seconds to imagine that very distinctive Siamese meow-yowl. Now imagine a Siamese cat—let’s say Bing—singing karaoke.
“Yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog’s eye…”
“You can talk to me. You can talk to me. You can talk to meeee…if you’re lonely you can talk to me…”
I wish I knew more about music theory (hey, what IS music theory?), but is it even possible to compare the timbre of a cat’s vocalizations to a person’s? At least that’s comparing apples to apples, sorta. Didn’t Paul McCartney once mistake Graham Nash for a French horn on “I Can’t Let Go”? Ah, but that’s a nice compliment, too!
P.S. Disclaimer: I don’t think meezers could sing just any Lennon lead. “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite” and “Soldier of Love ," yes. But can you imagine Bing on “Julia” or “Across the Universe?” Me neither.
There's a thin line between clever cat puns and those T-shirts with cat butts on the back (3 in a row, all with tails up), and the "meezery tour" almost crossed that line--but hey, I love this pic so much that I don't care!
It doesn't get much better than this: Friar Park! George Harrison in a hat! Ronnie Wood! (That's his wife Krissy next to him--don't you love her argyle socks and t-strap shoes?) And some friend of George next to her...can't remember his name, but I think he's connected in a hare krishna-ness way.
And...and...and...a MEEZER to George's right! I can't tell you how happy this makes me, but if I could jump into a photo and hang out within, this would be my choice.
Aside from being able to drink in the obvious magic happening in this time/location (i.e. All Things Must Pass), I'd also benefit from the relaxed attitude toward haircare. It doesn't look like there was much brushing, blow drying or application of "product" in any of their coifs. The cat's clearly very meticulous though.
P.S. This photo is from Wonderful Tonight by Pattie Boyd, George's first wife. I really liked the book!
OK, everyone, please cue up (just in your head, no turntable required) the opening bars of The Final Countdown.
Chill out on the first verse but when ya get to the chorus, sing…
IT’S THE FAT CAT THROWDOWN!*
Thx. Now we’re ready to begin.
Mommy, mommy, my friends on Facebook said my cat wasn’t large! True enough, that is the impetus behind the Fat Cat Throwdown, in which I aim to prove to the world that Derrick is indeed..uh…kinda big.
Here’s how this contest would play out, pitting my own cats against each other as an example. Criteria? I tried to include measurements that wouldn’t be impacted by a cat’s weight (i.e. girth), and basically whatever parts of the body I could get my measuring tape around before Derrick ran off.
* We’re not talking poundage here, so Fat Cat Throwdown is indeed a misnomer. I can’t help it…rhyme trumps reason every time!
From base of neck to base of tail Derrick: 17 inches Bing: 15 inches
Distance from belly to the ground Derrick: 9 inches Bing: 6 inches
Tail Derrick: 13 ¼ inches Bing: 2 ½ inches (not a typo, just fashionably bobbed per mother nature)
Height (measured from ground up, while cat is standing, from midpoint of cat) Derrick: 13 inches Bing: 10 inches
And the winner? Why, everyone gets a prize in the Pune-iverse! Henceforth, Bing will reign for a year as Low Rider 2010. All hail Derrick, the ruling Whitey Mammoth. And your kitty? Submit his or her numbers in the comments box, if you dare! : )
P.S. I don’t think I’ve ever listened to Final Countdown in its entirety.
