Wordless Wednesday: No Bones About It

Given his fear of loud and annoying objects like the vaccuum cleaner, you'd think that Lorenzo would be more frightened of this doofy voice-activated skull that burps and says “Excuse me.” Perhaps he just appreciates good manners.

Good In Bed

You know those random things you remember for, well, forever? Like, say, the impromptu song my sister played and sang on the day my family got rid of the piano… It was called "Goodbye, Piano," of course. I was 4.

Something else that stuck: An interview with then-12-year-old Brooke Shields, during which she was asked, "What does good in bed mean?" Her response: "When I'm sick and stay home from school watching TV and my mom brings me soup - that's good in bed."

Working with Brooke's definition, my cat Derrick is definitely good in bed. Lately he's been doing the feline equivalent of tucking me in at night, a furry nanny with toasted marshmallow ears and one lone black whisker. When he knows it's time for bed he gallops ahead of me, Tiggerlike and tail high, settling himself right at my pillow and positioned at eye level.

Then he'll look at me and purr, so loud it looks like he's hiccuping, until I fall asleep. I know this because one night I wanted to see what he was doing, and every time I opened my eyes, his big, moony blue ones were looking back. How freaking sweet is that?!

But really, I know it's all about the purr. It's like there's a crazy stereo receiver in his big cat head, and purring is the buzz that fills the air when the music's over--sound waves rumble, vibrating in the air around me, whiskers tuning into the best possible frequency to get me set for idea gathering, dream building, star watching, poem growing…

I also know he leaves soon after I fall asleep, and comes back when the sparrows wake up, greeting me with a squawk like a baby bird, born anew.

Wordless Wednesday: The One That Hopped Away

I was in Yellow Springs, Ohio, eating lunch when the Chocolate Toad strode by. I had this feeling he was used to being photographed, and I wanted in on the action. My friend Lorie handed me her fancy camera and I knelt, clueless as to how to use it, and somehow accidentally snapped this pic of the toad mid-hop. I had no idea there was a big busy foot to my left until I saw this photo. That's a mini-miracle in itself. But I immediately thought,  Dang! if only it'd come out better. Better composition, and in focus, and with the toad looking more toadlike.

That's like finding a winning lottery ticket for, like, $500, and wishing it was the jackpot. How big does a freakin' miracle have to be these days?! Geesh.

More Than You Can Chew

While it's true that I can put my fist in my mouth, if this pickle and I were playing poker, I'd have folded long ago. As you can see, I did manage to get one good bite in, but it was half-hearted--I attacked without a strategy and quickly retreated, defeated.

I'm making it sound as though the big crazy pickle simply got the better of me, but the emotions it brought up were actually quite complex. I thought I'd be getting a little dish of pickle chips, or perhaps some petite, nonthreatening gherkins--but this pickle was so large I felt overwhelmed just looking at it. You know how all flustered and blustered you feel when a situation seems unmanageable?

And then of course there's the guilt that comes from wasting food, and sadness because the man responsible for the pickle made it with care and love and probably a little pride--and here I am maybe a tiny bit repulsed by it. We all know what it feels like when our advances or gifts are unwanted and unwelcome--it's just sort of sad.

Anyway, the pickle reminded me of an unfortunate episode that took place when I was living on Pacific Street in Brooklyn, when I'd just come to New York after college. We had recently stopped paying rent when we found out the pseudo-landlord we'd been giving our checks to foreclosed (I think) on the building and no longer owned it. Alas, that also meant the end of the heat and hot water, which were still in his name. We'd leave the oven on to keep the place warm, and I remember having some sort of flu that left me with painful red nodules on my legs from knee to ankle. I felt completely overwhelmed and powerless. And aaaackkk--we haven't even gotten to the pickle yet…

OK, so there were rodents in the basement, too--just mice I figured, until one day a whacked-out rat came out to eat the cats' dry food right out of the dish. Your headspace just moves to a whole new level of fear and horror when there's a freakin' rat in your kitchen--and he was a poor, sick, screwed-up rat, too, all bedraggled and psychotic-looking, like R. Crumb drew him, sweaty and bulgy-eyed and jonesin' for a cat-food fix. I remember my sweet calico girl-cat Paloma, trying to go head to head with the rat. She hissed at him, puffed up as big and scary as she could get, but soon gave up. It was futile--the rat was so big and weird that Paloma realized she was no match for him. I still remember her face when she saw the big f*cker and looked at me like, "WTF, MOM?!!! Who's this nutter, this Frankenmouse, eating my food?"

And yeah, I know it's not really fair to compare this innocent, though large pickle to a rabid rat, but well...

Next time, I'm gonna get the kale dip.

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.