"Post six random facts about yourself," he said. "Sure," I said...
1. Sometimes I find myself reloading the page on this site or, say, Myspace or IMDB because I find the banner ads crass or they gross me out.
2. I lived in the same apartment, straddling two of Brooklyn's more gentrified nabes, from July 1995 - March 2006. Starting rent: $600. Ending rent: $800.
3. I have a couple of really bizarre hot buttons that you would never be able to predict in a million years, so don't even try. They both involve drastic, irrational reactions to perceived feelings of vulnerability.
4. I really, really like doughnuts. But not the kind with cream, jelly or other squishy shit, not usually.
5. Conversely, coffee I could take or leave. I didn't even remotely come close to interest until this year, when iced coffee suddenly became "a thing." Sorta.
6. I have a revolving cast of totem animals, including but not limited to: bats, rabbits, wolves, ravens (yeah, so I'm a Pagan, sue me), snakes, and, most recently, spiders.
7. I have a few real live muses. Two of them are men. One of them is New York City.
(cross-posted from my LJ)
So, when I went into the kitchen this morning, a cat was mewling. Loudly.
Sometimes the sounds of cats come through the windows; sometimes they're fighting outside, whatever. Our street seems to have a lot of cats. This was different, but my mind didn't really process that as I was barely awake. I go about my biz, getting out the bowl and spoon.
The mewling is coming from the direction of the window. Sometimes there's a little grey cat out there in the courtyard. I look out, and sure enough, there's the little grey cat. She's kind of far away. She doesn't appear to be mewling. "Is she so far away that I can't see her mouth moving?" I think. The mewling gets louder and she walks closer, looking right at me. Nope, that's not it.
"WTF is it?" I think, fighting to clear the sleepfog.
I turn around, and Merlin is there, sitting on the floor looking up at the window. I turn back and look, following Merle's gaze.
On the cast-iron ladder hanging from the roof to our fire escape is a little tabby cat, barely hanging on, as those steps are about two inches in width, if that. She looks at me with serious fear and panic in her eyes, and cries and cries. She has nowhere to go, even if she does get off the ladder, as our fire escape ladder needs to be lowered manually (don't ask). The cat is literally two feet away from me through the glass.
Wow. A real cat caught in the proverbial tree, proverbial only because this is New York.
I put the cats away and open the window. By now, one of the two girls who live in the street level apartment has come into her courtyard. She tells me that it's the cat of the other girl downstairs, the one who lives in the basement. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the cat cries and cries.
"I think she's glad to see you," says the girl.
I tried to pry her off the ladder, but of course she doesn't know me, and doesn't want me to pick her up. Irony of ironies. We go back and forth. As most of you know, cats have four feet, and it seems that there's always at least one of them grabbing hold of whatever you're trying to remove them from. As I'm doing so, I notice the little grey cat is rubbernecking, watching my every move with a pained expression and her little mouth hanging open. I wonder if she and the tabby are buddies.
Finally, the little tabby breaks free from me... and moves further up the ladder, heading too close to the roof for my taste. Once she's there, she resumes her previous position of staring me down and mewling piteously.
"Hrm," says the girl in the courtyard.
"You wanna give it a try?" I ask. "You might have better luck because you know her."
"Hrm," says the girl.
Two minutes later, she's shimmying out the window and up the ladder, where she spends a couple minutes trying to convince the cat to let go. Eventually, she wins out, and she whisks the terrified cat off to its rightful owner.
I throw open the door to the studio, where my own cats have been hanging out for the last ten minutes. Merle looks up at me from his little makeshift pillow/bed.
"This," I say, "is why you're an INDOOR cat."
Sheesh.
]]>... I try to stay Zen about it.
Yeah. I try.
Note: this mofo ain't a spider. Spiders and I are buds these days.
I feel the urge to blog coming on back.
I can't figure out if this is a good thing, or a bad thing, or even a neutral thing.
It's you-call-it-Halloween-we-call-it-Samhain! Kids are tooling around Brooklyn, covered in shaving cream, acting like zombies...
Note: all of these are taken from or were found via the list of popular pages because it's nearly one in the morning and I've been working all day in some form or another.
5. Cut Open a Coconut : "So you've got a coconut, and you're dying to get at it..."
3. Do Harsh Death Metal Vocals
2. Prevent Chapped Lips in a Manly Fashion
1. Create a Gangster Bankroll
Runner up: Catch A Snake
Posting here instead of there because it's meme-ish and we've got folk music involved:
1. "What else is in the teaches of peaches? Like sex on the beaches..." Man, this woman is dirty. But it's a good dirty.
2. Kate Bush, "In Search of Peter Pan". Kickin' it old skool from the LIONHEART album. Awww, jeah, I'm a huge dork.
3. Also dorky: "All the Pretty Little Horses," as done by Alan Lomax. Snap!
4. "My Humps," the Black Eyed Peas. No, I have no fricking idea what is going on with me right now.
5. "I Got Trouble," Christina Aguilera. This one isn't as out of place as it might seem. She's a guilty pleasure. Okay, I love her. It's because she's so unapologetically herself all the darned time.
6. "Life Won't Wait," Rancid.
]]>From lx:
What's the nerdiest thing about you?
Just one thing? I don't know if that's even possible. The fact that I started Yet Another Blog for meme posts is a contender. But that's no fun.
You know, it might be the unabashed boogie-ing I engage in while waiting for the train on subway platforms. Seriously. I don't care what I look like when white "hip-hop" one-hit-wonders from 1991 come on the iPod. I just lean into it.
Sometimes when I'm dancing around, I'm really choreographing skating routines for my 12-year-old self in my head...
That's Cameron Stewart, by the way.
If you don't have a Myspace page, you're a sucka.
OK, I only kind of mean that.