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The Reluctant Cat Fancier

Despite the occasional histrionic, felinophilic outburst, I’ve never been much of a cat person. Lola and I maintain a shaky truce, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say that she’s warmly affectionate toward me. Not even affectionate, really. Hell, between you and me, I think she’s pretty self-centered. But then, I suppose that’s the way of the cat….

Anyway, given all that, and given everthing else I’ve got going on in my life–a boyfriend jet-setting around the country, a 150+ year old house to fix up, some extracurricular theatrical endeavors, and the rebuilding of an entire city (though I’m getting some help with that one)–the last thing I need in my life is another freakin’ cat, n’est-ce pas?

Enter cat, stage left.

So, it’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m cleaning up the house, right? (Truth be told, I have to clean up the house every afternoon now that we’re in shedding season.) I’m cleaning up, and I step out the side door onto the porch, and there’s Tania with something in her mouth–something gray and limp and fuzzy. What the hell is it? A rat? A bat? Great. I’ve always wondered what having rabies would feel like…. I shout, “Drop it!” and sure enough, Tania does so–rather delicately, in fact.

I step off the porch and take a closer look at the lump. It’s moving. Kinda. No wings–that’s a good sign. And the tail’s too short for a rat… Then I make out the face: it’s a cat. Well, a kitten to be precise. Maybe three or four weeks old. Not much bigger than my hand. See:

So I put it in a box with a couple of towels, then I run off to the pet store, where I drop more change than expected on some smaller-than-pint-sized baby bottles and a can of powdered cat formula. Who knew they made cat formula?

Of course, Jonno–being the secret softie that he is–now wants to keep the cat. And Tania’s very protective of her, trying to nuzzle up to her every time I feed her. I don’t think I have a choice in the matter. Am I destined to become a crazy cat lady?

So, about All About Eve…

We had two semi-rehearsals, and we were making up the sound and lights as we went along, but somehow, it was a smashing success. Sold out, waiting list a mile long. People laughing from start to finish. Which only goes to show: our houses in New Orleans may be full of muck and mold, but we’ll still go to the theatre to watch a man in a dress.

The funny thing, though? For most of last fall, I was kinda bitter about the split-up of the company after the storm. I mean, I understood, people have to go where they have to go, but still… In the end, I assumed that we’d keep doing stuff here and they’d do stuff wherever they were and, we’d see each other for Carnival and Decadence.

Problem is, we work as an ensemble. Whatever success we’ve had as a theatre company is due to the fact that the core members of the company “get it”. We know one another well, we get along, we think alike, our sensibilities match. You can’t hold auditions for that; either the chemistry’s there, or it’s not. Sure, there are plenty of actors who have great timing and all, but so far, we haven’t found any that really fit the bill.

So, as much as I’d love to have a theatre company that was truly indigenous, truly “New Orleans”, I think that’d require some forcing–square peg, round hole kinda stuff. We work well as a group, and I guess we’ll continue to work as a group–only difference is, now there are some of us here and some of us in Atlanta. It’s a brave, new, scary, unfamiliar, and at times, very frustrating world, but there’s no point in looking back now.

Unlike some people, I’m happy to admit that I’ve made mistakes. In fact, as several of you have pointed out, I made one at 8:53am last Friday, when I claimed that a certain young man–or rather, his tattooiste–had misspelled “racism” on a very large back tattoo.

I was wrong.

Due to the vagaries and flourishes of blackletter type, the “i” in his “racism” looked an awful lot like an “e”, but again, as many of you noticed, the “e” at the beginning of “end” is very different from the “i” in “racism”. I stand corrected. Mea culpa. Young man, 1; Richard 0.

However, I am not down for the proverbial count.

Regardless of whether it’s spelled properly or not, what tattoo artist worth his patchouli would create such a tricky looking “e”, which to casual observers like moi appears to be a typographical error of significant proportions? And more importantly, what kind of person would have “End Racism” placed forever on his back? Yes, of course it’s a noble sentiment, but it’s perhaps better suited for a bumper sticker, don’t you think? And besides, what is this young, left-leaning rebel to do when someone actually puts an end to racism, eh? He’ll be like all those people who had “Destroy the Iron Curtain” tattooed on their forearms, then 1990 came along, and they were like, “Maybe I’ll just cover it up with that cool C&C Music Factory logo….”

NOTES FOR A FRIDAY MORNING

1. I don’t care how cute your ass is or what kind of neat tricks you can do with it: no self-respecting English-speaking homo is gonna nail you if you haven’t bothered to spellcheck your allegedly badass blackletter back tattoo:

Can you make that out, folks? “End Racesm.” That’s what it says. In fact, that’s what it says forever.

Now, I could give the guy the benefit of the doubt. Taking into account the giant fan on his wall, I could assume he’s really Japanese–and since so many yankees are apparently wandering around with misspelled Japanese tattoos, I guess a reversal would be fair. Or I could assume that he really hates road racing (whatever that is). But I’m not the generous sort–today or any day–so I’m just gonna assume he’s an idiot.

2. I know I said just the other day that I was all about Oblivion, but now I have two new, even better distractions: a videogame about Emily Dickinson (?!?), and Viva Piñata, a game in which, as my dear friend Jason says, “You play a piñata that can hunt and raise piñatas to create–guess what?–more piñatas.”

3. Who knew that our new housemate had a blog? Furthermore, who knew that he was involved with Common Ground, one of the many grassroots groups in town to take part in the rebuilding of New Orleans? He seems like he’s dealing with their respectable element–the healthcare side. Let’s just hope he doesn’t get involved with the subgroup protesting the partial closure of St. Augustine Church, ’cause most of those children–correction, out-of-town children–ought to be walloped into the middle of next week. And not in the good way.

Fasten your seatbelt, Mary: faggotry returns to One Eyed Jacks next Wednesday as our lil’ ol’ theatre company presents a staged reading of All About Eve, every homo’s favorite bedtime story about bad girls getting exactly what they want.

When Flynn first floated the idea by me, I was tickled pink, but then I got a look at the script: 110+ freaking pages! My, how they did go on in those days…. Luckily we’ve been able to pare it down to 50, and the red pen hasn’t stopped yet. Eventually I’ll have it down to 15 syllables and a chorus of the chicken dance.

Side note: if you’d like to come–and I certainly hope you will–you might wanna get your tickets now, ’cause they’re selling faster than Coty Airspun Powder at a crossdressers’ convention.

This is perhaps the only full-length photo of me and the boyfriend at the St. Anne parade. About two hours after this was taken, I hiked my nelly ass home, parked on the sofa, and got cozy with Peggy, Errol, and Henri as they narrated yet another Rex Ball.

But enough about that. Tell me, truthfully: does that bustle make my ass look fat?

Transcript of an Internal Monologue
That Took Place from 7:55pm to 9:00pm on Friday, March 24,
During a Performance of Medea at Tulane University

I am so looking forward to this. When was I here last? Dancing at Lughnasa? That was ages ago. I never thought I’d enjoy Irish theatre, but–omigod, look who it is! And over there! It’s like old home week around here–and some homes are older than others….

Holy crap, sweetie! Did you get lost on your way to the hooker convention? What the hell were you thinking when you left the house? Seriously: with tits that big, there’s no need to advertise…. I have a high threshold for raunch and sleaze, but somehow, you’ve managed to cross it.

Okay, there go the house lights–better shut up. I’m talking to you, booze breath, right in front of me. Try consuming the scotch after the show next time….

Hmmm, the shadow puppet thing is kinda interesting. Not sold on the alleged music, but I’m sure some undergrad put it together, so whatevs. Maybe it’s what the alternative kids are listening to these days. Whatever happened to the Cocteau Twins? Did Liz Frasier just give up?

Damn, this is a serious blackout. That stage is awfully high–I hope they put down enough glowtape. Me, I’d fall right off, ’cause I have the worst night vision in the–oh, there we go…. They must be the chorus. Greek chorus, Kabuki style. Not exactly the most original thing I’ve ever seen, but I’ll let it go.

Why are they shouting?

I can’t believe it: they’re still shouting.

Why. The. Hell. Are. They. Shouting?!? I thought this hotshot director was all about Suzuki method and crap, but you coulda fooled me. Where’s the nuance? I mean, didn’t he see War of the Worlds? Wasn’t he paying attention?

Note to director: if you’re gonna be all hardcore and angsty with people shouting and shit, you can’t have actors with lateral lisps. Wendy from South Park as Greek chorus? Not effective. … I can only hope that things get better once the action starts.

Medea in barbarian attire. Well, isn’t that original? Still, she has an interesting look to her. Of course, that’s probably more to do with her bone structure than–OMIGOD! Now, why is SHE shouting? Are they going to keep this up for the whole show?

What the hell is going on with the showgirl-in-a-wheelchair routine?

Okay, now they’re just being ridiculous. Everyone is shouting. Is this some kind of a joke? Are we supposed to take them seriously? They don’t even know what they’re saying! They’re like a bunch of Ethel Mermans, standing downstage center and belting tunes…. Someone needs to tell that schmuck of a director that just because he’s really into body control and stuff doesn’t mean he can skip the text of the play. The play is worth nothing if it doesn’t tell me a goddamn story! … And really: how can a play have a climax if all the actors start of screaming? Where can they possibly build to?

For goddess’ sake, bitch: just kill the fucking children and ride off in your little dragon chariot. Now. Please.

I’m tempted to stand up and shout, “She’s in the attic!”, but I don’t think many people would get the joke.

Oh, thank you. Thank you, goddess. It’s over. Thank you. My eardrums couldn’t take another minute. I hate each and every one of you on that stage. I mean, I understand you’re undergrads and all, but at some point during the rehearsal process, one of you should have stood up and said, “This is a load of crap!” …But of course, I hate your director even more.

Good, I’m not alone: I can tell from the post-show chatter that I’m not the only one who feels as though an hour has been stolen from my life. Where’s the goddamn bar?

BLACK LIST FRIDAY

If you were to knock me out and lay me on a cadaver table and cut me into slices of even thickness like a holiday ham or a low-rent Damien Hirst art project–not that you would, but if you did–and you put me under a microscope, you’d find that I’m composed of the following elements, in order of prominence:

Oxygen: 61%

Carbon: 23%

Hydrogen: 10%

Wheat Thins: 2%

Beer (the good kind): 2%

Beer (the bad kind): 1%

Puppy dog tails: .5%

Sweetbreads: .3%

Magnesium, boron, germanium, and potting soil: trace

In the past 24 hours, however, something has shifted. You might almost say I’m suffering from a chemical imbalance (and you wouldn’t be the first). Today, I consist of nearly 99% pure rage.

The good news is, that rage is [probably] not directed at you. The bad news is, I can’t legally assassinate any of the folks to whom it is directed. I can, however, name names–or, since most of said folks are strangers to moi, I can offer reasonably detailed descriptions of them and their random acts of idiocy. I therefore give you the following list of people who must die immediately:

1. The woman in the silver dualie with New Jersey plates who was trying to parallel park the damn thing (a) in the Quarter (b) in a space six inches shorter than your average Geo Metro.

2. The big-boned secretary in the Hawaiian print blouse who lit a Virginia Slims Menthol 100 and stepped into traffic just as my light was turning green. (If the cancer doesn’t kill you baby, I will. And quicker.)

3. The owner of The Darkroom. He knows why.

4. The blondined queen who cut in front of me at the deli and grabbed the last roast beef po-boy with pepper jack. (I, however, got the last Tab, which provided a modicum of consolation.)

5. The three leading mayoral candidates, each of whom said he’d attend my event last night and each of whom bailed. (I did, however, get Virginia Boulet and James Arey, both of whom are very nice, despite their, shall we say, longshot status.)

6. The three dumbasses from Texas who decided to block traffic on Royal Street during rush hour so they could unload a crappy Sanyo stereo and speakers into their new FEMA-sponsored digs. I mean, who has stereos anymore?

7. The hooker and john who were having a very animated discussion involving a broken beer bottle and allegations of the former’s abuse of controlled substances–all while I was innocently attempting to navigate the sidewalk at 6pm last night.

Anything you can do to avenge my good name and my mental well-being would be thoroughly appreciated. I’m just sayin’.

A friend of mine is what modern kids might call a techie–a hardcore techie, to put it plainly. And for Chriskwaanzukkah 2004, this friend gave me a totally hacked, flagrantly pimped-out, fully loaded Xbox.

This was a not a good thing. In fact, it was a very bad thing.

You see, Richard was not only a D&D junkie in junior high and high school, but he was also a big ol’ freak for video games. And although he hasn’t been too involved with them since college, when the aforementioned Xbox came along…. Well, like any addiction, it wasn’t too hard to pick up the habit again.

Thus began my death sprial. Now, I’m going to pick up speed.

You see, for the last year, I’ve been playing this one particular RPG (I’m still not finished, folks!), and this month they’re releasing the sequel. Unfortunately, it looks good. Depressingly, maddeningly good….

(Wiping sweat from forehead. Drumming fingers on desk.)

Aw, screw it. Who am I kidding? I’m ordering a 360 today and calling in sick for the month of April.

Not 15 minutes after I made yesterday’s post about the state of my refrigerator, I got an email from my mom containing a bona fide recipe for spinach and cottage cheese casserole–which was followed a few minutes later by an email from my sister urging me to substitute ricotta for the cottage cheese. Who knew I had such practical people in my life?

Then I received an email from Renya, who recently found herself in a predicament similar to my own. Ever the industrious one, though, she took the bold step of penning a cookbook for folks like us….

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And here they are: Recipes for the Domestically Distracted! Creative and easy dishes to prepare for the individual who forgets to care. Just look inside! Anything goes! Colorfully illustrated for the perpetually stoned!

Here’s just a sample:

Apple & Light Bulb Salad Surprise

Ingredients: Apples (any kind), light bulb (one or more — burned-out is okay)

1. Chop apples finely and add to medium-sized bowl.

2. Place light bulb(s) into paper lunch bag and break into pieces with several sharp taps of heavy spoon.

3. Empty paper lunch bag into bowl of finely chopped apples.

4. Add two tablespoons of mayonnaise (optional)

5. Stir briskly. [Ed. note: For added maudlin effect, watch Breaking the Waves, The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant, or anything of comparable suicide-inducing bleakness while stirring. Every so often, mutter, “Is this why I went to college? Is this what my life has become?”]

6. Enjoy!

* * * * *

Savory Peanut Butter Lasagna Snackers
(accompaniment with beverage of choice a must)

Ingredients: Half-box leftover lasagna pasta, peanut butter (any quantity), sugar (brown, white, or confectioners).

1. Snap each piece of lasagna pasta into as many 2×3-inch tabs as available quantity will yield.

2. Use existing peanut butter to coat each tab — thickness of peanut butter layer may vary.

3. Sprinkle generously with variety of sugar available.

4. Enjoy!

Other favorites, such as Hearty Beer and Raisin Bran Medley, Zesty Paprika Eggs & Olives, and Stale Cheese and Friskies Bake are also highlighted in Recipes for the Domestically Distracted. Shop Amazon now to order your copy, and start learning to live with yourself!