Cat Fanciers? Cat Financiers? Who Can Keep them Straight?

Don't know how it escaped my attention for so long, but that handsome fellow from Colonial House has an actual computer website. Apparently anyone can have a website these days. Perhaps someday I, too, will have a website. Until then, I will continue posting sporadic bulletins to this electronic message-rich computer palimpsest, or EMRCP. Some people might call it a blog, but I call it EMRCP. It's pronounced "eeeeemerkpp." That's also the noise a wall partition makes when you lean on it and it falls over.

When I have my own website, I will use it primarily to sell exquisitely-detailed porcelain cat figurines to cat fanciers worldwide. Non-cat fanciers will buy my cat figurines as well, but the lukewarm horde will not constitute the bulk of my clientele. The bulk of my clientele will be actual cat fanciers who are dedicated to the game of lifelong cat fancy.

Koiless Again After All These Years

Flavian is back in town and we spent the day golfing. In a fit of jealousy, Rafe pitched Flavian's luggage into my koi pond. Flavian's bags comprised several heavily soiled shirts and a sack of industrial lawn fertilizer, so now my koi are dead. Rafe promised to replace my koi but I'll believe that when I see it. How will he afford koi on a vagrant fogey salary? His trust fund doesn't mature for at least two years and his paintings never sell for more than the price of the frame. At any rate, I'm using the vacant pond to store my winter coats, as the closets are packed to the rafters with the taxidermied wildebeests I received during my brief engagement to that guy from the film Tron.

Typing, Who Cares

I had a post prepared for today, but I couldn't be bothered to type it. I wrote it on paper. Stupid! Never write anything on paper! Who did I imagine would type it for me - my secretary? I don't have a secretary! I used to have a secretary, but I sacked her when she developed tinnitus and a chronic nose whistle. Also, she refused to leave my office and she grew increasingly intractable as the weeks wore on. "Go fetch me a coffee," I'd say. "I would prefer not to," she'd say. Fuh?! She'd prefer not to! "Type this crap I wrote," I'd say. "I'd prefer not to," she'd reply. Fucking hell, she wouldn't do her assigned work and she wouldn't leave the office! Eventually I relocated to a new office and left her behind at the old office. Fucking mare's nest. She died in prison. Starved to death - which is, funnily enough, how I'll die if I don't hire a cook. I had to sack my old cook because she wouldn't leave the kitchen and she wouldn't cook me dinner. "Cook me some damn ribs," I'd shriek. "I would prefer not to," she'd roar. Eventually I had to move house to escape her. Pity. She died in prison also.

Hi There, part 2

Very little depends upon the green wheelbarrow in my backyard. While it's true that this wheelbarrow is often glazed with rainwater, it is never "beside the white chickens" - whatever THAT means. The wheelbarrow is more or less a wash, in my opinion. Hasn't been used in years. Just sits there like an installation piece. There's really nothing more to say about it. I say, though, don't you hate airline food? Never had a bite of it myself, but I hear it's no good.

UPDATE - I've noticed that the less I blog, the fewer readers I attract. It stands to reason that a Topic Drift Post Explosion would result in a frenzy of web traffic in my favor. These things can't be helped. I say, don't you hate coarse toilet paper? Never use coarse toilet paper myself, but I hear it's no good.

UPDATE - I've decided to post several updates to this post today. Don't see how this could be a problem, given my race, class, gender, robust health and exquisite beauty. I say, don't you hate women drivers? Never run into them myself, but I hear they're no good.

UPDATE - When I survey my land and notice that my slaves are not putting up my pyramids properly, I get a little hot under the collar. If I'm wearing a collarless shirt, the slaves seem to build faster and more effectively. I say, don't you hate it when people talk during the movies? Never go to the cinema myself, but I hear it's a real problem.

Hi There

Haven't turned my computer on in three days. Just got back online and noticed that everything is just as I left it, with the notable exception of Noisy Ghost, who appears to have axed his blog in order to follow the beet harvest. I wish him all the luck in the world, as he was truly my favorite ghost, and life as a migrant worker is brutal at best. Though I suppose there are perks involved in itinerant work, e.g. sitting down after sixteen hours of backbreaking labor. And the 401k.

N.B.

In the West Indies, the decayed leaves and stems of canes are called field trash; the bruised or macerated rind of canes is called cane trash; and both are called trash. --B. Edwards

No Centipedes

I just saw a spider run across my floor. I am firmly opposed to this sort of thing, this spider-running. If you spiders insist on entering my home, you must not run across my floor. And if you must run, you had better be running after a centipede with murder on your mind, as I fucking cannot abide centipedes. I don't care if they dash like mad or lurk casually - centipedes are sinister, unholy assholes who ought to be smashed on sight unless they can demonstrate some sort of redemptive social skill, e.g. perhaps if a particular centipede can play several tiny guitars at once, he ought to be permitted to hire a manager and travel the country showcasing his musical ability in a feel-good vaudevillian extravaganza the likes of which we have never seen and are unlikely to see until Menudo resurfaces and joins forces with Gallagher, Roller Derby, and The Traveling Wilburys to fight the 104th Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry Civil War Reenactors with live ammunition.

Again

Rain. Where is my raccoon coat? I do think I've wasted a significant portion of my life, but I won't drag you through the details. The sooner I find that coat, the better, as there is a phone number in the pocket - that of a travel agent who is willing to accept baked goods in lieu of cash. Am considering a voyage to the Gold Coast. Don't particularly want to go there, but I certainly can't stay here. Rent is going up and raccoon coats are no longer fashionable. Also, I'd like the option of carrying a rifle in the street without having to answer a lot of fool questions about my intentions.

Tuesday

Spent a terrific morning trying on wigs at Macy's. I was frightfully drunk, of course, but the clerk didn't seem to mind. I passed out on a divan at one point - when I woke I was in my garden with a sack of plastic swim caps. Curious. Just feet away, Rafe was slouched over another one of his tiresome canvases, painting visions of tulips and God knows what else. I put on a swim cap and told him to stop fouling my garden with his oily ambition. He thinks me a scold and a prophet and he is half right.

Further Proof of My Decay in Exile

I had intended to weep for hours today - had a perfectly vile afternoon, perfectly vile - but the most I could manage was a thin whimper and a few mangled sighs. Reconsidered throwing myself in front of a bus, though at the rate I'm going I'd just bounce off the grill and skin a knee. Hardly seems worth the effort.

Did however have the satisfaction of seeing a pile of shoe-imprinted dog poo on the sidewalk. I wasn't the beast who stepped in it, so perhaps things aren't as sour as I've grown to believe.

Harken Unto Me, Tommy Lee

Look at this hat.



"Holy nuts, what a fantastic hat," you’re thinking. Yes, it is a fantastic hat, and it would look good on any man who happens to have a winning attitude. I must admit, however, that I would be dismayed to see Tommy Lee in this hat. Tommy Lee ought to wear a bowler. He should also start saying things like "Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood," and "I am an Anglo-Catholic in religion, a classicist in literature and a royalist in politics," and start signing his checks "T.S. Eliot, fils."

I would write to Tommy Lee and tell him this, but I can’t remember his mailing address.

I am a Simple Sort, but these Turnips, they Make Beautiful Sounds

Normally I am not one to go on about music. Who cares about music? Nobody, or the few. But I recently bought The Caesars Paper Tigers and I cannot not tell you that it is the album that broke the camel's toe. Christ on a stick, it is good. It is so good that I insist on being hit by a city bus this afternoon just so it can be played at my funeral festivities before I grow tired of hearing it. Plus, The Caesars are Swedes, or claim to be, which is a great relief considering that most bands these days refuse to acknowledge their sordid affiliations with our lowly brethren of the vegetable kingdom. Don't know how you play a Farfisa when you have no limbs, but they seem to manage it.

My Moon Rock

Do moon rocks float in water? I don't know. But if I had a moon rock, which by the way I do not, I wouldn't fling it into the ocean just to see if it floats - it might sink, and then I'd lose it forever. I'd test in in the tub first. Then, if it floats, I'd take it to the beach with me and, while I float on my inflatable raft, I'd let my moon rock float next to me. I'd set my drink on my moon rock. "No, it's not magic!" I'd proclaim when others wonder aloud at my floating drink. "My drink is actually resting on my moon rock. My moon rock floats, you see." Then I'd guzzle my drink, whip the glass as far as I could from my semi-reclining position, and hold my moon rock above my head in blazing triumph. I'd be careful not to drop my moon rock on my head because I wouldn't want anything ridiculous to tarnish my moment of victory.