The Cat Inside

(excerpt)

I am selecting cat food at the pet shop in Dillon's supermarket and I meet an old woman. Seems her cats won't eat any cat food with fish in it. Well, I tell her, mine are just the opposite. They prefer the fishy foods like Salmon Dinner and Seafood Supper.

"Well," she says, "they certainly are company."

And what can she do for her company when there is no Dillon's and no pet shop? What can I do? I simply could not stand to see my little cats hungry.

William S. Burroughs 1986

When my grandmother was still alive, and we would pass the time talking about things gone or lost, her dead husband (my grandfather) or my dead mom (who grandma and I missed desperately), the conversation would always turn to my cats, Walter and Truman. I would share with her the latest account of their mischief, cuteness or devotion. She would always follow, after a pause, with the statement:

"They're good company."

They certainly were.

War President

This makes me weep from laughter. Amidst all the sturm und drang over the lack of liberal purity of our current President (I don't necessarily disagree), it is helpful to recall how impure (on every fucking conceivable level) the previous President was/is.

13th Floor Elevators (1966)

These guys were fantastic...a psychedelic jug band.
The trippy jug is a blast.

Top:
Bad audio, lip-sync performance.
Bottom:
Good audio with poster stills.

My Boys

It is helpful to remember these guys when they were younger (and slept less).

Although entirely different in character, they did have a very close bond. They wrestled and romped throughout the day when I was away at work. A neighbor, on the first floor of the apartment building in this photo, would complain regularly about the commotion above him. He was, at first, convinced that it was me, but soon accepted the fact that it was actually Walter and Truman galloping and tackling between naps....monkeys.

I miss them terribly.

UPDATE: I was reminded by a friend, that in addition to this raucous tumult, Walter had taught himself to turn on the TV (a pull-out knob that also controlled the volume). Initially this was a mystery (returning home to the blaring TV); something wrong with the set, mischievous intruders,...no, just Walter.

Truman R.I.P.

My sweet, squeaky boy (18 years old, but always the baby).
He had a heart attack last night.

11 days after Walter passed.

What a fucking soul punch.
Absolutely shattering.

Killer Cover and P-Funk Original

Sad, but the stupid still burns...