I prefer to remember Stanley, not Mister Kurtz.
Because all things being equal and both men being of questionable taste, at least Stanley has nice arms and his head is smaller than a medicine ball.
Lest that seem dismissive, know that I have never followed the specific career of an actor – rock stars are my bag. So, the less said by me about the actual ACTING of dead actors, the better. But someday Robert Plant will die and someone will say “oh he had nice hair” and I will be inconsolable. I fully realize this.
A mouse story
Last year in May, we were watching TV in the dimly lit living room and something scampered across the floor in front of us. From the window it ran incredibly quickly to the dining room. Scamper scuttle schewammy. Ack!
I said did you see that? as we had been indulging in alcohol that evening and it might have been a drunken hallucination.
I did! he replied.
Huh I said.
We continued to watch television. I put the mouse far enough from my mind to make it a distantly humourous anecdote by the time I was on my way to bed via the kitchen. I reached across the kitchen sink to close the window and in the fluorescent light I saw very clearly a mouse the size of my fist (that’s a portion size!) leap, no, LEAP from the window sill, over my dishrack (full of dishes) like Evil Kenevil, across the kitchen counter and disappear behind the toaster oven. Very comforting, for a mouse to disappear behind your toaster oven. My, yes.
After a brief discussion, we decided that the best option would be to get a catt. I have dealt with mousetraps before; both the SNAP Aiiiiiiieeeeeee kind and the kind where the mouse gets stuck to a sheet of gluey paper and dies a slow, noisy, miserable death. Unfortunately, I am no longer living with the roommate who was not fazed by the disposal of dead mice. I am living now with someone who, much like me, gets all squirmy when things die on his watch. (not that the former roommate was not MUCH appreciated for her strength under pressure and for her Big Balls where mine were distinctly teensy.) Plus, after all that with the mousetraps, we ended up getting a catt in that house, to great effect. Never another mouse was seen and that house was FILTHY LIKE A SCRAPYARD.
The next day, we went to the SPCA and picked out one Seamus Sebang O’Harrigan. His SPCA name was “Trapper” which seemed like a good omen, until we realized he was named for how he had been found by the SPCA – caught in a trap on someone’s property. Oops. Ah, but he’s a good catt. He sits on command, greets me at the door, likes to chase string. etc. No matter what Saint Aardvark says, I think Seamus would save us if our house caught on fire. But he has not at any point in the past year displayed even an iota of interest in mice. Hell, he will only attack insects if he is sure they are almost dead already. In short, he is a wimpy ass catt. (Unless it is a string he is hunting and then he is an evil villain with a waxed moustache.) As discussed on these pages before, he might even be a vegetarian, as evidenced by his like for potato, hummus, guacamole, tinned pumpkin and his strange, unquestionable disdain for tuna and chicken. (this is not to say that vegetarians are wimpy ass, just that catts are meant to eat mice and goddamn it already what am I cleaning up your poop for? catch a goddamn mouse!)
I didn’t see another mouse after we got the catt. I took this to mean that the mice were gone. Ah well, my thoughts went, now I have a catt, which I swore I would never have another of, but he’s kind of like a dog and at least there are no mice. Oh, but then. But then. The other day I was clearing off my desk, something I do once or twice a year, and there were droppings. Unmistakably mouse poop. On my desk, UNDER my piles of crap. The piles of crap were intact; not a page missing from any of the notebooks. No chew marks. Just mouse poop. And here’s the point of my long story: albino mouse poop. Lots of black droppings and quite a few identically sized WHITE droppings.
Don’t get me wrong, I think mice should be allowed to be whatever colour they want. And to poop whatever colour they want. But it’s weird. It makes me feel funny. Are they mutant? Malnourished? (I hope) A rare breed? A poison breed? Maybe they’re rats? And mostly, WHY are there mice playing on my desk? And WHY is the catt, who is nocturnal? yes? sleeping on my feet all night while the albino (left handed eskimo lesbian) mice frolic about the house freely?
These are the questions I would ask the catt if I thought he had the ability to comprehend even a 10th of what I say.
In other news
If you leave wine in the freezer overnight, the corks blow out and the wine freezes solid. Luckily, no ice cream was harmed.
I am listening to an album called “Failer” by Kathleen Edwards. I bought it a while ago and enjoyed it but forgot about it. Tonight it’s absolutely perfect. Here’s an excerpt:
And if you weren’t so old, I’d probably keep you
If you weren’t so old, I’d tell my friends,
But I don’t think your wife would like my friends.
I think I’m in a good-music appreciation phase now. It helps that there is so much good music to appreciate. For a while there it was just me and the Ozzy’s Greatest Hits.
Which is cheese.
Speaking of cheese:
Number One cheese quiz:
Uncanny!
Number Two Cheese Quiz:
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