Hey, everybody!

Your proprietors have been the shit about keeping this place clean and up to date, eh? Fuckwits.

So here's the deal. We're going AWAY! For a while! But. It's a journey of pains in the ass, which deserve memorialization.

No, I am not going to poop all over your lives by giving you all kinds of TMI unwanted crap about, I don't know, whatever the Tweeters are tweeting these days, mostly their bowel movements or their children's. We do not do this kind of cheap shit at this fine cathouse. No. Instead, we will wax eloquent upon all the people whose asses we would enjoy to kick if we weren't a crabby, curmudgeonly, elderly GIMP. Yeah, fuck this shit, we still have Teh GIMPITUDE. And someone will be made to PAY. We could start with John BONER, oh, eh, I mean Boehner, of course, the Dooky of Orange, the man of colour, except it's a colour not found anywhere in Nature.

Get ready to return to drinking yourself green by 5 pm daily, John. I hear Nancy Pelosi's gunning, heh, I mean, angling, for your job, and if you know Nancy like I know Nancy, then you know what Nancy wants she usually gets. HAHAHA. I am so going to enjoy watching your fat ass being kicked all the way back to the golf courses where you can stumble around drunk like the drunk stumblebum you are.

OK, enough with the fucking vitriol already. John Boner has actually almost kind of thought about making arguey noises at bloated limpdick misogynist whale, Flush Rimbowl, who is busy trying to sex some law student who might just sue his fucking ass off with extreme prejudice. HAHAHA, so to speak. Whatevs. We're supposed to be fucking packing for Chrisake, 30 books and 2 changes of clothing plus socks, haha, is that enough for a month? It could be more.

Awright, awreddy. We're off.

Here is a video of a cat for both our faithful readers. Because we know you love cats. You can stay in touch with some of us through the blog. We're not saying squat about the slackers who are supposed to be blogging and keeping things up while yours truly rolls around in agony recovering from various fucking surgeries and pains and trips to deathbeds. Jesus, my life sucks something awful, don't it? Anyway. This cat looks JUST like Bandicoot! Except Bandicoot would probably disembowel me if I tried to get him to swim anywhere. Enjoy!

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Caturday

That's Bandicoot. The big one. Gustav, the normal-sized kitty sitting next to him, has been desolate for the past two days.

Bandicoot was very, very sick this weekend, and we have no idea what happened. He spent all of Thursday night vomiting (yes, all fucking night, like every couple of hours). As you all know, certain people at La Casa de Los Gatos have extremely sensitive stomachs. We're talkin' hear someone/thing yarking within the limits of hearing distance, and barf along in tune. We're talking smell anything barfacious, like shit, stale piss, vomit, rotting corpses, and it's technicolour yawn time in old Hollywood city.

We're not naming any names now. We are not. But let me tell ya, anybody who has hardwood floors and can sleep through cat barfage, well, you're a better man than I am, Nelson.

Cats barf all the time, right? No big deal? I mean, do you know how much cats barf? If someone could figure out how to turn cat barf into a power source, we could probly run the whole planet very efficiently with low pollution thankyewveddymuch.

Wrong. If your cat barfs a LOT? Like all night a lot? Take the little fucker to the ER. They're really sick, and chances are their core temperature has dropped really low and they're completely dehydrated from all the vomiting, and if their gums are white or bluish, they may have been poisoned and could be close to death.

He was crying in a strange voice, and no beast in pain goes unheard in these parts. That's the policy. So we bundled him up and took him to the vet, and he had a chest x-ray and a sonogram and a blood panel, and I plan to plate him in gold when he returns. Lets just say it cost an arm and a leg, but I am grateful.

He has feline enteritis. Not the panleukopenia (FPV) kind. It made his tubby hurt a lot. He's on painkillers, antibiotics, and an IV drip for fluids and has been in the hospital for two days now. We're leaving in a little while to bring the babby home.

Oh, and Gustav, up there? When Gustav's mom threw a blood clot and had to be ... killed, OK? She was killed. Gustav was desolate. He had never really been separated from his Mom and didn't know how to cope. Bandicoot very kindly took him under an enormous Maine Coon paw and kept him company and kept him out of trouble and slept next to him to keep him warm, and put up with his bullshit. (Gustav was extremely neurotic and crazy when he first came, attacking all the other cats constantly and yowling in a voice like a Siamese on crack. Rescue kitteh. Bad history. Tranquilizers for two years.) So ever since The Coot has been in the horse spittle, Gustav has been inconsolable. And when he's inconsolable, he yowls. LOUDLY. You know, just in case you don't realize he's, like, suffering, or whatever.

Geezus, I can't wait for it to stop. He didn't let us sleep much so I ended up taking a pill, which I hate (I don't like taking medication of any sort and react badly to most of it, but two days without sleep is too much) and I have a splitting fucking headache from the medication. I sure hope he quits yowling soon or I'll have to kill myself.

Just kidding. If I killed myself I would miss out on the joy of bringing our own dear Bandicoot home at last, after two whole days away!

Just look at that little punim. Who could resist such a one?

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Announcement For Teh Day

No, we haven't been turned into a cat. Or a toad, for that matter. And yes, we did pass on that fucking chain letter. And all the other fucking chain letters y'all mailed us (you know who you are).

Surgery tomorrow. Would you believe we have to fucking BE THERE at 6:15 am? I feel like John Wayne Gacy in that stupid movie about him, yelling at everyone, "Do you know who I AM? Huh? DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?" I mean, fucking COME ON, people. La Casa de Los Gatos does not begin to download teh wakefulness until, oh, 9 am or such. This does not bode well.

Pluses: No CPM machine that has to be strapped into for up to 8 hours per day.
Minuses: PT regularly for fucking EVAH.

Also, pain meds. I hate them. I don't react well to them. They make me vomit and feel nauseated all the time. And I can't read or think or function very well mentally, which I also hate. The last time I was on them, I actually got off them very easily mdash; I just kept forgetting to take them for longer and longer periods, and eventually decided if I wasn't suffering enough to want them I could live with the pain. Right? It can't be TOO bad if you're not groaning and writhing about. Because when I came out of the major surgery, the pain was so fucking bad, I could barely see. All I could do was groan, uh, uh, uh, like I was about to die. I remember hearing the sound and thinking, Now who the fuck is making all that noise? And it was me. Now that's the level of pain where you need medication. If it's just, you know, painful but you can still function, why bother? I mean, you're functional, right? That's better than being painfree but a vegetable from the neck up.

Also, I don't get any buzz from pain meds. The only thing they do for me is make the pain bearable. Some people talk about feeling high or a feeling of flying or consciousness-altering. I don't get any of that. If I did, maybe I could get addicted to pain meds, like a lot of medical professionals seem to. For me there is absolutely NO upside, and plenty of downside. Perhaps I should be grateful.

I'll be back pretty soon, I imagine. And since the daily pain levels will go down after this surgery, hopefully, back to blogging as well. So don't get up to any more trouble than y'all need to. BBL.

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Caturday!

Yes it R CATURDAY!

Confession of the week: things have been very very very stressful at La Casa de Los Gatos. It's Yahrzeit time for Dad and Zingiber, who passed over the Rainbow Bridge just a smidge over a year ago.

Bandicoot decided to celebrate by developing a bad cold which blocked his little tubes, so his eyes were running, and getting ooky and almost-infectable, which means daily (sometimes twice or thrice) eye-washings and cleanings. He's a good little trouper, especially since he gets rewarded with some horrendously stinky vitamin treat. It seems to be helping a bit with the eyes, but Jesus what a fucking pain. All the others want one too, or at least want to know what's going on, which doesn't help.

We have surgery coming up in three weeks (slightly less). House has to be clean, cats medicated and doctored, garden put up for the winter, books put away so someone on crutches can get around. It's minor surgery but still fucking painful. Actually, it's fucking painful now, so what's the diff? Anyway. Nothing like icing your knee during winter. Still need to make several gallons of soup so I won't have to try to get down the stairs on crutches to cook dinner. Not that it helped the last time. I dropped a bunch of weight from being vomitous all the time. Can't take pain medication, it just makes me feel gross and pukey and brainless. Hopefully, I can smoke pot for the pain. Well, not *smoke* as such, since we quit smoking this year, for good and finally.

Meanwhile one of my nearest and dearest has just had massive surgery for a very rare disease. Called the hospital late last night, out of surgery (must have been about 9 hours, jezus how can they cut on anybody for that long?), in recovery, things are looking good. Now for rest, rehab, and recovery.

I have PT to look forward to starting mid-December. The knee is killingly painful now with pain running across the bone, not just the muscles, which makes me wonder just what the fuck is going on. X-rays and MRIs show the implant is holding firm. So why the fuck is it so painful? The pain is crippling my foot, goddamnit, I can't put the weight on the foot, flat. And the small muscles of the ankle seem to be working at odds. The nerves aren't firing properly, so the foot drags. What a joy! Walking becomes an exercise in coordination. Are the toes lifting high enough? Or is there a chance they're not lifting properly, which means they'll catch and drag, and possibly twist all the ankle muscles again? The swelling from the last spectacular twisting hasn't quite subsided yet.

Anyway. Fun and games at the old homestead. Countdown to surgery. On the PLUS side, I'll get to watch LOTS of films. And I've read close to 100 books this year, so I needn't feel too bad about being a brainless vegetable for the end of the year. On the MINUS side, Gojira Helen Wheels is *already* sleeping on the knee or ankle every chance she gets. We'll have to get the Old Protective Plastic Bucket out to guard against her. What a fucking brat.

Also, Bandicoot has a new, irritating habit: Licking Teh Hoomin. He will lick my hand (or nose) for up to an hour, if I let him (I don't; his breath smells like fish). I've taken to wearing my sleeves down over my fingertips. Thank god for winter (did anybody think they would EVER hear me be grateful for the cold? Yes. It's official. I am fucking grateful for the cold).

When he can't lick me, he licks my mouse. Yes, THAT mouse. The electronic, wireless, purchased from fucking Radio Shack or whatever guaranteed to be mouse-flavour-free mouse. Or my little table for my laptop. Pica?

Anyway. This is why we have kitten fever at La Casa de Los Gatos:

Hippity-hoppity!

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Anniversaries

You know what day it is. A day when we should all be remembering those young men and women that we have repeatedly sent into harm's way, by lying to them, telling them they were fighting for their country, or democracy, or freedom, or some such other bullshit.

A day when we should be weeping over the fact that so many of them come home broken in body and mind to a nation that seems to have forgotten all about them, except when it comes time to buy yellow ribbon magnets from China for a dollar or two. A day when we should be doing something about the fact that SO fucking MANY of our vets are unemployed, or homeless, or struggling to get by.

Today is all those things. If you know a veteran? Give them a hug or a thank you, call them up to say hello, take them to lunch or dinner, offer to help them out with something, anything. It could be something as small as picking up groceries, babysitting their kids, polishing their resume, setting up their computer, taking their damn dog for a walk. Do something. Anything. Just to let them know you appreciate what they went through while they were sweltering in a trench somewhere getting their ass shot off or getting water tainted with decaying corpses and rotting food thanks to George Bush, Dick Cheney, KBR, and/or Halliburton.

If you don't PERSONALLY know a veteran, you can always volunteer with one of the many fine organizations that help our vets in various ways.

These men and women risked their lives and their minds and bodies to do what they saw as their duty to the nation. You don't have to agree with their politics or their service to do them the kindness you would do any other human being. Step up and do your bit for them, and remember, in one month's time, a WHOLE LOTTA them will be coming home from Iraq.

If you're a business owner, you can help by hiring them. If you're working for a big corporation, ask them if they're interested in hiring veterans. If you work at a restaurant or other service/retail business, ask your employers if they will offer vets discounts, then publicize those discounts. Everything you do helps.

And, if you're a voter? Get your ass out there, register to vote, make sure all the vets you know are registered to vote. They don't have to vote for YOUR candidate. Just make sure they vote. Offer to drive them to the polls if they're disabled. Help them register by mail. But make DAMN sure they don't vote for Mittens Romneycare, because that miserable plastic-faced billionaire bastard is talking about PRIVATIZING the VA. After G.W. Bush's disastrous experiment with Walter Reed, I don't EVAH want to hear about veterans lying in pools of their own piss while rats run across the floor and mold spreads from leaky ceilings.

Today is also a very sad day here at La Casa de Los Gatos. It is the anniversary of my father's death. Dad fought in WW II, and was on the losing side, initially, so he spent some time as a POW. He came back from the war deaf in one ear, due to shrapnel, and with an enlarged heart. He lived a long, and mostly healthy, life, but his war stories were enough to give us kids nightmares for weeks. And I know he suffered from PTSD, although he was a gentle man who turned it inward into deep depression rather than outward into beating his wife and kids.

Goodbye, Dad. I still miss you so very much. I think I always will. You loved me and you taught me to love myself, even if the lesson took a long, long time to root itself.

Today is also the anniversary of Zingiber's death. For 14 long years, he was with me every moment, a fat, silly, fearful, neurotic, sweet, affectionate, jealous, possessive, overweight lump of love. I miss him every single day. No one has ever loved me the way that fool did. No matter what I did to him — and here I have to admit, shamefacedly, that there were times when he got on my very last nerve, and I did yell at him and torment him in various small ways — he never, ever held anything against me, not even for a second. I could attribute this to his complete and total brainlessness, I guess, but every night when he put his fat, furry little head on the pillow next to me and breathed softly and warmly into my ear, I realized that he might have been as stupid as the day was long, but that was real love in those big green eyes.

I miss you baby. I wish I could tell you one more time just how much.

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CaturWeen

Yes, I missed Caturday. I went out of town over the week, and was fucking exhausted by the time I got back, not to mention hung-over as fuck-all. And I missed Hallowe'en, too. Just be grateful I didn't see fit to inflict Jesusween* on ya.

* Warning: StephenColbert Alert.

Things are tough all around, no need to dwell on what can't be cured, since it must be endured. La Casa de Los Gatos has never treated the blog as a place to whine about the many misfortunes to which flesh is heir. Suffice it to say that life sucks, and I'm sure yours no less than mine. We resign ourselves to updating our book list with book reviews for the year so far, and film reviews, over at the sisterblog. In the meantime, we stand in solidarity with #Occupy and the Indignados who #Occupy everywhere. Sadly, ex-Marine Scott Olsen was injured when Oakland Mayor Jean Quan decided to loose the police on the harmless Indignados there. We'll be keeping an eye on the #Occupation, but for today, we're weaseling out with this, for your amusement:

Figure out where YOU can #Occupy.

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Mission Accomplished!

We know y'all heard the news last night. Our President announced on the national media that bin Laden had been "taken out" in a surgical strike designed to inflict minimum "collateral damage."

Al Jazeera has the photos if you can stand to see 'em. Bit, uh, strong, so be warned. There was a lot of spontaneous cheering and people waving flags and what-all. Folks gathered around the White House, singing the National Anthem. Firefighters of the NYFD celebrating in Times Square. Cadets at West Point raising such a ruckus, the sleeping inhabitants of nearby areas came awake.

And of course, the media today is full of it. And we mean that in the politest way. No, of course we don't. But we're calling a moratorium on the insults for the nonce. Might as well just sit back and admit that, since the attack on the Twin Towers, we here at La Casa de Los Gatos have been twitchy and oppressed, even if we didn't know it.

The first reaction at the ol' Cathouse was shock. The second was a tremendous sense of relief, as if an invisible hand around one's neck had finally loosed its grip. The third was exultation. But that only lasted a short while. It is unseemly to celebrate death, no matter whose. We are grateful the symbolic scourge is gone, but the sight of people singing and celebrating, regardless of whether they are mujahideen or American civilians, is a little ... unsettling. But we're not going to rain on anyone else's parade. Y'all do what it takes, friends. Just remember to say "Thank you, Mr. President!" over at whitehouse.gov.

And now, for a little light relief. Here's George Dubya Bush's reaction when HE got the news:



Yeeeeeee-HAW!

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Not Dead Yet

Goddammit.



Rumours of our demise have been greatly exaggerated.

This is the best fucking ad I have ever seen in my life.

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O Death, Where Is Thy Sting?

Right here. It's stung me too many times this year to toss it off casually. Two family members (I think both were the last of their generation); too many feline friends.


Dad died last month. He was in his 90s, so it came as no great surprise except, apparently, to my inner child or summat, because I keep catching myself speaking or thinking of him all the time, in the present, or worse yet, as if he was actually present.

It's been almost exactly a month since I got the phone call. I had made reservations months ago to spend a couple of weeks around Thanksgiving with him. Let us give thanks for those parents we have left. Those relatives, of any degree of relativity. No, not really. I'm not terribly fond of my relatives. Although I was very fond of Dad.

I've been told I look like him. (A piece of flattery that would earn anyone a place in my good books, or on my Xmas list.) He was a handsome man. All I know is, I got his teeth (fragile), his feet (flat), and his tendency to tear up in old age. Also, thick eyebrows, early graying (he was 30 when he went completely silver, but the fates were kind and gave me an extra decade to get used to it), and a reading addiction I just can't shake. Thanks, Dad.

My father was a good man. One of the few I've ever met. His word was his bond. He never said anything he didn't mean (and because he was a gentle man, that meant he often said nothing at all, because he couldn't bear to be mean); he never told a lie. I miss him a great deal already. But he's been gone for several years now, fading a little each year. Losing his hearing, and then his sight, and finally even words. At first, at the beginning of his long decline, he would answer my questions with "I don't know. I don't know how to say. I've forgotten the words." In the end, he could not speak at all, although his brain could decipher that we were making patterns of sounds. He attempted to join in, but could only produce strange, disjointed noises, shouts, barks, mutters, all cadenced just like his normal speech.

Hard as it was to hear that he was gone, it wasn't intensely painful. After all, he was no longer mobile, nor continent, and the last stroke left him with a feeding tube. If he had understood what was happening, he would have hated every minute of it. So perhaps it's just as well that multiple small strokes took away his power of understanding.

But barely had I placed his bones in a funeral urn, crushing them with my hands, when came more bad news: Zingiber died suddenly, a week after my father.

O grave, here is thy victory. Stop taking my nearest and dearest away. Or at least slow your pace a little. Over the past decade, I've buried two sets of parents (natal and in-law); lost too many dearly-loved friends; and said goodbye to six cats and a dog, two charming chickens, and several bunnies. I'm done. I want a year or two without funerals and burials and mourning. Is that too much to ask? I'm feeling my own years, and I've spent thirty of the past X years worrying about, and taking care of (in my own incompetent fashion) my parents. They're gone, now, and I really have stopped caring. I don't want to give any more hostages to fortune. I'm ready for my own last trip to the banquet, goddammit. Ready to be worm food. Life sure is a lot bleaker without my dearly beloveds. Goodbye, Dad. I wish I could have talked to you more, but I really did spend every single day's worth of vacation over the last three decades with you. And Mum made every second of it a hell, so I'm sorry I didn't bite the bullet and sit through her needling, her vicious jibes, and her petty, pointed remarks and stay for the delight of your company. I couldn't do it, in the end. I just couldn't take any more. I'm sorry. I have always loved you, and I will always love you. And I always felt your love, Dad, surrounding me, making my life a better place. Making me all the good things I have ever been, or could be.

Goodbye, little Zingiber. I'll tell your story, my love. It will live in my heart always, just as you will, with my beloved father, and my sister, and all the others I loved who left me behind in their dance between matter and energy.

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Happy New Year!

Another year has come to an end. And what a difference from a mere year ago! It's hard to capture the rage and despair of 2008, the craziness of the elections, the culmination of eight years of suffering through the policies of the demented cabal of the Naked Emperor in Washington, with its know-nothing appointees, its grand pooh-bahs with degrees in various ludicrous offshoots of fundamentalist theology from various ludicrous fundamentalist "shcoolz."

Thanks to the endless drumbeats of the Republican media machine, we could be forgiven for thinking that the masses are bitterly dissatisfied with President Obama's first year in office, but in fact it seems the masses are too busy dealing with daily life and bad teevee to cast more than an occasional glance at the goings-on in Washington.

Which is really not very good at all, but after years of being wound up to fever pitch and suffering the horrors of unbridled Republican greed (which seems to be getting worse, or exposed more often, or something), I can understand people wanting to take a break. And there is no denying that the President has worked wonders in foreign affairs. There is a new response that Americans traveling abroad excite, a new comity. While Republicans at home continue to froth and fume, growing increasingly rabid, turning over more and more of their power to shrill idiots like (ins)Hannity, Blech, and Limpballs, the whole world seems to be willing to relax a little and offer the new guy a much friendlier and more accepting demeanor than we've seen in nearly a decade.

Russia joining the US in sanctions for Iran? Who'd'a thunk?

This year has been rife in challenges. The collapse of Wall St., the taxpayer bailout, the stalling of the closure of Gitmo, the fight after fight after fight for healthcare, the destruction of Main street mortgage values ... no one can say it wasn't arduous and, at times, wretched. But — we made it. There's a spirit of caring and sharing in the air which has not been diffused by the hit our incomes took. Yahoo is offering its employees a chance to do good as a year-end bonus; Hairdressers are offering free haircuts to job seekers; and organizations of volunteers have teamed with restaurants and chefs in some cities to donate and deliver food to those who need it.

Enjoy your friends and families, this New Year's Eve. If you're going out, stay safe and wrap up warm. Make sure your designated driver carts your drunken asses safely home. Or better yet, snuggle up with your sweetie in front of a blazing fire, or a warm heater, and play a friendly game of, I dunno, Scrabble? Monopoly? Something fun.

La Casa de Los Gatos is dining on Mongolian beef with lots of dried red chillies in it; sauteed Chinese greens in Xiaohsing rice wine, soy sauce, cornstarch, chicken stock, with a couple drops of sesame oil; and plain rice.

Tomorrow we break out the Merlot with dear friend and fellow blogger Ms. Manitoba, and grill/broil filet steaks with different seasonings. It's our steak taste testing New Year's celebration.

Details to be posted later.

Thanks for your visits, your comments, your friendship. May the New Year be much kinder to you and yours than the old has been. And a very Happy New Year to all.

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Meta: Announcement

Blogging light to nonexistent over the next few days, as this blogger hies off to parts nearby on a brief holiday, leaving Ms. Manitoba to hold down the fort.

See y'all in a few, comrades! (There's another word that won't make it into the New Conservative Bible being written right now by über-gay rightard John Schlafly.)

Stay safe and happy, y'awl! Back in a bit.

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Announcement: Parks and Photos

Beautiful photos of a beautiful park over at the sisterblog.

Also, art, in American Prayer Flags. If you know of a gallery interested in hosting this exhibit, let us know.

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Meta: Announcement

ICHC

Please note the "Share" button under every post. You can now share the fervid rants of this site with all your friends and soon-to-be-enemies. Thanks to friend and fellow-blogger Maru for helping me with this!

More changes will come as soon as the Feline Master Race at La Casa de Los Gatos permits.

In the meanwhile, please keep this weekend free to rally for health care. This fight isn't over yet, and we will post at length on the health care reform issues as they now stand. We'll go down fighting, dammit!

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

To Bri, Cephalopod Master Extraordinaire! Spreader of Sim City and other time-wasters, lender of books, friend of 15 years, victim of many culinary, uh, attempts, and silent sufferer of various hikes. Fellow lover of Science, Personal Tech Support minion, myrmidon of the Geek Revolution, and all-round general Good Guy.

Happy Birfday, Bri! Science weekend full speed ahead.



And to my very special friend of 37 years, VN vet, who survived and went on to make contributions to the mental health of Cats everywhere, political or no! You know who you are, and this blog thanks you and your fellow vets for your service to the nation.

And speaking of Vietnam Vets, Motormouth Murphy, wherever you are, goddamn it, Sunshine and Q would like you to get in touch!

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

President Obama and Family

It is the birthday of the 44th President of these United States. The 48th birthday, to be exact. President Obama, we at this fine blog know that our voices are joining millions of others in wishing you a happy birthday, and a good year, and a great life. You have done your fellow citizens proud with all the good things you do, great and small.

It is also the birthday of veteran White House reporter Helen Thomas. Here's how President Obama acknowledged her birthday. What a guy!

Happy Birthday, Helen, the last of the true journalists! You keep holding their feet to the fire, no matter their politics, no matter their ideology. Happy Birthday to the First Lady of the White House Press Corps!

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R.I.P. Roger Greenan

Roger Alan Greenan

Roger Greenan died of a heart attack a week ago. He was a helicopter pilot in the Vietnam Conflict (as my friend, a VN vet, reminds me, it was not a war).

I met Roger in Singapore, when he was working in Indonesia, some years after his time in Vietnam. He was a neighbour, an acquaintance, and later, a friend. A very valuable friend. In fact, it would be no exaggeration to say that I would not be here today if not for Roger.

I lost touch with Roger long ago — he was a very dynamic individual, and moved around a great deal, and I — well, I was young and rootless and fairly directionless, as well, moving around a great deal myself.

I'm sorry it's taken me so long to find Roger again. And, ironically, too late. Because the one thing I wanted to do was thank Roger for his kindness to me. He took it upon himself to talk to me about life and the art of living. For reasons unbeknownst to me, he worked to get past my rudeness and hostility towards him, and in so doing, made me understand that I had to make a choice, and spiraling downwards into depression and suicide was not a choice, but a renunciation of choice. It takes a little work to make a choice. Lying back and letting things happen is not making a choice, it's abdicating from one's responsibilities.

Other things Roger taught me: A person's first responsibility is to themselves. You, and you alone, are responsible for figuring out your life and living it. Only after you have discharged that essential responsibility are you in a position to take on any additional responsibilities. Life is a struggle, and a body has to do whatever they need to in order to survive. Survival is more important than dignity.

I'm sorry I never got to say thank you, Roger, but I've thought of you constantly throughout the years. So here's my public acknowledgement: Thank you, Roger Greenan, for all that you did for me. You were a good man, and generous to a fault.

Details of Roger's life and death are available here. As you can see from reading it, my high opinion of Roger was shared by many.

As an atheist, I feel the loss of Roger more keenly than those who might believe in some deity that ensures further contact with the dead. I'm not sure what "R.I.P." means, really, for people like me, except that, as Shakespeare said, so long ago,

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great;
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renownéd be thy grave!

He was only 67 — rather young to have gone. My mother was 84 when she popped her clogs, and Dad is in his mid-nineties, and still with us. Undoubtedly, being sent to VN and serving in the frontlines of that conflict shortened his life. As it will shorten the lives of all those still among us, who served. Goodbye, Roger. Trouble will trouble you no more. Thanks for all you did, for so many. You were a good and courageous man.

Renownéd be thy grave.

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In Memoriam: Banshee

Image Copyright Sharon Boggon, fabric artist/Web designer extraordinaire*

For those of you who know, La Casa de Los Gatos was established so that its inhabitants could, among other things, pay full attention to the joy that is Cats.

We regret to announce that joy is somewhat diminished as of Saturday, April 18th. Our good friend Lizzy of the blog 922 Cats saw one of her 922 — Banshee the Elusive and Beautiful — off on her journey to the Rainbow Bridge.

All dogs go to heaven, it is said. What is less well known is that all OTHER critters also go to heaven. Humans have intent, and memories, and willful behaviour. Animals do not. They may remember, but are not ruled by, the past; and they do not speculate about the future. Theirs is an eternal Zen-like now. So we know that although Banshee the Beautiful knew that she was greatly loved, when her time came to go, she went, and did not worry about what lay ahead or those she left behind. This memoriam is for those who will miss her.

She lived with Lizzy for fourteen years, though she was older when she left. So Lizzy mourns her, and as Friends of Lizzy, we mourn her too. Enjoy what lies beyond, little kitty! Long may you nap in sunbeams, and may every flower fill your air with sweet scent. Beyond the rainbow bridge, where the mice are fat and the birds are lazy, and you don't have to share your Fancy Feast with anyone, wait for us all to join you someday.

In Memoriam, Banshee D.
?/1995 - 04/18/2009

*Sharon Boggon's beautiful work — and fundraising activities — may be viewed here. The image credited to Sharon Boggon may not be reproduced without her permission.

Note the tiny face of Banshee hidden in this beautiful example of Crazy Quilting created by Sharon Boggon. She sits at the peak of a triangle with its endpoints at the golden butterfly and a collection of three buttons. Like Banshee herself, she is elusive and very difficult to see!

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For Sandy

Part of being a gimp, and growing steadily gimpier over a period of five years, is — you don't have time to clean. At all. And if you have five cats as well, your house slowly acquires an impressive coating of cat hair and dander, with an overlay of all the other detritus that a house acquires over such a long period.

I was reminded of this rather forcefully when fellow-blogger Sirenita Lake and her partner came to call. He's violently allergic to cat hair, and after an hour or two, was forced to take his leave. The good news is that I managed to stay on my feet long enough afterwards to vacuum up an impressive quantity of life-debris, including various "knitting kittens," which is my term for the clumps of cat hair that seem to rise spontaneously out of every nook and cranny. In the process, I cleaned out my art materials, so that I could prepare to work on a piece of fabric art that is being inspired by my dear friend Sandy, who often comments here. That's the good news.

Thanks to the deities of health and wellbeing, I am in much less pain than I was a few weeks ago. It's going slowly, but fabric art can be done sitting down, so I plan to start on the project soon.

Pictures will be posted when the project is ready, over at the sisterblog, CultureVultures.

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How To Avoid Hairy Jello

And other nuggets of wisdom, culinary and otherwise.

ICHC

Didja know that hospital food is, like, the worst shit in the world? Srsly. I have no idea what they put in that stuff, but I'm thinkin' something along the lines of recycled intestinal tissue from recent surgery. It even smells bad. Like, from a mile away.

So, if you're scheduled to get schlepped into the old Bone Pit for any reason, for mercy's sake, prepare.

Put these on your list of Things To Do Before Surgery.

1. Laundry.
   
   There's nothing worse than coming home to the funky aroma of unwashed clothes, and if yo' mama didn't tell you yet, when that shit sits around in the house waiting for you to return from the Bone Pit, it miasmates (yeah, I made that word up, so what?) more richly as the days go by to produce a brew like Hell's own armpit.
   
   Yes, I did my fuckin' laundry. I'm speaking from past experience and a wild and wicked yoof.
   
   
2. Tidy up.
   
   You're going to be fuckin' frail when you get home. Srsly. They drain out your body juices and put staples and stitches and god knows what other shite in your hoomin bits. So pick up all the books and papers and what-all lying around on the floor because if it's there to trip on you WILL by gum trip on it or step on it or fall over it and hurt yourself something sucky.
   
   If you can sort the crap out and put it away, yay. If not, feck it. Put it in a large brown paper bag or a box somewhere and hide it where you won't step on it. You'll have plenty of time to take care of it as you S-L-O-W-L-Y recover from your erstwhile damage.
   
   
3. Cook plenty of nutritious, freezable meals and stick them in 1-gallon containers and freeze them.
   
   I'm not kidding about this one. Hospital food is SO the shits you'll sell your liver and your entire family for decent food by the time you come back. Your tastebuds are totally off because of the drugs (you'll know you're on the road to recovery when the hospital food actually starts tasting edible). I don't know what kind of eejits hospitals employ as nutritionists and dietitians, but most of them seem to belong to the school of "more is better." Salt, fat, calories, human hair, whatever. Stay away from everything except water, juice, fruit, salad, and clear broth if they'll let you have it.
   
   Over the next few weeks, I'm going to post recipes of nutritious, easy, freezable food. High protein content, low work ratio. Nothing like a hearty beef steak soup with tender chunks of browned meat, celery, carrots, garlic, tomatoes, and rice to keep you happy after much slicing and dicing of the old bod.
   
   
4. Clean out the fridge.
   
   Srsly. Anything that can't get et before you go to teh Bone Pit ain't gonna get et till you've been home a while. If it can stay in the freezer, fine, but really, you're better off giving it to friends and family and saving the freezer for your Real People Food for recuperation. In the meantime, give the rest away and clean out the fridge. That's how you avoid hairy jello.

For the nonce, please stay away from bubbling-hot liquids of any variety, whether it be tea, coffee, or soup, eh? Everything's bad for you, except for what kills you, yaknow.

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Meta! I'm Back, Dammit!

From ICHC, of course

Yeah, they don't tell you till afterwards that knee replacement surgery is the most painful kind of surgery you can have. Although, if they'd told me beforehand, as they did afterwards, I probly would still be running, bum leg or no bum leg. Other things they don't tell you: Knee injury hastens the deterioration of hyaline cartilage around the bum joint, and that stuff don't grow back. People who seriously injure their knees during their wild and wicked yoof will pay and pay and pay for the rest of their lives with decreasing mobility and pain. All those young football stars who get sent to the chopping block? They're demanding million-dollar salaries because when they go in for the first replacement, that's pretty much the end of it. Of course, we're trained to bay at the obscene amounts they make and roll over for teh belly rub when a banker takes home $10 mil in bonus plus whatever obscene amount they make each year every year for fifty years or more in the workforce, but hey.

You goddamned losers gotta stop envying the rich for being rich, says the WSJ, wiping a tear from its greedy eye with teh Hanky of Opportunism. Gads, a one-legged ass-kicking's on the menu for the lot of those sodding bastids, don't you think?

Today's heart-lightening theft from YouTube shows that President Obama has two working legs and is not afraid to use them to kick a little deserving butt. And when has any behind seemed more deserving?



Blogging light but determined. Heavy drugs in the mornings, scattered wiseass remarks throughout the day. Storms of rabid language predicted, also Banker Pinatas as a way of stimulating teh economy.

Yeah, I'm glad to be back. Nothing like telling the fecking sods what it is while your leg is stretched by an inquisitorial torture device of sorts (what the FECK is this, anyway?).

The Terrible Saga will grace these pages forthwith. And terrible it was, in the stinky sort of way that week-old corpses and hospital tales tend to be.

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