Come With Me, My Love

I’m not that big a fan of Robert Plant’s solo stuff, but I do love me some “Sea of Love” action on his part.  His voice is just so warm and tender, you can almost feel a firm but gentle hand on your lower back, another caressing up your arm to take your hand, and pulling you in so close you can smell…

Okay, I interrupt this fantasy just for a moment to ask why, when smoking in general is so stinky, and stale smoke in general, even stinkier, there are some men who smoke who end up smelling so damn good?  Kind of like warm wet earth.  Why would nature devise a man who benefits from a habit that can kill him?  Is it irony or a consolation prize?

Anyway, where was I? Yes, Robert Plant is singing and his voice is so warm and tender it’s like being pulled in close to an old lover you remember fondly.

Come with me, My Love, to the new, the new Tiny Cat Pants.  I want to tell Lynn just how much I appreciate it.

Yes, folks, finally, sooner, rather than later, we will be moving over to WordPress.  It’s not that I don’t like Squarespace, I do.  But Lynnster has promised me something that Squarespace was never able to deliver–all my blogging in one place, this stuff and the blogger stuff.   And I believe that WordPress will cure the blues of the folks who are having a hard time commenting here.

The change-over ought to happen over the weekend and I’m sure there will be glitches of some sort that neither Lynnster nor I have imagined and Tiny Cat Pants ought to be sporting some kind of fresh new look.  Or a couple of fresh new looks while I toy around.

Anyway, I wanted to let y’all know that that was happening.  I’ll keep the Squarespace site up for a little bit just to steer folks to the right place.

It should be fun.  All my posts in one place.  It’s like a dream come true.

A dream involving a guy who smells wonderfully like cigarette smoke who never gets cancer… 

The Comforting Sound of Your Innards Working

We’re having some less than Mrs. Wigglebottom friendly weather, so we were unable to go for our walk.  Instead, Mrs. Wigglebottom has spent the morning shaking, barking, and now, hiding under my feet.

Apparently, the placement of my foot on her back was crucial to her feeling secure and safe from the thunder, because we had to spend a good five minutes poking and wiggling and turning in circles in order to get it just right.

Still, you know, there was a time in Mrs. Wigglebottom’s life when, on days like this, you could have just picked her up and tucked her inside your coat and let her sleep where it was warm and dry and she could hear your heart beating.

I used to love to do that when I was little, sneak into my parents’ room first thing in the morning and put my head on my dad’s chest and listen to his heart beat.

When I had my sonogram, back in that dreadful autumn of doom, that actually was one of the nice things that happened.  This kind woman put a wand up inside me and asked if I wanted to hear.  I said yes and, there it was, that ancient sound of life squooshing through my body–squish squash, squish squash–in concert with the lub dub of my beating heart.

It was amazing, to hear my body just moving along in there without any conscious effort from me.

The dog sounds like she has a big heart, when she’ll let you listen to it.  It’s hard for her to lay still when I put my head near her.  She wants to lick me or roll over so that I can rub her belly.  But she lets the Butcher use her as a pillow all the time.

That makes me a little jealous.

—–

I Would Not Be Surprised to Learn that “Artist” is French for Dumbass

Well, this idea that I’m some uncouth mouthbreather who is just too filthy, filthy, filthy for good company continues to spread.  I would be bothered, but I think we all know what happens if just one more conservative women complains about my potty mouth.


Yes indeed, that ought to be enough to bring all those upstanding conservative men (and hell, maybe some of the women) sniffing around my door.  Lord knows I love you conservatives, but it is a fact proven over and over again that the thing you’re complaining about the most is usually the thing you’re fucking the hardest, so I’ll stock up on condoms and lube and put on my best commie hippie who’s ruining America face, and we can all have a good time (Shoot, I’m amiable.  I’ll even let you curl up on my couch afterwards and cry and feel guilty about what a good for nothing worthless piece of shit you are.  Just don’t pester the dog.  That’s all I ask.).


Anyway, all that was beside the point.  I just thought you’d find it interesting.


I know I told you all I turned my play in.  But the chick I turned it in to offered to read it and give me some last minute advice and so I took it and the last final draft is due Friday.


I just rewrote the ending.


What the fuck?  Am I a total dumbass or what?


I don’t know if it’s better, but it seems more right.


I’m about dying.  I’m past the point of being able to tell if it’s any good.


But what the fuck, right?


If I’m going to be the potty mouthed liberal Hollywood temptress that all the conservatives complain about, I’ve got to have some tangential relationship to art.  So, I guess I’m committed to seeing this through.