I HAD TO say goodbye to Paulie James Walnuts III. King James, Wally Almonds, Molly Pecans, P Kitty, Diamond Princess, Juglans paulinus, Paulo, Wognuts, top predator, master of all he surveyed. Light of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul. The cat the myth the legend.
House is quiet without him. No one bites me awake to be fed. Nevermore that claw grip to the edge of my bed, the sound that announced his ascension ever since he abjured feline agility and opted for a two-part pawual hoist instead.
He didn't live to be old. But "Die Young, Stay Pretty" was his second favorite song. (After "I Know What Boys Like.") No use trying to get him to slow down and do self care. He'd be all Fuck maintain boy I gotta keep BALLIN.
He left Carmela his full wardrobe, excepting the boas. Those went to Marianne, who had always coveted them. The jewelry went to me. So if you're wondering why I've been rocking all the gold chains with dinnerplate medallions: that's why.
As I leaned into that sad hospital cage he made funereal requests. I honored the reasonable ones two days later, digging his final resting place in his old strawbed nap spot, pouring out tooney, filling his grave with passion fruit and adorning its surface with passion flowers. He wanted "Aston Martin Music" played. (I opted instead for quiet and Kaddish.) And he wanted Crim to come over and help dig, which the latter was glad to do.
Before we parted he rasped some advice: It may look for all the world like you don't know whatthehell you're doing. But I know you do. After I'm gone I need you to know it. He was selfless really.
Miss you, big friendly orange cat. But legends don't die.
Showing posts with label Walnuts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Walnuts. Show all posts
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Hustle and Cuss
WE SIT DOWN for a finance meeting and Carmela crunches the numbers with the swift ease of a kitty who sidelines as a seasonal accountant. She presents the results in tidy printouts. With the school garden program in the shitter the outlook is grim, and Paulie Walnuts operatically declares that the only remaining option is to send one of us out on the stroll. He quotes a recently-rejected Haitian presidential candidate: Closed legs don't get fed/Go out there and make my bread. I know him well enough to read his assumption of the pimp role as a ploy; he secretly hopes to be pressed into ho service.
Meeting adjourned, Carmela sets out searching for ways to economize. Her first stop is the coop for a little chat with Marianne, AKA the laziest layer of all time. Paulie and I set out debating two related questions:
1. Is it trickin if you got it?
2. Can you make a ho a housewife?
On both I find myself at odds with conventional rap wisdom. Paulie insists it ain't trickin if you got it, and swears he's not just saying that because he's got it. I counter that however much of the elusive It one may possess, trickin is trickin.
On the second question he's the conservative. When the law changes--and I always promise him it will--he does wish to settle down, perhaps adopt a kitten or two from Hopalong. So he worries his reputayshun. I say we should put on our heel boots and have some fun meantime, and promote my viewpoint by taking him out to Easy, where we pay neither cover nor drinks. He says it ain't trickin if you got it and sweats out his "Fancy" dance.
We're half dead the next day so we do lazy gardening and lie in the sun while Carmela calculates the possible salad savings implied by my fall planting. I observe that there are many types of grinding. Fall Writing Program must go on, broke or unbroke. And I could always go back to SAT tutoring. Paulie observes there are many types of whoring.
I managed to befriend a bank security guard, so maybe we'll heist it and flee in the Beemer with "Sweet Escape" playing and abscond to Senegal and raise goats. To which Paulie says stop being dramatic and unreasonable. Holy pots and kettles, right?
And we are practicing our French. I'll find Monsieur le Noix snoozing on the straw pile that bears his imprint, and he'll lift his lids languidly and say, Ne detestez pas le joueur; detestez le jeu. Then he likes me to ask: Soyant souteneur, c'est facile? And he answers, Hell yeah, c'est facile.
Meeting adjourned, Carmela sets out searching for ways to economize. Her first stop is the coop for a little chat with Marianne, AKA the laziest layer of all time. Paulie and I set out debating two related questions:
1. Is it trickin if you got it?
2. Can you make a ho a housewife?
On both I find myself at odds with conventional rap wisdom. Paulie insists it ain't trickin if you got it, and swears he's not just saying that because he's got it. I counter that however much of the elusive It one may possess, trickin is trickin.
On the second question he's the conservative. When the law changes--and I always promise him it will--he does wish to settle down, perhaps adopt a kitten or two from Hopalong. So he worries his reputayshun. I say we should put on our heel boots and have some fun meantime, and promote my viewpoint by taking him out to Easy, where we pay neither cover nor drinks. He says it ain't trickin if you got it and sweats out his "Fancy" dance.
We're half dead the next day so we do lazy gardening and lie in the sun while Carmela calculates the possible salad savings implied by my fall planting. I observe that there are many types of grinding. Fall Writing Program must go on, broke or unbroke. And I could always go back to SAT tutoring. Paulie observes there are many types of whoring.
I managed to befriend a bank security guard, so maybe we'll heist it and flee in the Beemer with "Sweet Escape" playing and abscond to Senegal and raise goats. To which Paulie says stop being dramatic and unreasonable. Holy pots and kettles, right?
And we are practicing our French. I'll find Monsieur le Noix snoozing on the straw pile that bears his imprint, and he'll lift his lids languidly and say, Ne detestez pas le joueur; detestez le jeu. Then he likes me to ask: Soyant souteneur, c'est facile? And he answers, Hell yeah, c'est facile.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Less Money, Fewer Problems
IT WAS ALL a dream. I used to read Mother Earth magazine. Now Paulie Walnuts and Miss Cleb are milkin cream. He hates when the little goat sleeps over, though. He can't stand immature forms of any species; he calls them 'larval rats' or LRs for short.
When the Bird Lady and her Tall Jew came for dinner, they noticed he had put on some weight. After they left I found him in the closet, weeping softly, and I was like, Come on. I thought we were done with that closet shit a long time ago. He won't come out. He's unfit to be seen, &tc. I yank him out by a hind leg and squeeze him into his rubber punishment suit in the hopes we can celebrate his paunch. Instead he takes one look in the mirror and puts a paw gun to his temple.
We talk. He says he really wants to pursue a healthy lifestyle and I try to encourage him. He spends the next forty-eight hours on nothing but legumes and cucumber water proving he means it. Then he crashes, gorges, collapses in a pile of self-loathing.
I prescribe us a night at Easy. We tuck our jeans into our heel boots and he brushes his teeth with a bottle of Jack and we go. He can't but be happy when it's midnight and his fur is drenched in sweat and "Five On It" is playing. I know he won't actually dial any of the numbers he gets. He just craves some talismanic reassurance of his fuckability. For such a handsome cat, he can be most insecure.
The next day he's like, Fuck the club. He'd rather count a million bucks. I explain to him yet again why we couldn't score that inheritance. He says integrity is fine, but a Gucci collar is infinitely better. Also he's through with dieting. Has decided to be a Jabba the Hutt-style rap Dionysus. I ask him how that worked out for Biggie and Pun. He says he's still not a player but I'm still a hater.
I'm sterilizing milk jars and he asks how's Mr. Snuffleupagus. (He means the TS.) I tell him to fuck off because my imaginary friends could kick his virtual friends asses. He swishes off to IM his remote homie Seymour, and soon is cracking up over what they've dubbed 'humanure': shit that only humans think is funny. (Seymour's humom taught him portmanteaus and this is the thanks she gets.)
He's got this diva persona, but he's actually sensitive. He knows when my Pain is bad. He thinks it was imprudent of me to strike out on my own when I can't, like, carry shit. But he doesn't say it out loud. If he said it out loud I could point out his rhetorical error, the implication I should have stayed with Crim so the latter could carry shit. I assure him that the bonus-bling hooptie is on the way and, as soon as it starts and I remember how to drive stick, I'm up for ease of groceries and he's up for a puke-erific ride culminating in a rabies shot. He can't wait.
And actually, he does understand. He's like, Freedom isn't free. We get to reminiscing on his Log Cabin Republican days.
In literal terms, we are making cheese. (Chevre cleanse, twenty days, key to health.) Also practicing our thug love duets. He sucks at memorizing lyrics, so he always gets to be Ashanti. If we're feeling weak we do pushups to "Drop the World." Naturally he gets to be Wayne and I have to be Em. After that he's fired up and wants to stay out all night 'hunting,' which in his case should rightfully be called 'hunching in a vigilant pose by the coop.' It's seemingly meek Carmela who actually earns her barn cat keep.
He says he's finally figured out why I like rap so much. Because it's pretty words and it's about struggle. He says even when it's about money-cars-clothes-hoes it's really about struggle. I tell him that's pretty insightful. For a cat. He gives me the middle claw.
He likes seeing me at my writing desk, but he can't quite be supportive. He feels obliged to step on the keyboard and point out that writing is not going to provide the bottle-popping lifestyle he's looking for. I tell him I know that but I have to do it anyway. He understands. Write it or die trying. I ask if he'd care for some goat's milk squirted straight from the udder.
When the Bird Lady and her Tall Jew came for dinner, they noticed he had put on some weight. After they left I found him in the closet, weeping softly, and I was like, Come on. I thought we were done with that closet shit a long time ago. He won't come out. He's unfit to be seen, &tc. I yank him out by a hind leg and squeeze him into his rubber punishment suit in the hopes we can celebrate his paunch. Instead he takes one look in the mirror and puts a paw gun to his temple.
We talk. He says he really wants to pursue a healthy lifestyle and I try to encourage him. He spends the next forty-eight hours on nothing but legumes and cucumber water proving he means it. Then he crashes, gorges, collapses in a pile of self-loathing.
I prescribe us a night at Easy. We tuck our jeans into our heel boots and he brushes his teeth with a bottle of Jack and we go. He can't but be happy when it's midnight and his fur is drenched in sweat and "Five On It" is playing. I know he won't actually dial any of the numbers he gets. He just craves some talismanic reassurance of his fuckability. For such a handsome cat, he can be most insecure.
The next day he's like, Fuck the club. He'd rather count a million bucks. I explain to him yet again why we couldn't score that inheritance. He says integrity is fine, but a Gucci collar is infinitely better. Also he's through with dieting. Has decided to be a Jabba the Hutt-style rap Dionysus. I ask him how that worked out for Biggie and Pun. He says he's still not a player but I'm still a hater.
I'm sterilizing milk jars and he asks how's Mr. Snuffleupagus. (He means the TS.) I tell him to fuck off because my imaginary friends could kick his virtual friends asses. He swishes off to IM his remote homie Seymour, and soon is cracking up over what they've dubbed 'humanure': shit that only humans think is funny. (Seymour's humom taught him portmanteaus and this is the thanks she gets.)
He's got this diva persona, but he's actually sensitive. He knows when my Pain is bad. He thinks it was imprudent of me to strike out on my own when I can't, like, carry shit. But he doesn't say it out loud. If he said it out loud I could point out his rhetorical error, the implication I should have stayed with Crim so the latter could carry shit. I assure him that the bonus-bling hooptie is on the way and, as soon as it starts and I remember how to drive stick, I'm up for ease of groceries and he's up for a puke-erific ride culminating in a rabies shot. He can't wait.
And actually, he does understand. He's like, Freedom isn't free. We get to reminiscing on his Log Cabin Republican days.
In literal terms, we are making cheese. (Chevre cleanse, twenty days, key to health.) Also practicing our thug love duets. He sucks at memorizing lyrics, so he always gets to be Ashanti. If we're feeling weak we do pushups to "Drop the World." Naturally he gets to be Wayne and I have to be Em. After that he's fired up and wants to stay out all night 'hunting,' which in his case should rightfully be called 'hunching in a vigilant pose by the coop.' It's seemingly meek Carmela who actually earns her barn cat keep.
He says he's finally figured out why I like rap so much. Because it's pretty words and it's about struggle. He says even when it's about money-cars-clothes-hoes it's really about struggle. I tell him that's pretty insightful. For a cat. He gives me the middle claw.
He likes seeing me at my writing desk, but he can't quite be supportive. He feels obliged to step on the keyboard and point out that writing is not going to provide the bottle-popping lifestyle he's looking for. I tell him I know that but I have to do it anyway. He understands. Write it or die trying. I ask if he'd care for some goat's milk squirted straight from the udder.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Walnuts Copes By Becoming Even Bigger Asshole
WHEN CRIM MOVED OUT, little Paulie Walnuts--light of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul--coped by becoming an even bigger asshole. So if you're wondering why I have bruisey scratch/bite marks all over my calves: that's why.
The majority of his evening hours are spent at tomcatsluts.com, and he doesn't feel guilty about it anymore. That's if he gets stuck inside; he prefers to stay out all night prowling for the real thing.
And speaking of freedom from guilt, he's been hanging out by the coop taunting the hens about how much chicken The Other One eats these days.
But I told the girls not to peck back, because he's going through a lot. He misses his pops. He misses flirting with the rappers who used to rehearse for shows in the living room and smoke blunts with him on the porch. Matter of fact he misses having any of the human species around to flirt with, since appearances suggest to him that I am a loser with no friends.
He moans that Daddy always had on such good music, whereas my listening habits are so low-brow and repetitive. He says if he hears that "Doorbell" song one more time he'll blow his brains out. And I still fall for:
W: Who sings that?
C: The Chiffons! they're like a sixties girl gr--
W: Let's keep it that way.
He came back from his sleepover at the Musiquarium with so much attitude talking about he'd totally go live there if he thought Carmela and I could survive without a man in the house. He said he spent hours fishing and the tank looks so awesome and sucks to be me that I don't get to see it.
In the past he's been a good listener--what are gaycat besties for, after all--but by now I'm trying his patience. He's quite sure the Temescallion Stallion is imaginary. Seeing is believing, Mummy (dripping with condescension).
But he's a good friend in that he'll say to me straightup, Why are you so weird? All that pacing at four am is disturbing his beauty sleep. (But as long as I'm up, His Highness could do with some nourishment and access to the great outdoors.) And he ribs me about the inverse proportionality of journal pages covered : coolness. (For the record, in three months ≈ 600 pages. I am not cool.)
He bites my calves and like a sucker I spoil him with a new Scratch Lounge and high-grade Canadian catnip, because I can be nurturing to a fault when it comes to those I love. Even when he is being an A1 dick, I understand the delicate feelings behind the dickish behavior. And I want to cheer him up. I know he really just misses getting shiatsu from four human hands.
So, he may be a dictator. But he's my dictator.
The majority of his evening hours are spent at tomcatsluts.com, and he doesn't feel guilty about it anymore. That's if he gets stuck inside; he prefers to stay out all night prowling for the real thing.
And speaking of freedom from guilt, he's been hanging out by the coop taunting the hens about how much chicken The Other One eats these days.
But I told the girls not to peck back, because he's going through a lot. He misses his pops. He misses flirting with the rappers who used to rehearse for shows in the living room and smoke blunts with him on the porch. Matter of fact he misses having any of the human species around to flirt with, since appearances suggest to him that I am a loser with no friends.
He moans that Daddy always had on such good music, whereas my listening habits are so low-brow and repetitive. He says if he hears that "Doorbell" song one more time he'll blow his brains out. And I still fall for:
W: Who sings that?
C: The Chiffons! they're like a sixties girl gr--
W: Let's keep it that way.
He came back from his sleepover at the Musiquarium with so much attitude talking about he'd totally go live there if he thought Carmela and I could survive without a man in the house. He said he spent hours fishing and the tank looks so awesome and sucks to be me that I don't get to see it.
In the past he's been a good listener--what are gaycat besties for, after all--but by now I'm trying his patience. He's quite sure the Temescallion Stallion is imaginary. Seeing is believing, Mummy (dripping with condescension).
But he's a good friend in that he'll say to me straightup, Why are you so weird? All that pacing at four am is disturbing his beauty sleep. (But as long as I'm up, His Highness could do with some nourishment and access to the great outdoors.) And he ribs me about the inverse proportionality of journal pages covered : coolness. (For the record, in three months ≈ 600 pages. I am not cool.)
He bites my calves and like a sucker I spoil him with a new Scratch Lounge and high-grade Canadian catnip, because I can be nurturing to a fault when it comes to those I love. Even when he is being an A1 dick, I understand the delicate feelings behind the dickish behavior. And I want to cheer him up. I know he really just misses getting shiatsu from four human hands.
So, he may be a dictator. But he's my dictator.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Might As Well Have, Much As My Cat Accuses Me of Cheating
I thought he would like seeing the Facebook page of another kitty, but Paulie was: devastated. Apparently I had made some recent comment about how the gray and white neighbor cat was cute, and Crim had come home from a social function with Maine Coon furs on his sweatshirt, and then he finds out I'm Facebook friends with this other feline and, being Paulie James Walnuts III (drag name Molly Pecans, blues name Muddy Paws) he had to bend it into some overarching theory.
You guys are seeing other cats. Don't bother to deny it.
Of course we rolled our eyes at this nonsense. How much vet debt must we accrue, how much biting abuse must we tolerate, how high-end a cat food must we buy to prove our boundless loyalty? Assurances were made that he is a very special cat. Staggeringly handsome, impeccable wit, always top predator in our ecosystem, master of all he surveys, &c.
And how superficial did he think we were? As if we would judge our animal companion by mere degree of cuteness, or proportion of assholish to sweet behavior, or amount of particulate matter stuck to rectum, or number of fleas leaping off onto our bed.
What about your charming wiles and pocketful of foibles? And his anarchist saboteur technique of clawing the mattress underside until his demand to be let outside is met--I have a grudging respect for the strategic means there, even if the ends are questionable. What other cat puts on stunna shades and does hip thrusts to "Poker Face"? What other cat wept at the end of Milk with such passion? And your comic timing! He has great comic timing.
That night he stayed out late. We played right into his paws, were worried sick, calling from the back door and then the front and then the back. Around midnight he showed up, flea-ridden, cobwebs stuck to his face, and got just the worshipful welcome he had angled for. We saw the trap and fell in anyway. Because he may be a dictator. But he's our dictator.
More weird Walnuts posts:
Four Paws Marching
Goodkitties
My Cat is a Narcissist, But I Love Him
Walnuts v. Walnuts
You guys are seeing other cats. Don't bother to deny it.
Of course we rolled our eyes at this nonsense. How much vet debt must we accrue, how much biting abuse must we tolerate, how high-end a cat food must we buy to prove our boundless loyalty? Assurances were made that he is a very special cat. Staggeringly handsome, impeccable wit, always top predator in our ecosystem, master of all he surveys, &c.
And how superficial did he think we were? As if we would judge our animal companion by mere degree of cuteness, or proportion of assholish to sweet behavior, or amount of particulate matter stuck to rectum, or number of fleas leaping off onto our bed.
What about your charming wiles and pocketful of foibles? And his anarchist saboteur technique of clawing the mattress underside until his demand to be let outside is met--I have a grudging respect for the strategic means there, even if the ends are questionable. What other cat puts on stunna shades and does hip thrusts to "Poker Face"? What other cat wept at the end of Milk with such passion? And your comic timing! He has great comic timing.
That night he stayed out late. We played right into his paws, were worried sick, calling from the back door and then the front and then the back. Around midnight he showed up, flea-ridden, cobwebs stuck to his face, and got just the worshipful welcome he had angled for. We saw the trap and fell in anyway. Because he may be a dictator. But he's our dictator.
More weird Walnuts posts:
Four Paws Marching
Goodkitties
My Cat is a Narcissist, But I Love Him
Walnuts v. Walnuts
Monday, November 10, 2008
Four Paws Marching
It's been a nonstop party at our place. Crim's spinning "Signed Sealed Delivered," the chickens are squawking over the passage of Prop 2 and I'm formatting everyday chitchat into Obamaspeak. (On finally pruning the lemon trees: They said this day would never come.)
But one member of the household is in post-election doldrums. After his long journey from Log Cabin Republicanism to full-purr embrace of Obama, the big victory Tuesday was marred for poor Paulie Walnuts by that indignity called Prop 8.
A few days ago, he looked up at me and heartbreakingly asked:
How long would it take to walk to West Hollywood?
For a pudgy kitty with a lingering limp from two broken legs, a long time indeed. But he wanted to march. All his Facebook friends from down south were going to be there. He started working on a little sign: 'Tomcats 4 Tomcats: Don't Dog Our Love.' (He's never been in a serious relationship, but this was hardly the time to point that out.)
What about to the Castro?
It would still be too much, I told him. He just recently used up one of his lives, I reminded. Still, I understood his hunger for a pilgrimage. (He also declared himself hungry for tooney, but I wasn't going to let him get away with leveraging his oppression in a bid to be spoiled.)
We talked about it. I told him I understood his pain and was proud of his passion. But I urged him not to feel beaten down. The inevitable march of progress is on your side, Walnuts.
This seemed to help and he decided to take a nap by the front window, beside his new sign: 'HONK if I'm CUTE enough to deserve CIVIL RIGHTS.' It was a frequently disrupted snooze.
But one member of the household is in post-election doldrums. After his long journey from Log Cabin Republicanism to full-purr embrace of Obama, the big victory Tuesday was marred for poor Paulie Walnuts by that indignity called Prop 8.
A few days ago, he looked up at me and heartbreakingly asked:
How long would it take to walk to West Hollywood?
For a pudgy kitty with a lingering limp from two broken legs, a long time indeed. But he wanted to march. All his Facebook friends from down south were going to be there. He started working on a little sign: 'Tomcats 4 Tomcats: Don't Dog Our Love.' (He's never been in a serious relationship, but this was hardly the time to point that out.)
What about to the Castro?
It would still be too much, I told him. He just recently used up one of his lives, I reminded. Still, I understood his hunger for a pilgrimage. (He also declared himself hungry for tooney, but I wasn't going to let him get away with leveraging his oppression in a bid to be spoiled.)
We talked about it. I told him I understood his pain and was proud of his passion. But I urged him not to feel beaten down. The inevitable march of progress is on your side, Walnuts.
This seemed to help and he decided to take a nap by the front window, beside his new sign: 'HONK if I'm CUTE enough to deserve CIVIL RIGHTS.' It was a frequently disrupted snooze.
Friday, October 24, 2008
He May Be a Dictator, But He's Our Dictator
Nothing turns on the Walnut (our little Musharraf) like fresh laundry and a snapping camera.
Friday, October 17, 2008
In Which I Meander Aimlessly
I'm too scattered at the mo for a solid-topic post. For one thing, the election is near and for another, I'm being asked to 'do things' during my afternoon serenity time, aka my reception job. So that sucks. How's a girl to plog?
Even with Obama ahead, I'm plagued by fears. But my fears about the election are trite. Let me share with you another fear: that "Love Lockdown" will worm its way into my heart. When Mr. West rolled it out last month, "Love Lockdown" was generally agreed to be a debacle. Kanye's singing was ear-splitting, the beat was a woeful rough draft--even Auto-Tune threw up its hands in despair. After humiliating himself at the VMAs, Yeezy was supposedly 'working on it,' but the radio release was no better. We all laughed schaudenfreudistically. The mighty shall fall. But I fear that Kanye, in his beat-making all-knowingness, has put one over on us. That weeks from now we'll all have to admit that it's good after all. That fear is nourished by the fact that "Love Lockdown" is in my head right now.
Paulie James Walnuts III had his final vet follow-up (following up on his recent brush with death) this morning and he's in excellent form. But we knew he was better when he resumed being a total dick and paragon of self-involvement. The other day, I got him purring just by taking a long series of photographs while he moved from one sultry pose to the next. And that's not personification; it really happened. Results of the photoshoot to come. I'll promise you some pix of the chickens and harvest pr0n while I'm at it.
I'm in a weird frozen state vis-a-vis the election. Maybe I hope that if I just freeze and don't think about anything too much, the rest of the world will also freeze and we'll defrost on November 5th in a deep blue map ocean.
Also, Lupe Fiasco has finally decided to get over himself and spare a verse for an Obama-ey song.
Even with Obama ahead, I'm plagued by fears. But my fears about the election are trite. Let me share with you another fear: that "Love Lockdown" will worm its way into my heart. When Mr. West rolled it out last month, "Love Lockdown" was generally agreed to be a debacle. Kanye's singing was ear-splitting, the beat was a woeful rough draft--even Auto-Tune threw up its hands in despair. After humiliating himself at the VMAs, Yeezy was supposedly 'working on it,' but the radio release was no better. We all laughed schaudenfreudistically. The mighty shall fall. But I fear that Kanye, in his beat-making all-knowingness, has put one over on us. That weeks from now we'll all have to admit that it's good after all. That fear is nourished by the fact that "Love Lockdown" is in my head right now.
Paulie James Walnuts III had his final vet follow-up (following up on his recent brush with death) this morning and he's in excellent form. But we knew he was better when he resumed being a total dick and paragon of self-involvement. The other day, I got him purring just by taking a long series of photographs while he moved from one sultry pose to the next. And that's not personification; it really happened. Results of the photoshoot to come. I'll promise you some pix of the chickens and harvest pr0n while I'm at it.
I'm in a weird frozen state vis-a-vis the election. Maybe I hope that if I just freeze and don't think about anything too much, the rest of the world will also freeze and we'll defrost on November 5th in a deep blue map ocean.
Also, Lupe Fiasco has finally decided to get over himself and spare a verse for an Obama-ey song.
Monday, September 29, 2008
UPDATE Thursday 9/25, 4:08pm
P Kitty seems to be recovering. By my count he still has six lives left.
ORIGINAL POST Tuesday 9/23, 2:03pm
Might be quiet on the plog this week. Little Paulie Walnuts, beloved kitty muse, is very ill. I can't concentrate on the usual semi-trivialities. My heart is with my self-mythologizing, multiply monikered, Log Cabin Obamican cat. It's tooney for life if you want it, Walnuts. Just hang in there.
P Kitty seems to be recovering. By my count he still has six lives left.
ORIGINAL POST Tuesday 9/23, 2:03pm
Might be quiet on the plog this week. Little Paulie Walnuts, beloved kitty muse, is very ill. I can't concentrate on the usual semi-trivialities. My heart is with my self-mythologizing, multiply monikered, Log Cabin Obamican cat. It's tooney for life if you want it, Walnuts. Just hang in there.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Goodkitties
Presenting Paulie, doing his Ray Liotta Goodfellas voiceover:
As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a pet cat.
I came from barn cats. They worked for a living. Sleeping outside, staking out mice. They were scrawny and had bad fur. What kind of life is that? Wasn't for me. No way.
So you show up as a kitten. You're a plush toy, irresistible. Once they sign on, it's kibbles for life. You break a leg, they go into debt to fix it. That's the deal.
Bad day at work? Fuck you, feed me. Don't like my litter box etiquette? Fuck you, feed me. Still asleep? Fuck you, feed me. All out of kibbles and the store's closed? Fuck you, feed me. There's canned tooney at SuperLongs all night.
They screw it up, they get their calves bitten. That's how it works.
It's not even really about the kibbles. What I love is the life. I need a sunbath, there are twenty sleeping spots around the yard just waiting. I can stare at birds all goddamn day if I want to. And if I get stuck in a tree, guess who has to haul out the ladder. If the litterbox isn't fresh, I leave a little reminder on the floor nearby. I want shiatsu, I get shiatsu. It's all mine for the taking.
More weird Walnuts posts:
My Cat Is a Narcissist, But I Love Him
Obama and My Gay Cat
Walnuts v. Walnuts
Important Notice (Call Him Molly Pecans)
As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a pet cat.
I came from barn cats. They worked for a living. Sleeping outside, staking out mice. They were scrawny and had bad fur. What kind of life is that? Wasn't for me. No way.
So you show up as a kitten. You're a plush toy, irresistible. Once they sign on, it's kibbles for life. You break a leg, they go into debt to fix it. That's the deal.
Bad day at work? Fuck you, feed me. Don't like my litter box etiquette? Fuck you, feed me. Still asleep? Fuck you, feed me. All out of kibbles and the store's closed? Fuck you, feed me. There's canned tooney at SuperLongs all night.
They screw it up, they get their calves bitten. That's how it works.
It's not even really about the kibbles. What I love is the life. I need a sunbath, there are twenty sleeping spots around the yard just waiting. I can stare at birds all goddamn day if I want to. And if I get stuck in a tree, guess who has to haul out the ladder. If the litterbox isn't fresh, I leave a little reminder on the floor nearby. I want shiatsu, I get shiatsu. It's all mine for the taking.
More weird Walnuts posts:
My Cat Is a Narcissist, But I Love Him
Obama and My Gay Cat
Walnuts v. Walnuts
Important Notice (Call Him Molly Pecans)
Friday, June 27, 2008
My Cat is a Narcissist, But I Love Him
My cat is a narcissist. The lives of every member of the household revolve around his needs.
It's early, we're asleep, but Paulie Walnuts is hungry and Paulie Walnuts is cranky and the campaign of biting and mrowrs will not stop until he is fed and freed to the outdoors.
Pint-sized sister Carmela is hiding away in the closet, snuggled into the winter coat I haven't worn since New York, but Paulie wants to play and does not respect hissing, so Carmela will be driven from her nest and chased around the house until the little tyrant is sated and she can slink back into the closet.
The fish only want to swim among the rocks of the aquarium, but P. Kitty wants to terrorize them and scratch the acrylic while he's at it. The chickens want to peck in peace, but Herr Vallnuts wants to stare at them until they're uncomfortable.
But when he splays his white-furred belly across the bed in a gesture that says, Love me, I'm fabulous, how can I demur? I worship, I shiatsu, I rub the sleeps from the corners of those greedy eyes. And he purrs luxuriously, because Paulie Walnuts loves life and himself, and I can't disagree.
It's early, we're asleep, but Paulie Walnuts is hungry and Paulie Walnuts is cranky and the campaign of biting and mrowrs will not stop until he is fed and freed to the outdoors.
Pint-sized sister Carmela is hiding away in the closet, snuggled into the winter coat I haven't worn since New York, but Paulie wants to play and does not respect hissing, so Carmela will be driven from her nest and chased around the house until the little tyrant is sated and she can slink back into the closet.
The fish only want to swim among the rocks of the aquarium, but P. Kitty wants to terrorize them and scratch the acrylic while he's at it. The chickens want to peck in peace, but Herr Vallnuts wants to stare at them until they're uncomfortable.
But when he splays his white-furred belly across the bed in a gesture that says, Love me, I'm fabulous, how can I demur? I worship, I shiatsu, I rub the sleeps from the corners of those greedy eyes. And he purrs luxuriously, because Paulie Walnuts loves life and himself, and I can't disagree.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Obama and My Gay Cat
Paulie was fresh off one of his Chubs & Chasers events, in a good mood, so it seemed like the right time for The Talk. (By the way, don't bother asking whether he is chaser or chub. He says they hate being boxed in like that.)
I tell him it's about Obama, and he says, sweet Jesus, no more of the epic race speech, please. Enough with the human hangups. He says his sister is Abby Tabby--part Abyssinian, like Obama--and it's never been an issue in their relationship. I cringe of course, and he laughs. Typical human.
I try to explain that we don't say "Abyssinian" anymore and that even if we did, it would suggest Ethiopian, not Kenyan, but he tires of this. Cut to the chase.
So, okay. I really do think Obama is a staunch advocate for gay rights, Walnuts, I really do. But gay marriage isn't on his platform. Civil unions. Not marriage.
His eyes narrow. You could have told me this before I started my Log Cabin Obamican Kitties page on Facebook. (He has a lot of friends there; you'd be surprised.)
I say, I mean, you know why. He says it doesn't make his disappointment in his leader any less keen to know that his cowardly position is rooted in political expediencies that are in turn rooted in the very prejudice that singes his fur on a daily basis. This, he says, is the civil rights struggle of our time.
He has a point, but I soldier on and read him Andrew Sullivan's Daily Dish post on why Obama is the "urgent, clear choice for gay voters." He's purring again. If there's one thing Paulie loves more than tooney fish, it's Andrew Sullivan's big, bald head.
But he still wishes everyone could love him as much as he loves himself.
I tell him it's about Obama, and he says, sweet Jesus, no more of the epic race speech, please. Enough with the human hangups. He says his sister is Abby Tabby--part Abyssinian, like Obama--and it's never been an issue in their relationship. I cringe of course, and he laughs. Typical human.
I try to explain that we don't say "Abyssinian" anymore and that even if we did, it would suggest Ethiopian, not Kenyan, but he tires of this. Cut to the chase.
So, okay. I really do think Obama is a staunch advocate for gay rights, Walnuts, I really do. But gay marriage isn't on his platform. Civil unions. Not marriage.
His eyes narrow. You could have told me this before I started my Log Cabin Obamican Kitties page on Facebook. (He has a lot of friends there; you'd be surprised.)
I say, I mean, you know why. He says it doesn't make his disappointment in his leader any less keen to know that his cowardly position is rooted in political expediencies that are in turn rooted in the very prejudice that singes his fur on a daily basis. This, he says, is the civil rights struggle of our time.
He has a point, but I soldier on and read him Andrew Sullivan's Daily Dish post on why Obama is the "urgent, clear choice for gay voters." He's purring again. If there's one thing Paulie loves more than tooney fish, it's Andrew Sullivan's big, bald head.
But he still wishes everyone could love him as much as he loves himself.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Walnuts v. Walnuts
I won't even get into the we-couldn't-think-of-anything bullshit passing as profundity in the Sopranos finale. I don't want to say David Chase thinks he's too cool for his own audience, but David Chase thinks he's too cool for his own audience. Also too cool for his given Italian last name. But that's not what I'm here for.
Believe it or not, there was one extraordinary development in the very last ever episode of God's supposed gift to TV viewers: the revelation of skunk-haired mobster Paulie Walnuts' aversion to cats.
Well, this slight was not taken lightly by our own beloved kitty, Paulie Walnuts. My enthusiasm for The Sopranos had not yet waned when we decided to foster a litter of kittens three years ago. Thus did the kittens become Furio, Silvio, Tony, Carmela and, of course, Paulie Walnuts.
Of the bunch, Paulie clearly grew into his name the most. (Fur, Sil and Ton moved on to other households and, like Mr. Chase, other names.) Both Paulies can go from furry and cute to unexpectedly vicious in an instant. Both love to wallow in self-pity, but are also scrappy survivors. Both have an infectious charm. And if you know the Sopranos or the Polwicks, you know the name is amenable to nicking. (See prior posts.)
All of which made the utter rejection by his namesake, not just of him, but of his entire species, utterly devastating to Little Paulie. Two legs broken in one year and now this. He's chewing the extension cord right now. It's just that hard on him.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Portrait: A Prayerful Pecans
The journey from Log Cabin Republican kitty to Superjew Drag Queen kitty has been a long--but, I think, richly edifying--one.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Important Notice
The kitty known to many of you as Paulie Walnuts (aliases P. Kitty, Wally Almonds, Plush Toy, Paulo, Sir Walnuts) will no longer be known as such. He insists that, as of today, he only be referred to by his drag name, Molly Pecans. The name, he says, is an homage to Yiddish film star Molly Picon. (We recently watched "Yidl Mitn Fidl"--that's "Yiddle With The Fiddle" to you goyishkeit types--and it really affected him.)
I want to reiterate, for your safety, that this name change is effective immediately. Persons referring to him by former monikers risk being bitten or scratched. Ms. Pecans also requests that visitors not look him directly in the eye. As usual, any cameras will be confiscated.
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