Friday, February 27, 2009

not sure what to make of this




Thursday, February 26, 2009

Ahem

If you're wondering what to get me for my birthday, my favorite singer is auctioning off many personal items. Here's my favorite:

That's the hood of Michael Jackson's personal golf cart, which is among the items at auction.

I think you'll agree that I would look superfly bumping around the neighborhood in that.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

They're Stealing My Ideas

A break from my latest oevre for a word on a commercial I caught on the idiot box last night.

The product featured in the advertisement was the Pledge Furniture Sweeper and the ad featured a woman in a room with a white sofa and 30 (THIRTY!) Schubert cats. Apparently the purpose of the ad was to demonstrate that all of that Schubert hair would be no match for this particular contraption.

Okay, whether or not that's true -- and let's face it, any couch should be so lucky to have the privilege of wearing a suit of Shubert so the product is unnecessary -- they stole my idea.

I have been working on a therapeutic retreat in which guests could stay in a room teeming with Schuberts. In fact, I have held a few telephone interviews with potential Schuberts for this project. It does, after all, take a particular Schubert for this therapy to work. It needs to be a peaceable kingdom.

On the up side, I was heartened to see these television Schuberts comport themselves in such a dignified manner.

We aren't dogs, after all. Or cowcats.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

APotSaaQ (cont'd)

--Her mama had a nicer smell than her dad. She played on the radio: "The Desert Search for Techno Allah" for her to dance and to bundle and gorille the quadrille. She danced:

-----Qiyamat qiyamat a tawil
-----Qiyamat qiyamat insan al kamel
-----Qiyamat qiyamat a tawil
-----Qiyamat qiyamat insan al kamel


--Mutti and Vati clapped. They were older than her dad but Vati was older than Mutti.
--Mutti had a dry sink and a statue of the Virgin Mother. The statue tasted numi. Mutti gave her chow when it was time for chow.
--Seamus lived a walk away. They had the same mama and dad but different houses. She would never marry Seamus when they grew up. He broke lamps and vases and got his head stuck in things.
--Dad would explain:
--- --Maybe he's not that bright.
--Mama said:
--- --Maybe you're right, and maybe she made fun of his tail.

-----Pull on his tail.
-----Wail, Wail.
-----Pull on his tail.
-----Wail, Wail

***

Monday, February 23, 2009

A Portrait of the Schubert as a Quintoon

Chapter 1

--Once upon a time and a bre bre time it was there was a lowland coming down the road and this lowland that was down along the road met a truens little meep named baby keelee...
--Her mama told her that story: her mama looked at her through frosted glass: she smelled of sleeping and home.
--He was a baby keelee. The lowland came down the road where Crabapple Ma'am lived: she sold crabapple hats.

-----it burns like a red coal carpet
-----mad bull lost its way

--She sang that song. That was her song.

-----it's just a shot away

--When you slip into the tub, first it is warm then it gets cold. Her mama dried her with the fuzzcloth. That had the soap smell.

Friday, February 20, 2009

One Hundred Years of Catitude (compiled)

One Hundred Years of Catitude
Many years later, as she faced the squirt bottle, Detective Caren Cuddlesworth was to remember that distant afternoon when her mama held out a soda can and she discovered frost. At that time, home was a studio apartment of four hundred square feet on the third floor of a nondescript four-plus-one tucked without apology in a neighborhood of similar buildings and the occasional stone two-flat with side passages evoking the dark magic of old Paris. Meubles packed in so haphazardly that many lacked proper addresses and were indicated as fractional neighbors. Every year during the month of July, scores of prideful men and women and boys and girls would line the main street, tents and signs playing against the passing flotilla of dancers and revelers, their common sense of self renewed once more. At the front of the menagerie, an impeccably kempt man would exhort the crowd, punching the air around him as if thundering on kettle drums and drawing gasps and gazes as if he held strings attached to each onlooker's attention. Some called him the Eighth Wonder of the World and on that day he was. Other days he registered new memberships at the Dollar Video and argued with his infinite selves at Reflections. "We all have lives of our own," he trilled to the sky. "It's simply a matter of waking up to face them." Caren Cuddlesworth, whose stampeding imagination went beyond nature's stockade fences and even beyond the miracle of all-day pyjamas thought it possible to join the reverie and mine the onlookers' gaze for untold fortunes of admiration. She imagined the Eighth Wonder might discourage her when she marched beside him, but he did not know that his admiration would be the least of her riches. With one hand, she gingerly slid her window open.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

...(cont'd)

Every year during the month of July, scores of prideful men and women and boys and girls would line the main street, tents and signs playing against the passing flotilla of dancers and revelers, their common sense of self renewed once more. At the front of the menagerie, an impeccably kempt man would exhort the crowd, punching the air around him as if thundering on kettle drums and drawing gasps and gazes as if he held strings attached to each onlooker's attention. Some called him the Eighth Wonder of the World and on that day he was. Other days he registered new memberships at the Dollar Video and argued with his infinite selves at Reflections.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

...

At that time, home was a studio apartment of four hundred square feet on the third floor of a nondescript four-plus-one tucked without apology in a neighborhood of similar buildings and the occasional stone two-flat with side passages evoking the dark magic of old Paris. Meubles packed in so haphazardly that many lacked proper addresses and were indicated as fractional neighbors.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

One Hundred Years of Catitude

Many years later, as she faced the squirt bottle, Detective Caren Cuddlesworth was to remember that distant afternoon when her mama held out a soda can and she discovered frost.

Monday, February 16, 2009

A joke for Monday

Even though Monday for me means a quieter house and more time to myself, I realize that, for people, Monday's are a bit rough. With that in mind, here's a funny joke to get the work week started:

What do people in England call little black cats? (highlight below for answer)
kittens

Obviously, I didn't make up that joke. Still, it appeals to my sense of humour.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Caught, chapter 2

I gave the guy a chance to reconsider his position that Schuberts should not perch atop refrigerators.

He maintained his stance.

There may be repercussions.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Caught

This morning I found a new perch. The view was wonderful and I found total peace in my solitude.

Then the guy told me to get down from atop the refrigerator.

Were it not for my pyjamas, my apologetic blushing would have been obvious.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

...cont'd

Yowl (cont'd)

Footnote
Bil-Wau! Bil-Wau! Bil-Wau! Bil-Wau! Bil-Wau! Bil-Wau! Bil-Wau! Bil-Wau!
--Bil-Wau! Bil-Wau! Bil-Wau! Bil-Wau! Bil-Wau! Bil-Wau! Bil-Wau!
My world is Bil-Wau! My catitude is Bil-Wau! My coat is Bil-Wau!
--My tail is Bil-Wau! My ears and whiskers and hands
--and neumes Bil-Wau!
Everything is Bil-Wau! Everycat's Bil-Wau! Every perch is
--Bil-Wau! Every day is in sleeping! Every cat is an
--angel!
The kitten's as Bil-Wau as the lion! The Lulu is
--Bil-Wau as you, cher Penultimatina are Bil-Wau!

Friday, February 06, 2009

...in the style of...

Yowl

for Cher Penultimatina

I
I saw the beast minds of my generation destroyed by
--madness, well-fed and ever naked,
bundling through the Schubert streets at dawn
--looking for a stringfellow fix,
tassle-eared hipsters bustling for a brick-layed earthly
--footpath to the cotton-toed clearing in the sol-
--itude of closets,
who rags and hide and mirror-eyed sat
--basking in the artificial quiet of
--clean laundry baskets humming atop
--machined warmth.

II
What queen of fez and tassle enriched their
--neumes and teased their tails in consol-
--ation?

III
Penultimatina! I'm with you in Akron,
--stampeding and stamp-eating,
--where your hands are as perfect as mine.
I'm with you in Akron
--where you search for my pantaloons
--in each dark cloud.

...to be continued...

Thursday, February 05, 2009

La Chanteuse

When nobody's home -- no people I mean -- I like to stand in the stairway and sing. The acoustics are marvelous if you stand on the fourth step.

Mostly I sing songs made famous by Édith Piaf. My standard -- the show-stopper, if you please --is "Non, je ne regrette rien."

My album is (tentatively) scheduled to drop later this year. Give a shout if there are particular songs that you feel the producers and I should consider. Overall, the still-untitled album has kind of a Leonard Cohen-meets-Bjork vibe. It's going to be off the chain, as they say.

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

On Dignity (and Comedy)

I trust that by now, dear reader, you have heard of LOLcats. If not. Follow this link: http://icanhascheezburger.com/.

There. Had a laugh, did you? Good.

No, really. Good.

What? You expect me to launch into some kind of diatribe about such a site? Do you imagine that I'll argue that such photos demean cats?
Well. No. Let me make this as clear as I possibly can: Schubert's World of Bil-Wau and its curator, Bailey (me), wholheartedly endorse LOLcats. [note to LOLcats site admin: Make sure your hosting bill is paid and that you've got appropriate bandwidth to handle the avalanche of traffic that is sure to follow this endorsement.]

I went with the green on that text. You know, for my eyes.

Back to LOLcats. It's a terrific site. Quite clever -- especially given that almost all of the submissions seem to have been uploaded by people. If you're wondering how I might have drawn the conclusion that contributions to LOLcats are almost entirely human-assembled, here's a clue: cats can spell. In fact some of those spellings are so rough that I though initially that dogs might have come up with this site. Even if, however, I overlooked the inherent cleverness of the idea and thought that dogs might occasionally be so clever, the fact remains that dogs cannot type. And forget about getting them to use a mouse.

...and there I go off-topic again. I'll come back to dogs, but want to first clarify why LOLcats is okay by me. It has been said, perhaps even by someone other than me, that the truly enlightened individual is able to laugh at herself. For example, I was featured on the cover of the October 30, 2006 New Yorker:


A less-enlightened individual might have taken offense at such a portrayal (I'm looking at you, President Obama). Me? I laughed. It was a wonderful tribute and brought back fond memories of my victory over Vincenzo.

And that is how it is with LOLcats. It's funny. It brings joy to people. Look, I could deconstruct the whole phenomenon as a ham-fisted attempt to knock cats down a peg motivated by people's insecurity as to the relative magnificence of people to that of the cat -- any cat. I won't do that though.

Nevertheless, this much should be clear. LOLcats = funny. LOLdogs = not funny. I haven't researched LOLsnakes or LOLvoles or anything else, but let's be realistic. LOLcats is funny because of cats. It's funny because cats posess the quality that is most essential to comedy, true comedy. And that quality is dignity.

To paraphrase a television clown (no names, please): Cats are funny because comedy requires dignity. And dogs are whores.

Should any remain skeptical as to my feelings on the site, I invite you to caption, via LOLcats, the following photo:

Tuesday, February 03, 2009

The Groundhog Saw His Shadow

From what I understand, we'll have six more weeks of winter. This matters little to me but I am sad that my people have to trudge through the cold and snow for any longer than is absolutely necessary.

I would have offered to head to PA to take care of that groundhog once and for all -- to make sure he never saw another shadow, if you take my meaning -- but I looked into it and groundhogs are larger than mice. Even if groundhogs were exactly the size of mice, I am not sure how much help I could be.

A mouser I am not.

Monday, February 02, 2009

Free at Last!

I spent the better part of the weekend enjoying my return to the upper levels of our house. Following an early December mishap, I was exiled to the basement for roughly seven weeks. I spent my time in deep reflection, bettering my body and mind for the release I knew would come at any time.

Some find religion in prison. Some lose their minds. Me? I completed correspondence coursework toward accreditation in HVAC repair as well as a distance learning seminar on Irish literature. The latter was, unfortunately, not quite as informative as I'd hoped. The instructor was less-qualified to deconstruct Finnegan's Wake than I am. Alas, before I could offer to lead the discussion on Joyce's final work, the course ended.

The world above is as I remember it -- sunny and noisy. At times I have missed the quiet of my exile, but overall it's good to be free.