May 29th, 2007

tv

R.I.P., C.N.R.

Charles Nelson Reilly
  Charles Nelson Reilly

I didn't know he was queer when I was a kid. I didn't know Paul Lynde was queer. I didn't know funny men doing that flamboyant thing were reflecting anything about sexuality.

When my buddy's brother reported having witnessed Neil Sedaka at a party asking Mick Jagger whether he could kiss his fingers, I dismissed the story as so improbable as to be certainly a lie.

I would have bet money I'd never seen a lesbian on TV.
bad santa

Monday Tuesday

Likely foiled in seeing shmizla tonight, maybe introducing her to kitties. And she leaves the country soon, quite possibly for the entire remainder of their furry tenures with me. Runticus Chick W Pele has a bit of the runs tonight. Manfred Maynard F Mann purrs to beat the band. Mitch Dizzy G Black(ie) was the most cooperative with the clipping of the tiny nails. Fluffer Miles D Nutter had some tender moments but remains the most independent operator. All but the runt were possessive about food this evening. May have to resort to individual dishes for the regular chow too.

Just made some of the cookies squirrelykat and bigfinedaddy and I didn't get around to baking last night. They smell good. Might make the signs for the tomatoes later. That's one of the pleasures of gardening. One of the few I really know all the time is a pleasure. Tonight as I headed back in the mosquitoes to water the suckers I tried to remind myself what else is good about doing all this to harvest for a coupla weeks in August. What I came up with wasn't some honorable thing like it's good to know what goes into the production of food, we mod-ren Amurkins don't know, etc. It wasn't some starry-eyed joy at caretaking living things, nurturing, etc. It was just this: they're something to give a shit about. Something back there, in the back yard, to give a shit about, and feel kinda compelled to give a shit about, even when it's hard to give a shit. They're a shit-giving MacGuffin.

The importance of the shit-giving MacGuffin, for a good many of us, can hardly be overestimated.

Done some communicating today & yesterday about luvvin' and desires and lacks of desire. There's stuff to think about there. So much, though, dances around the McCoy, which is not real at all, yet is much more real than all the rest. I do try, gamely, to craft realities around it, as if it weren't there, right under the disco ball, sparkling at me from the five hundred little mirrors, at turns wildly and mellowly, in sharp focus and in fuzzy hazy marvelous bittersweet twinkles, as if I've doffed the specs & am just taking it in as it comes to my most natural receptors.

It's been a pretty ordinary day, this Tuesday Monday. And that's good. The adjustment to being back at work was a little tricky, but by the time I left I was okay with it all. Even glad of it.

And now the trash can stuff is in, and the cats & kits are comfortable, and I debate whether to return to Shower or to Special Topics in Calamity Physics. Probably should be the latter, as it's thick & I just started & it's due at the library in 10 days & I'm a slow reader. But it's in with the little fuzzies, and they're napping happily, having had good bit of lovin' earlier, and the claw clipping, and the sweeping up & dirty quilt removal for cleaning.

Think I'll save the tomato signs for another night.
  • Current Music
    some ditty, hitting the spot, about my cup being empty & full & asking for more