In Other News, It Turns Out I Am Cursed By The Stars. I Say, So Are Astrology Books.

Astrology: Something to do when there's nothing to do

Astrology is, like, the stupidest sport of all.  But it is a very popular sport as I can attest to.  Having worked at a major chain bookstore that I'm not allowed to name on my blog but it wasn't Barnes & Noble so you figure it out, I can personally vouch for the slipshod appearance of the astrology section on a daily basis (as opposed to, say, the poetry section), an appearance based on the high volume of disorderly customers making a mockery of careful bookseller attempts at alphabetization and presentation in their desire to learn more about what is hidden in their souls or also just to stalk other people by looking up their birthdays and reading lies about them.  Take me, for example, I am really not as crazy as the book makes me out.  But all the good things they say are true, of course.  All the same, I think I am going to keep my birthday a top secret affair from now on.  It usually is anyways, so adhering to this new policy should be fairly easy to maintain.

In other news, I think the smell of the now removed decomposing dead cat is going away, although sometimes I still get a sense of it, sort of like a phantom limb.  Also, my roommate who I previously had reason to believe was the so called Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street is going out of town this weekend to visit "friends."  If a dead cat shows up while he is away, I suppose he will be exonerated for sure.  Or, conversely, maybe some dead cats will turn up where he is going.  I guess we'll never know.  I sort of miss the cat, though.  On its first day of death, at least, it was full of scruffy cuteness.

In news other than that, drinking is also a sport.  And it takes Visa.  Drinking while reading astrology books or making astrology charts is therefore a double sport.  Sort of like discus hurling and synchronized swimming all tied up in one.  And yes, synchronized swimmers have to be in really good shape to hold their breaths that long, yada yada yada.  But hopefully you see my meaning.  Go world.  

The Poor Dead Cat Is Now Gone. But I Can Still Smell Him In My Nostrils.

Former sky burial site of 'Fritz,' the neighborhood dead cat

I am not really sure what happened to the mushy, deteriorating corpse of the feral cat known only as 'Fritz.' One moment it was there, stinking up the universe, and the next moment it was gone. To be honest, I feel a little let down to not have seen what actually happened (i.e. who actually happened) or to see how many pieces of bone and fur the body in question deteriorated into during removal, but I have some theories, each of them equally valid.

1. Animal Control finally found some time between chasing stray pit bulls and keeping track of goats to swing by with a big shovel and clean up death roughly nine to ten days after it happened.

2. Beowulf, the Musical, Encore Act: Feral Cat Tie-In

If you weren't there for the original four acts, this may seem a little out of left field, but they were great. Basically, Beowulf and his men get stuck in the future by a spell cast by Selma that goes terribly awry. If you are wondering who Selma is, that is harder to explain especially since I deleted that blog when I was looking for a job, but suffice it to say, she is a 'sensual witch,' she is played by Sarah Polley, and she is emphatically not in the book. This time around, Beowulf travels to the future on purpose, presumably to see himself portrayed on the Ashby Stage and stops by my place to visit for old time's sake. (We had a thing in one of the acts--I can't remember which and I'm far too lazy to check.) He doesn't find me at home, but he sure does find a terrifying odor that he wages an epic battle against, finally taming death and decay into submission. He then makes a cool pelt out of the remains and throws the rest in the sewer. After that he slips quietly back into the fifth century without leaving so much as a note. Cad!

3. The Doctor and the Tardis

As it turns out, the Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street has nothing to do with my roommate (who admittedly has expressed anti-cat statements, so I think my initial accusations should remain understandable) and everything to do with alien invasion. No matter! Here comes the lovable, huggable Doctor in his shiny blue box with his (if you ask me) overly emotional traveling companion, Donna Noble. (Really, just to advertise for myself as a possible traveling companion, I do not shed tears every which way and remain stoic and focused during all sorts of debacles, including those that threaten the very existence of the human race. Trust me, these sorts of catastrophes happen all around me as it is. I am ready.) Basically, at some point when no humans are looking out the window, the Doctor appears in his Tardis, stops the alien, and vaporizes the cat with that cool screwdriver thing he has. You would think we would have all noticed the distinctive noise made by the Tardis as it makes its entrances and exits, but one of my other roommates was listening to the Pogues very loudly in the living room area and I was busy pretending to be drunk and and and the story is we missed the entire episode completely. Which is too bad, since I would have liked to say hey to the Doctor. We had a great time traveling into the past to lurk in the dark nook between the washer-dryer unit and the fridge in my kitchen in order to discover whoever was purloining my chocolate soy milk in the act. We never did find out, but, like I said, we had a great time.

4. Some random person threw the dead cat in the trash.

I hope this random person did not throw the stinking, corruptible dead cat carcass in our trash, because there is a fine for improper disposal of domestic animals. I am pretty sure this is not the case, however, because when I was taking out the garbage last night I did not see (or smell) any remains. So I guess I will probably never know. (Please believe me when I tell you of the restraint and self-censorship it is taking to stop short of bringing Sherlock Holmes into this.) Thank you.

Still. Here. Still. Rotting. Still. Smelly.

In other news, it was hot as hell yesterday. I can't believe I grew up in Chicago without an air conditioner. My mother was cruel too. She would just tell us to spray ourselves with cold water and go stand in front of the fan. Or to walk to the town pool for a dip in the urine-stained water. My human mother that is. My lupine mother would have shielded me from the sun's hot rays with her own body.

Dead decomposing feral cat Proximity Alert! Yesterday evening when my friend came to pick me up to go to Luka's to eat fries and drink ice water, she pulled her truck into the driveway without realizing I would practically have to step over the bird-pecked mess of fur and ooze. But she sure could smell something most foul when I opened the door to the cab. Yuck.

In other news besides that, my slow undertaking in the field of studio art continues with my second piece. Basically, it looks like some birds crapped on it so it is called 'Some Birds Crapped On My Head.'

In even other other news, with all the hoopla over the decomposing dead cat in my front yard, I almost forgot to mention my recent trip to Kaiser. For once, standing in endless lines had nothing to do with being disabled while wearing ballet flats but everything to do with being really clumsy and needing a tetanus shot. Apparently, the adult injection clinic gets even more crowded than the pharmacy. Adult Injection Clinic. Yeeesh! That sounds creepy. Plus, now my left arm is really sore. But at least I won't get lockjaw. I would go smell some roses or something, but I would probably end up inhaling something entirely different as well.

'Fritz' Enjoyed Scampering, Avoiding Humans.

Poor little scamp.

Despite his feral state, or perhaps, one might suggest, because of it, the decomposing dead cat I have come to know as 'Fritz' lived, in life, an existence of carefree meandering across the lawns of a certain North Oakland neighborhood until that very existence was cut brutally short by the Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street (according to the neighborhood children) or a careless automobile driver (according to everyone else unless you think it got in a fight with a raccoon which is also a definite possibility). But despite his untimely and cruel death, Fritz remains with us in his white plastic shroud. So with us, in fact, that my roommates and I can still smell him every time we exit our front door. Obviously, had Fritz had any inkling about the nature of his death and lack of body disposal options, he might have worked out some sort of contract with a neighborhood vet to take care of his remains, but tragically (for my nose) this was not the case. Thinking back to my days as a feral child living with wolves in the forest preserves outside of Chicago, I can't help but identify with poor Fritz and thank my lucky stars I did not share his grisly fate. To be honest, this whole escapade is really causing me to think of the lifestyle led by my cat, Gerard Butler, (MC,GB) as somewhat pampered. For goodness sake, MC,GB gets ice cubes in his water bowl to alleviate the fact that he is wearing a fur coat during this heat wave whereas Fritz probably had to drink from puddles of his own urine what with the ongoing water shortage. As for me, if I were so inclined, I might don protective clothing, grab the shovel that some neighborhood child left in my front yard, and just bury the thing. But I am not so inclined. I would rather just use the back door and pretend none of this is happening. Thank you.

Pretty Soon I Will Need A Hazmat Suit If I Want To Exit My Front Door.

Apropos, I am meant to tell you that My Roommate, Dana Gier's, telephone calls to animal control were not "threatening" but merely irate. Apparently there is a big difference when you are splattering someone's name across the internet.

As for the newest addition to my wardrobe, seen to your left in fashionable canary yellow, please don't tell me I am taking things too far and that surely Animal Control will take a break from chasing the wild dogs that accompanied me to work one Sunday morning last summer for a few tense moments to come with their big shovel and remove this poor little feline soul from the parkway in front of my neighbor's house. I will tell you that this is surely not the case. Today is day seven, first of all. I think if Animal Control were coming, they at least would have responded to one of My Roommate, Dana Gier's, "irate" phone messages by, oh, say, yesterday. Also, our neighbor does not seem inclined to hire a private removal surface, nor do we have the cash money for such an endeavor. Wow, right now that hundred bucks that some asshole stole from my wallet at a poetry reading two weeks ago would really come in handy. Thank you, asshole. (I've been wanting to say that for a long time.) So, as it stands, there is a dead decomposing dead cat located very close to my front door, the smell of which makes me want to gag. Also, taking deep gulps of the summer air because I cannot hold my breath long enough to get out of the smell-zone and thereby inhaling rotting particles of the malodorous object is clearly some sort of health hazard or something. I could get sick and die, people. I don't even have life insurance, so there would be no money to bury or cremate me, and my roommates would be forced to put me out by the curb as well, hopefully in a cute outfit. Maybe that crinkly silk skirt and lavender shirred blouse. At any rate, you can bet that some city department would come clean that up in a jiffy. Animals get no respect.

Today I Called Cat CSI. What Did You Do?

Poor kitty in the plastic bag.

Six days ago a scruffy looking cat turned up dead on my neighbor's front lawn. Some brave soul who apparently was not afraid of being attacked by a feral cat zombie then placed the small, sad corpse into a standard issue white plastic trash bag (with a snazzy red tie, I might add) and dumped the whole mess on the parkway for Animal Control to pick up. Clearly some sort of huge disorganization mishap has happened in the City of Oakland in that Animal Control no longer seems to exist despite the numerous threatening phone calls made by my roommate, Dana Gier. Now, the scene has gotten decidedly more grisly as time, heat, wild dogs in the night, and even pigeons and itty bitty sparrows have pulled apart this carcass for their own use. Consequently, my front yard smells really fucking terrible. There is no other way to say this even though, apparently, my mother has recently Googled me and does not approve of my use of the f-word on line. Although I say it on the phone often enough so I am not sure why she is surprised. But back to the smelliest cat in the world. (I finally feel like I know what Phoebe on Friends was singing about.) The fun part of all of this involves the neighborhood children, of whom there are many. According to rumor, another dead cat has been discovered on someone's back lawn. Cause of death? If these rambunctious and very loud children are to be believed, we are now living under the age of the Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street. I am pretty sure they are right, and I am more equally sure that the Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street is my roommate, already mentioned, Dana Gier. If you think about, it is pretty clever of Dana to try to use the very authorities that he's thwarting to do his dirty work and corpse removal for him. Reason for my believe? My roommate, Dana Gier, has made hurtful remarks to My Cat, Gerard Butler, that have seriously damaged My Cat, Gerard Butler's sense of well-being and self-esteem. My Roommate, Dana Gier, has even thrown a pillow in the direction of My Cat, Gerard Butler (who of course is far too sleek and lithe to be met by such an object). Poor My Cat, Gerard Butler. Will he be next? So far, the Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street seems to be focusing his energies and attention on outdoor cats alone. Maybe in the end, this little episode will finally help My Cat, Gerard Butler, understand why he is merely an indoor cat now, as opposed to when we lived with his (now) deadbeat dad and that big fat tubby prima donna bitch cat in a luxury loft with a beautiful walled garden for My Cat, Gerard Butler, to explore in the fresh air to his heart's content. All the same, Dana Gier, I am watching you.

Someone Please Save Me From Myself. I Will Give You A Dollar.

Could be yours.

1. I haven't read a proper book in at least six months. Sometimes I open a venerable tome and hold it in front of my face waiting for the "magic" to happen, but it never does.

2. My Wii Fit age is 44 because I have poor balance and my BMI is less than 22. Wii Fit sucks.

(And not just any dollar will I give you but a crisp, unfolded bill that won't be spit out of automatic payment machines as if it is some sort of economic pariah.)

3. My cat, Gerard Butler, is snubbing me because I told him I have no respect for his religion. Really, maybe that is kind of a harsh thing to say an adorable little housecat, but I put up with a lot from him. His internet fame has gone to his head.

4. The Beowulf craze is over. Now what am I supposed to make fun of? Really, this is the biggest issue of all. Myself? Clearly, I am feeling sorry about this. Please, anonymous someone, send me some sort of relief to fill the void and lift me out of this cruel postpartum depression. However, please do not send a tarantula or other pet item. My roommate already has enough living things that scare me.

5. My neck hurts. Boo hoo.

6. Also, I just quit drinking, again. Yes, I can hear you laughing. But there is nothing like getting hangovers without being even mildly tipsy. Obviously, someone has put a voodoo curse on me. Someone wins. Get me a Roy Rogers, stat!

7. I will just be lying here out on the porch whining quietly to myself until somebody earns that dollar. Please, please don't tell me I have to earn it for myself. The horror.