This evening I de-Halloween’d my house.  It was so sweetly creepy but seasonal decorations are called that for a reason.  Nevermind the percentage of people who no longer see a need to take down their Christmas lights (“I don’t turn them on until November” is not a valid explanation). 

It’s like flip-flops—the rules have changed.   Be that as it may, I still say flip-flops in winter is white trashier than anything the white trash I grew up with would have done. 

I have some pumpkins, pomegranates, and persimmons sitting here and there so my house is not entirely back to its normal appearance, and by the time I get around to taking those down it will be time for the next seasons decor.   The mall has been decorated for Christmas since two days before Halloween.

I know they have to start early to sell us all that crap we don’t need, but I have noticed over the past few years (I made a concerted effort to study this) that people seem to be taking their cues from the retail industry: the earlier my mall puts out its decorations, the earlier my neighbors do.

I figure I just have to learn to ignore it.   But it’s not easy when it’s 75 degrees out and someone in flip-flops is mowing their lawn around an inflatable snowman.

I cooked French toast this morning and should have soaked it longer.  It was good, but it could have been a bit more custard-y.  I forgot just how much liquid brioche can absorb and still maintain its texture.   My plum jam went over well so I will give some as gifts this year along with the chili sauce and apricot jam I already planned to.

Aside from six or seven people, I don’t buy gifts anymore.  I give food gifts to most of my family, and friends mostly just get a card and my very best wishes.  I’m glad.  Some of the longest hold-outs were people who would ask me what I wanted and then not buy it.  I don’t think adults should ask for specific gifts as a rule, but if someone directly asks you I think you can respond.  Still not sure why they ask in the first place if they plan to get you a gift card (at a store that does not sell what you asked for).

Speaking of the winter holidays, I started reading a Photoshop Elements tutorial so I can figure out how to use different layers and apply “brushes” and make my own original designs.  I haven’t the vaguest idea what any of it meant.  I am not exaggerating even a little.  I still have a picture of a cat standing on his head. 

If anyone wants to buy barely used Elements software let me know.  I need the money to buy some crayons and construction paper.   You think I’m kidding, just wait until you get your card.

Speaking of cats, Figaro has a girlfriend—  Brick.  That’s what I said.  Whatever, they seem very happy together.  I feel kind of sorry for Slim since she just adores Figaro.  Maybe she’ll take Tigger up on her offer (I told you Tigger has the hots for Slim, right?).  I think I let them watch too many foreign movies.

Teddy has a girlfriend, too, but she is a girl which makes the story anticlimactic.  The little kitten I started calling Ginger seems smitten with Teddy, and vice versa. Come to think of it, I assume Ginger is a girl, I have never actually got a good look under its tail.  Well, she looks like a girl and I’m usually pretty good about getting that right (except for Fannie who is now called George).

I guess that’s it for the moment.  It’s late and I need to take a few minutes to plan my week and unwind before bedtime.

Shan asked for some pictures. Here are some pictures. I’m all about pleasing people. (Shut up.)

Totally Fucked

I just posted a recipe for Hot and Sour Soup over here.  If you can find all the ingredients and don’t mind cooking something that is mostly prep work and very little cooking,  it’s a great soup

I saw November today.  Very funny play.  I’m not saying one word about how I predicted success for one its cast members and that I’m feeling just a bit smug about it right now.

I had a really good cappuccino at Grand Café (a rather economical lunch).  That’s all there is to the story—the coffee was very enjoyable.

The title is two-fold.  We are in the month of November, and tomorrow I am going to see David Mamet’s play November.

I’m feeling very theatrical just now, having seen Spring Awakening last week and now another play this week.  One might think I am very cultured with all this theater going, or one might think I am lazy and skip work whenever I can.  I don’t see there’s any benefit to the reader in my clarifying it.

Part of last week and the week prior I woke up most every night with a very good idea for a blog which I then forgot about by morning.  I always remembered that I’d had an idea but never remembered what it actually was.  It’s vexing.  On the other hand, maybe my ideas only seemed good because it was three a.m., and I am better for not having remembered.

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Of course I can’t be sure—”It’s a Very! Cat Boy Christmas” came to me during a bout of insomnia, and that sucker sold like hot cakes (hot cakes that were sent to people for free).  Speaking of which, I have worked out my basic plan for this years CD, which may conclude the Cat Boy holiday trilogy.  It will be a 2-CD set subtitled “Naughty and Nice.” 

One CD will be fit for the whole family and the other will not, as the title suggests.

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And those who get cards from me will get a handmade card once again, but I want to try something different this year, like maybe something using altered art.  Step one is to pick up a copy of “Photoshop Elements for The Clueless.”  What the hell is a photoshop brush?  And how do you, well, do anything at all.  So far, I managed to take a picture of John Morgan and turn it upside down. 

Who wants a card with an upside down deceased cat on it?

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I made bread.  The house smells good and the bread is going in the freezer. That’s pretty much the whole story. 

I also made hot and sour soup that tastes just like what you’d get in a restaurant but I am not posting the recipe because most people cannot get lily buds or tree ear mushrooms at the nearest store like I can.  Don’t be envious, I have to go to the next town to get Parmesan cheese unless I want one made in Mexico, so we all have our cross to bear.

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Everyone assumed Gallant was gay, but I always thought maybe Goofus was just being rude and clumsy to throw everyone off the scent. 

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I am calling the latest cat who dines on my patio Ginger.  She is mostly white, very small, and very vocal.  These are qualities shared by a cat I once knew named Agnes.   I free associated with the name Agnes . . . Agnes De Mille, Cecil B. De Mille,  Gloria Swanson, William Holden, hit his head on a night table and died . . . it sort of went off track with that so I started over.

Agnes, Agnes De Mille, choreographer, dance, Ginger Rogers.  That was a much easier train to follow, although I’m not even sure Agnes De Mille was a choreographer. 

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I got the Spring Awakening CD.  I have no idea how I ever lived without it.

Are you the pompous ass who sat through the first half of Spring Awakening at the San Jose Center for the Performing Arts this afternoon?

Well, being as I was raised right (something I have strived to overcome but have yet to perfect), I was too polite to contradict your non-indoor-voice critique of the first act.  And as you exited the theater prior to the second, I and my fellow theater-goers did not have the opportunity to do so once the play ended.

You said the acting was horrid.  Perhaps you once trained with John Houseman and are qualified to make such a judgment, but in my limited experience in this area, I thought the acting professional,  effective and engaging.

You said you didn’t care what happened to any of the characters as there was no plot.  Really?  The boy about to end his brief life rather than face disappointing his family was not worthy of your interest?  What about a girl beaten into submission by her father? Or the one molested by hers. 

Perhaps a young man questioning the existence of hope, truth, God, and a purpose to it all?  A woman/child dying from an abortion performed against her will.  Oh, that’s right, you didn’t stick around for that.

You said the music was “Pablum . . . something played on Disney Radio.”  Was it The Bitch of Living or Totally Fucked that most struck you when you observed this?

You might want to familiarize yourself with a wider range of music before you pop off.  I am no music historian or even someone with a vast collection of music, yet I was able to recognize a variety of influences—from Three Penny Opera to Depeche Mode.

Having said all that, none of your actual criticism is what bothers me most (although, it does bother me).  You were there as the guest of a friend who bought season tickets, and you very graciously, patronizingly, told her it certainly wasn’t her fault the play was crap, leaving her apologizing to you as you left the theater. 

As someone who was raised right, I would have stayed in my seat no matter how much I disliked the show since I was there was there with a friend.  But you decided that music, plotting and acting which held no interest for you rated higher than an afternoon with a friend.  That, in the words of lyricist Steven Sater, is totally fucked.

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In case it isn’t clear, I liked the play.  The themes of alienated youth, asking big questions, sexual awakening and the like are not new—they have been explored for as long as the written word existed, I imagine.  But that’s sort of the point: they never go away.

Good artists manage to revisit these themes in ways different from those who came before; and that makes the subject not only still relevant, but interesting. 

Who the hell decided that maple syrup belongs every-God-damned-where?   I have been turning down bacon at brunches where it has been maple-ized,  passing on sweet potato pies sweetened with it (and saying no to sweet potato pie is like saying no to another cat for me),  and I even had to gag my way through a piece of sea bass with some sickly maple glaze.

But the latest was just too much: A Croque Monsieur made with maple-cured ham.  Yes, maple dripping onto Gruyere cheese.  One does not pay $12 for a grilled ham and cheese sandwich that tastes like a Grand Slam Breakfast. 

I don’t know if it was some Canadian or New Englander trying to promote one of their greatest products, or if it was young chefs trying to do something different, but it has got entirely out of hand.  In fact, so much so, that I can no longer eat maple syrup period.  The smell of it now gives me a Pavlovian response to want to fucking gag.

And to think of all the shit Californians have had to take for our perceived rampant use of cilantro. 

Firstly, I want to tell children everywhere (assuming children read this) that your parents and the media are big fat liars.  All that crap about poisoned Milky Ways and candy apples and popcorn balls studded with razor blades is a myth.

There have been only a handful of events such as these in decades upon decades, and given the number of children who are beaten by their parents, hit by drunk drivers, and shot by classmates, Halloween is the least of your worries.  Go out, have fun, look both ways, and avoid creepy people who offer to give you something only if you come inside, and the odds are good you’ll survive the holiday.

And if your parents ask to inspect your candy before you eat it, do not leave the room; there is a good chance they are simply picking out the candy they like and giving you back the cheap filler. 

Secondly, I have been doing taste tests so that I might save trick-or-treaters the unpleasant experience of biting into something they will not like. 

Kit Kat:  it’s not as chocolately as I think it ought to be, it’s almost more of a cocoa taste than truly chocolate, but it’s not unpleasant. On the plus side, the crisp wafer is not very sweet so it balances the sweetness of the chocolate, making it a good choice for those who like semi-sweet sweets.

Snickers:  when people ask if I like Snickers I always say I do not, but I thought I better eat a few to be sure that is still true.  Honestly, I don’t dislike them as much as I thought I did, but it doesn’t top my list.  The chocolate qualifies as chocolate in the same way I qualify in terms of being educated.  The nuts add some texture, but the caramel is too sweet.

Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup:  the peanut butter is saltier than normal peanut butter which I quite liked, but it also has an overly oily mouth-feel as if they fortified it with Crisco, and the chocolate tastes waxy.  If you eat a second one the peanut butter tastes better, but the chocolate still tastes below average. 

The third one was a huge mistake.

Hershey’s Chocolate Bar:  it does not taste waxy like the Reese’s, and while it’s much sweeter than any chocolate I normally eat straight-up, it really tastes like milk chocolate ought to.  And it breaks off into nice two-bite pieces which extends the time it takes to eat.  Nice.

Nestle Crunch: the chocolate tastes as good as Hershey’s and far better than Reese’s; additionally, I like the sensation of the puffed rice crunching and popping in my mouth.  This is a nice one. I need to try another Kit Kat and compare.   They are different even if they are both chocolate enrobing something crisp, but I am leaning toward Nestle Crunch.

Peeps: I would rather have a rectal exam performed by someone with arthritis and really long fingernails than eat one of those ever again.

Smarties, Necco Wafers, Sweet Tarts:  Despite people falling into very definite camps as to which they think are best, they all pretty much taste like talcum powder mixed with flavoring.  Having said that, Necco Wafers have the best packaging and you can use them as roof tiles on a gingerbread house so they win.

Whoppers: these remind me of three things—my grandmother owned a necklace that looked like a string of malt balls; my other grandmother made a malt-flavored cake that was brushed with chocolate syrup and filled with whipped cream; and my mother would never let me get a frozen malted milk when we went to an A’s game (like I went so I could watch someone chase a God-damned ball). 

They taste old-fashioned, have a nice crunch, and make me feel nostalgic and warm inside (except for that A’s game bullshit). 

That’s all I have tested so far, but it’s quite possible I have to buy more so I’ll see if I can get a few other varieties and continue with this.

Have you seen this?

Who knew that Miracle Whip was the Che Guevara of sandwich spreads. 

I have another cat.  She is not living in the house, but she does rely on me for food.  A very small white kitten.  I have seen her with no other cat so I guess she is on her own.  Sad.  Seamus seems to like her.  That’s sweet, but not good.

I took off Jingle’s collar.  I wanted to see what would happen.  Two days later he showed up wearing a new collar.  And yet, he still sits out there looking pathetic, trying to convince me they do not feed him at home.  He really thinks I’m an idiot.  My sister told me to take off the new collar and put the old one back on.  I might. 

The raccoons are vexing, but what can you do?  They are hungry, and hungry animals often dig in potted plants and scratch on the back door hoping someone will toss them something.  They do almost exclusively what they must do, and that’s more than can be said for my own species.

It’s been a while since I complained about being allergic to everything in the world.  Sunscreen was at the top of the list the last time I complained, and that has not changed.  It makes my skin into a oilslick within moments of being in the sun and when I come in and look in a mirror, I wonder why I look as though I am going through puberty.

I tried a bunch of cleansers, toners and lotions to counteract the effects with mixed results, Clinique’s Acne Solutions Clarifying Lotion being the best of the lot, in that it didn’t make it worse and sometimes even helped.  I ran out and contemplated dropping another $15.

I read the label: witch hazel, alcohol, water, salicylic acid, and a few extracts.  I bought bottles of witch hazel and isopropyl alcohol, and mixed them with water and a baby aspirin.  I’ve been using it for a week  (after washing with Cetaphil cleanser for sensitive skin); so far it works as good as Clinique, and better than virtually any other product I have tried in a year.

Step right up and get your very own bottle of Cat Boy’s Miracle Elixir— a bargain at three farthings.

PS. Does anyone know who George Cauldron is?

One should never apply duct tape to the skin. 

My aunt did it once.  She read something about how models wearing dressings that did not allow for a bra taped their breasts; my aunt having a construction background had duct tape on hand . . . She still has them both, but it was touch and go. 

Some of the things I have done: helped my sister remove duct tape from an aunt’s breast (she was the actual boob in this scenario); cut my mom out of a pair of pantyhose at a wedding; make suggestions on sexual positions to someone whose wife was pregnant (something I haven’t a trace of experience with and he had to know that when he asked). 

I have no idea what the punchline to this list should be; feel free to make up your own. 

Oh!  That reminds me, I just thought of a genius idea.  I think someone should name their blog “Jack of all Tirades.”  I would, but my name is not Jack and I’m pretty content with Cat Boy even if it doesn’t explain anything.  Jack, if you are reading this, it is yours for the taking as long as you say Cat Boy gave you the idea.

Here are some pictures for your enjoyment. 

I posted a picture of this wall once before, after I first framed the cat silhouettes given to me by Ginger Snaps.  I have since added the sheet music from my grandmother’s favorite song Moon Winks, and a few of Halloween decorations.

Aside from using Halloween-specific decorations, I cluster things together that are orange (or nearly orange) and things that seem kind of rustic or odd.

Moving on, Tigger was being mean to one of her children today and I told her to quick picking on him and got this vision of “It’s a Wondeful Life.” I will wait a moment and see if you know what I am talking about. Yes, Tigger was Jimmy Stewart telling his daughter to quit playing that silly song on the piano and I was Donna Reed saying “Why must you torture the children.”

It amused me; then scared me. I’m back to amused.

Tigger, the mother of all ferals—well, the four ferals who play a part in my life anyway, is no longer capable of inflicting kittens upon me.  It took months, but last night I trapped her and this morning she was spayed.  And, surprisingly to me, nothing more.

I was convinced she was pregnant again given her recent weight gain and her recently turning on her kittens.  I assumed she was being mean—hissing, spitting and taking whacks at them—because she saw them as a threat to the kittens was carrying.  Turns out, she’s just a bitch.

The bitch is currently recovering in my extra room which I appointed with a nice blanket-covered cushion placed under a patio chair draped with another blanket so she could feel like she was hidden.  Instead she has chosen to sleep under a piece of furniture where she has almost 1/2-inch headspace. 

I gave her some baby food; she bit me.  I figured as mad as she was she couldn’t get much madder, so I pet the cat I have never once touched.  She growled at me and looked confused at that point.  I’m going to call it progress. 

And that, sadly, is the most interesting thing I have got to say at the moment.