A Rather Silly Lyric In Honor of The US Open and My Recent Breakup

U.S. Open Your Heart, My Dear        c 2010 Peri Lyons, who wrote it and all


Though tennis I know nothing of,
They all know nothing equals love;
And all the sports fans know the call:
Love equals nothing much at all.

The poets tell us there's no cost:
It's better to have loved and lost-
But let me tell you something, hon-
It's BETTER to have loved and WON.

Sportsfans and poets all agree
That love's a bloody mystery:
If love's a game, as seems to be:
The heart's a lousy referee.

So though I loved and lost, it's true,
And played no games at all with you:
I've cut out sobbing into gin-
Cuz next time? I will play to win.

xx pl c 2010

************************************************

One of the most annoying things about the career I seem to have fallen into by accident, is that I occasionally have to actually TAKE the damn advice I give to others, in such a blithe and breezy manner.. Like the annoyingly new-age question, "If you knew this awful situation was happening in order to teach you a very specific lesson very fast, what do you think that lesson is?" I love asking that, in a slightly pompous way. But now that it's happened to me? Jesus, I HATE answering it.
Because, let's face it, what is the fun of going through a very hard time, if you can't feel immensely, gloriously sorry for yourself, and therefore indulge in- and rationalize!- incredibly self-indulgent behaviour?
Of COURSE you're temporarily allowed to watch 5 hours of "The Tudors" until the sun comes up! (I would also do the whole "consuming a pint of Haagen Dazs" thing as well, but sadly, don't like sweets. Or lately, food.) Of COURSE you can stay up all night listening to sappy music and sobbing! -Of course, unless you can figure ut a way to get PAID for these activities, pretty soon you have to snap out of it and go be a Regular Person Without Misery Privileges again, which kind of sucks. I got a lot of free cab rides when I was being Attractively Wistful And Slightly Teary. But now I'm kinda over it, so I have to pay AND tip. Am considering hiding raw onion in hankie to bring back those pity-inducing-and-really-rather-profitable tears.

I do miss living with my guy: we really had a blast together, and I kind of perfected the half badass/half geisha thing, AND I re-learned how to cook. But it turns out I'm much shallower than I thought: six weeks and booom: all better. It"s hard to realize that while,yes, one can be deeply and poetically miserable as befits a tortured poet with a profound soul, one can ALSO be pretty much completely cheered up by finding a pair of Yves Saint Laurent shoes on eBay for 5 bucks. Damn it.

Well, am off to read 19th century Romantic poets and weep for the beautiful poignancy of it all.-Oh, hell, who are we kidding: I'm off to bid on that really cool pair of vintage Air Jordans. I'm pretty sure that Shelley and Keats kept their references to athletic footwear to a minimum. But you never know.

Those guys were deep.

love
per

"The Oriental Trading Wedding Catalog" Will Lie To You And Make You Sad.

 I recently discovered that, when one gets engaged,one mysteriously starts receiving bushels of wedding-related catalogs. They're really kind of amazing, in their fervent belief that NO object is too trivial to be turned into a fetishistic wedding decoration/ornament/rather doubtful gift. I spent the hours in which I should have been cleaning, today, mesmerized like a cobra by a mongoose,  by the wares featured in the mysterious and possibly-not-really-Asian, bridal  catalog, "Oriental Trading Wedding!Everything from "Will You" to "I do"!""  - Yikes. No, really. Yikes.

 Apparently, there is an insatiable demand for items such as: custom flip flops for one's wedding guests, something I thought was pretty amazingly tacky,until I learned that Ivanka Trump had those at her recent wedding to Jared Kushner. (Wait...which is the Trump daughter? Ivanka? What's the mom's name? Why do I care? Did Heidi and Spencer really break up? Is Heidi now going to pursue a career as an inflatable pool toy? But we digress. -And how.) But I still think flip flops are tacky.

There are also slightly distressing items. Somehow, the photo of wooden chairs set up outside with customized paper fans on them, is not reassuring. 

Why not  go all out, and have huge monogrammed blocks of ice for the VIP guests to sit on?Or  why not skip the fans altogether and have the damn thing INside? I hate outdoor weddings. My stiletto  heels always sink into the grass/sand/Jello/best man, and I wobble in an unflattering manner.  Not good. Also, there are always gnats in the crab dip. Between wobbling, spitting out gnat-filled crab bits unobtrusively into the shrubbery, and wrasslin' the mother in law for a seat on the monogrammed ice block, it all goes to hell in a handbasket quickly. -A tasteful, monogrammed, white satin handbasket. See catalog. Page 5.

We will quickly pass over the "Personalized Wedding Knife", on page 9. It doesn't bear thinking about. Although it will come in handy at about three AM when the bride accuses her new hubby of staring at the bridesmaids' cleavage, and he responds that she shouldn't have dressed her closest female friends like "Little Bo Peep Becomes A Prostitute: The Movie", and pretty soon the Personalized Wedding Knife's TRUE purpose becomes all  too apparent.

Some of these catalog items have the reek of desperation about them, an air of "methinks the couple doth protest too much."  One catalog is very big on having you, the Gentle Reader, engrave the phrase "Bruce and Carleen: Two Hearts, One Love." on everything-  Well yes. Two hearts, one love: One would hope so: these people are getting married, after all. "Two Hearts, One Mutually Unspoken But Relieved Agreement To Settle" is accurate but depressing, and "Three Hearts,One Love" while amusing, would be complicated. And probably French. And  finally, "Two Hearts, Four Kidneys, One Appendix, and Two Silicone Implants: One Love", while interesting and informative, would be prohibitively costly to engrave.  And who, exactly,are Bruce and Carleen? Unless you are a 1950's country singer and/or own a small hair salon in Atkins, Georgia, you should not be spelling your name with two successive "ee"s. 

-Bruce, you're fine. And probably gay.

Oooh, look, we're at the "Excessive Crosses" section already! Reaffirm your faith AND make your Jewish guests uncomfortable! Talk about win-win! -And here! Page 18! There are WASPy butter mints tastefully wrapped in Episcopal Cross wrappers, which say to me: 1) The food at this wedding is NOT going to be tasty,  but WILL have all the crusts cut off; and 2) After this evening? This couple will never have sex again.

(I grew up Episcopal. I'm allowed to say this. Besides, it is a truth universally acknowledged, that the WASPier the wedding, the crappier the food.) 

I could go on and on. The "Save the Date" wedding magnet, which OSTENSIBLY shows a cartoon couple "taking the plunge" in snorkels   (?), but ACTUALLY looks like they are hanging themselves simultaneously. (Image to come...it's awesome.)  There are other "Save The Date" magnets, that seem to read "Eric and David Are Getting Married!", which I LOVED, but which seemed unexpectedly enlightened in this particular context...sadly, it was "Erin", not Eric. Sigh.-I also read one as "Dawn and Marie:Gettin Hitched!" but it turned out to be "Dawn and Marc", much to my disappointment.

On page 23, there is a white, wedding themed birdcage, to symbolize your coming entrapment, despair, and your ultimate fate of, metaphorically, winding up ,feet in the air, on a seed strewn page of last week's newspaper. Fun! -The "cartoon bride and groom" themed toilet paper, page 29, makes the "Personalized Knife" seem both optimistic AND tasteful.  The "Round Silver Cardboard Dinner Plates" (page 32) look -by accident or design- EXACTLY like the tinware found in prison mess halls; page 46 features, grimly, THREE MORE personalized Wedding Knives; and this Trilogy Of Resignation And Doom is rounded off, on page 72, with the suggestion that you gift your bridesmaids with--wait for it--engraved flasks. Because they will crave the sweet embrace of that one special man on this romantic day: yes,  we mean Johnny Walker Black. 

{An upbeat note here: the Jordan Almonds in your wedding colors are cool. I love Jordan Almonds. You can never go wrong with Jordan Almonds. And the personalized candy corn is cool too, although it might confuse your guests into thinking it's actually Halloween, and your "bride and groom" outfits are costumes. But only if you've already given them their flasks.}

To sum up: In the words of one satisfied  customer, under "Advice From The Bride", are these golden gems of helpful wisdom:

1) Put a SPECIAL centerpiece on the table of the bride and groom! [Um, yes. DUH. The "Dixie Cup with a daisy in it",while sweet, won't really do it.]

2) Have plenty of champagne and wine glasses on hand for the adult guests! {Because everyone lying under the wine box spigot and gulping, just TAKES too damn long.}

3) Polyester flowers make EVERYTHING more elegant!  [Well, no. No,they don't. Truly not. Please,God.No.}

and, this final, enigmatic gem:

4) When it comes to your Wedding Day, skimping on the special details shouldn't be optional.   {Well, of course not! Or, of course! Or...wait, what does this MEAN?" Not not skimping on the details should not be not optional?" Or, "Skimp away?" What???]

So pull up a block of monogrammed ice, sharpen your Wedding Knife, and call yourself Bruce And Carleen. Remind guests that you are getting married because you are in LOVE, with two hearts and one love and a vestigial appendix, and not because you're almost thirty and let's face it,  the dating pool is dwindling. Put on your flip flops, fill up your flask and relax! , secure in the knowledge that: The divorce rate is 53 %, your BRIDESmaids, at the end of the day, will -unlike YOU- still be single; and really: Jordan Almonds are SO TASTY!! Especially in Your Colors.

And polyester flowers go with everything.

************

Peri Lyons c 6/1/2010 all rights reserved

How to Tell The A List from The A Train.

"You NEVER say "private jet"!" My friend C. rolled her huge green eyes.

I was being a smartass, almost never a very good plan.

"Never? Even if someone asks what P-R-I-V-A-T-E J-E-T spells?" I asked. Sometimes I like to wind her up by being a Stroppy Cow. -But not very often.

She blew out Gauloise smoke impatiently. I remembered,privately,that she was born in the Chinese Year of Dragon,so smoke from her nostrils was both Chinesely appropriate AND a warning sign. I also decided not to mention to her, that I'd thought this.

"No! You say, at most, something about "landing at Teterboro." Or...let me see...I heard someone do this AMAZING thing,where she complained that her ride home from France was SO turbulent that next time she was flying commercial." She swiveled her chair back to the computer to catch up on emails. Problem solved.

I LOVE this stuff. I love mastery in ANY subject,and my friend has mastery in a few: but one of the things she's kind of genius at is How To Act And Talk Like An A-Lister, or as my russian pal Anya always put it, a "TopTop". -(When asked about this coinage, Anya blthely explained that when she first came here from Moscow,she'd heard people say "He's a top,top [designer, curator, fill in blank here]" and thought that was the actual word for those people.)

My friend C is not very patient, does not suffer those she deems fools gladly-or at all--but DAMN, that girl knows her stuff. So I listen. And learn. The thing is? It works.

I am not a natural A Lister. I am a talker; also? A blurter. And  I can't lie now that I've figured out I truly suck at it (my "tells include: breaking out in hives, blushing vermilion, and having my voice go up so many octaves I sound like a BeeGee); and my idea of a social grace is that: I didn't hit you. I dream of being the woman about whom people whisper, "She's fluent in French,Mandarin,Portugues and Swahili,", but the fact is, when I do speak French in France, French people laugh and laugh. And then answer me in English. (They do this rather kindly. I think, for them, it was like watching a duck try and explain particle physics:not very good, but I did get points for "effort".) In Cannes last week I'm pretty sure I told a nice woman,in French, that she was a species of eggplant. I meant it as a compliment,is the awful thing.

Some other non-A-list qualities have included talking too much; name dropping (out of exuberance and disbelief, but, hey,it's still pretty lame); the ability to trip over dust motes as I'm trying to glide elegantly across a room and instead wind up doing do a faceplant in the hummus dip; and an insane insistence on doing my makeup in the cab without a mirror,guaranteeing I arrive looking like a five year  old girl who REALLY wants to be Diana Vreeland.

Backstory/Digression:
Two years ago, I saw the handsomest and most amazing man (ever) (truly!) (hot, brilliant, funny, honest, loyal, kind, faithful, utterly trustworthy and a beautiful, noble soul)- across a crowded room, and fell ass-over-teakettle in love with him. Because miracles actually DO occur, he reciprocated the feeling. and we wound up talking till 2, and then calling each other and talking on the phone till dawn. And now, God willin' and the creek don't rise, we're engaged.  There's "lucky" and there's : "luckier than any woman has ever been", also known as: "being engaged to John Buffalo Mailer". Honestly, it's like winning the spiritual lottery ...only much, MUCH better. -Anyway:
Because my fella's mom is a charismatic Southern born beauty, and his genius Dad had friends from every walk of life (boxing promoters, A list movie stars, former Army buddies), my guy is that rarest of creatures, a natural gentleman. He is the same guy all the time, whether at a glittery Peggy Siegal hoedown or in our kitchen, having beer with our neighbors and helping me fry chicken. So he's taught me a lot of social graces (don't spit on the floor, don't ask "what do YOU do" but instead "how do you spend your time?", don't hit no one almost ever) , but his politeness is not just politesse: he genuinely likes people and is really interested in them. Which,as it turns out, seems to be the Big Secret. Because, after I informed the nice lady in France that she was a garden vegetable, I ALSO asked if she had photos of her kids, and I really meant it because I really like people's photos of their families. So she warmed up, and we wound up having a really nice time, and she forgave me for suggesting she should probably be breaded and covered with marinara sauce and cheese, and it all wound up great.

I love my friend C--the one from the opening paragraph--and, awestruck, admire her social acumen, all of which I've listened to and all of which has worked. And, although her manner of teaching is a little more abrupt than my fiance's, it actually springs from the same sweet wellspring: empathy, love and interest. Because manners, au fond (that's French! And I'm an eggplant!) --are about the OTHER PERSON. Not making them feel small cuz you're bragging without meaning to; not making them feel like you're faking your smile; but stepping back and respectfully listening. Because everybody has a story that can stop your heart. You just have to give them a little time, and if you can, a little bubble of safety to shine in. If you can reflect back to them even a little of the beauty they're sharing with you, it's pretty much the definition of a win-win situation.
I like those. "win-win" GOOD.

My friend, despite her occasional abruptness, taught me a HUGE amount about civility. She also lent/gave (that's "lending" without asking for it back ever) a Gucci dress for me to wear in Cannes, and a Prada bag because "look, it's time you had a big girl purse." She thought about my wellbeing and acted on it,without making me feel "less than": instead, I felt seen and protected.

And darlings?

THAT'S A-list.

love
Miss Peri Lyons

Next installment: Cannes, or, I WOULD have "social proof", except the waiter stole my camera.

How To Kill Your Friends

If you truly love your friends, gather them together, ask them to get their affairs in order, and make them the fried chicken I made last night, which, after being soaked in buttermilk for 24 hours, was then fried in a mixture of lard, butter, and bacon. Listen to them moan in appreciation of how delicious it is, and then watch as, one by one, their cholestrol goes through the roof, their arteries clang shut and they topple backwards out of their chairs. Then pile them in a corner and finish their desserts for them. They won't need dessert where they are now.

As the banks topple and the economy goes into a nosedive, it's good to start entertaining at home. It's also good to start economizing in other ways. You can make a lovely evening dress out of Bounty and duct tape, and a pair of spraypainted shoeboxes make lovely dress shoes, sure to be a conversation starter in any situation.There are also simple ways t make extra money in any situation. When dining in a fine restaurant, bring a large waterbug with you, and at an opportune moment, slip it into the foie gras. You will certainly enoy a free meal. Be sure and take the cutlery with you when you go: restaurants love the free advertising that comes when you use their monogrammed silver to entertain your own guests. Also, I find, when hobnobbing with rich people, a good thing to do is to ask them how much money they have, and then ask for some. They love that. You can also keep up appearances in many small, easy ways: a chandelier perks up any small cardboard dwelling, and when cooking for guests, there are many delicious casseroles that can be whipped up in a minute using Little Friskies canned food as a delicious and economical base. A quaint 18th century French custom saves on water: rather than washing, use copious amounts of perfume, and if someone complains, you can denounce them as decadent aristocrats and have them beheaded. Economizing! It's easy and fun!

I hope you enjoy these helpful hints, because I could use new friends, now that the last ones I had are now piled like cordwood in a corner of my cozy one-bedroom apartment. 

Chicken, anyone?

Love,

Peri, who might need to adjust her meds.

A Reprise In Honor of Valentine's Day

The Lilies Of The Field Are Trying To Tell You Something

http://tinyurl.com/ycfw5gr
Got sent some anonymous flowers recently.-Well, the flowers weren't anonymous (they were roses, their actual names a mystery to me, although the one on the left did look like a bit like a Charlie)but the sender was. It was nice, in a slightly creepy way. So, because of this:
I have been researching the Victorian Language of Flowers. A Victorian suitor would send his beloved flowers, each of which had a very specific meaning, in order to communicate what his true feelings were.-Perhaps a wee bit passive-aggressive, but I'd rather get a bouquet of hollyhocks than an email ANY day, thank you.
So here's a selection of the Language of Flowers circa 1885, and afterwards, my own 2009 version.

Language Of The Flowers, 1885 version

1) Camellia: I live in gratitude of your perfected loveliness

2) Chrysanthemum: I admire your cheerfulness through adversity

3) Damask Rose: I worship your brilliant complexion

4) Fuschia: The ambition of my love thus plagues myself [Note:- What??]

5) Peach/or Peach Blossom: Your qualities, like your charms, are unequalled.

6) White Rosebud: You are too young to understand love [Note:I get that one a LOT.]

(Here is the website to learn more: http://www.victorianbazaar.com/meanings.html)

And...Here is The Language of the Flowers, 2010 Version:

1) Dandelions: You're okay, considering. I guess.

2) Poppies: I love you, but not more than I love prescription medications.

3) Carnations:My God, you're beautiful. My God, I'm cheap.

4) Rare Orchids: Aren't these exquisite? I'm sleeping with your sister.

5) Daffodils: Your optimism is touching. If delusional.

6)Asters: These are asters. -No, that's it, that's the message. Sorry.

7) Peach colored sunset roses: Your skin is like a flower petal at sunrise, and I think i might be gay.

8) Red roses: I think you're swell, I think you're aces, and I think it's 1947.

To sum up? Flowers are a beautiful means of communication, but I wouldn't try to leave a note for your cleaning woman with them. "Lobelias, canterbury bells and ferns...that means VERY CLEARLY to empty the dishwasher, Magda!! For pete's sake!"

love,Peri

The True,Real,No-Kidding This Time Meaning of Love

Note: The National Enquirer recently printed an incredibly true story, giving the details of a lawsuit filed by a disbruntled magician,against the Rev. Jim Bakker. The magician had implored his young wife and assistant, "Bambi", to attend marriage counseling with the (sort of)Reverend Jim Bakker was incensed because Mr. Bakker assigned the case to his pastor, "Bob", a former soap star who DID help the couple achieve closure. -Unfortunately, Bob did that by running off with  Bambi. -But, according to a source "close to the people involved" [would you actually ADMIT it if you knew ANY of these people?],what galled the magician/plaintiff MOST, was that Bob and Bambi had taken with them-
(without permission) 
his "specially trained Kangaroo".
The magician's heartfelt cri de couer, awoke the Muse in my soul. [She naps a lot, my Muse.]
Herewith, a Pome:


kangaroo doggerel: a plea




How could you do

This to me, who

Has loved you so long!

Oh the disaster!

You ran off with our pastor

And that’s not all too!

When you ran, 
you took my heart

My money; most expensive art;

But

What

turned my heart deep blue

Was that you took-

You awful crook-
You took

My Specially Trained

Kangaroo.

I see you now, you three (-or two-

Just two without the kangaroo)

(Or three ,if you include him too);

(Or four:my poor heart makes one more);

All of us-I mean all of you-

Are riding into a sunset, ooh.

Just you and him

And me and you

And a wellworn

 didgereedoo

And of course

That’s not a horse

It’s way too cool

it’s our specially trained but

-who knew? so cruel!-

     Kangaroo

Now I am not a bitter man

But dear it does seem cruel

After all that I looked past

To  do this last thing too

[spoken:]

I forgave you

When you strayed with my best friend

My catchers’ mitt

A vat of organic peanut butter

Some Filipino acrobats

And a cockatoo-

Hey,

I thought it was just an amour fou!

But now I know better

Since I got your letter:

With a picture of You

And him,
that swine with whom you flew,

And worst of all

What hurts of all

It’s true

In the middle of the two

of you

is him!

Is Jim:

My Extremely

Specially Trained

And Ungrateful

HardHearted

Kangaroo!




By Peri Lyons, The Poet Who Understands. -Sort of. 2011

Sherlock Holmes, Red Wine,and Heidi Montag's Breasts

Started the day--and by "started" I mean "not started at all"--by waking up and immediately praying for a swift,painless death. -Oddly, I don't do that most mornings.
Why?
Well. Had a singing gig last night, doing songs such as my own "Mrs. DeSade Explains" (written from the point of view of the wife of the Marquis); "Mr. Harris", Aimee Mann's beautiful ode to unconventional love; "Last Day Of Pompeii", an upbeat swing tune by the great Michael Peter Smith, in which several about-to-be-covered-in-lava Pompeiians reflect cheerfully on what they might have done differently in life; and my own "Touch", about why women (well, okay, me) tend to like the Unavailable Bad Boys,rather the Devoted Ones Who Are Good To Us. (-Luckily, my own fella combines both archetypes, so I don't have to choose, but it hath not always been so.)
And red wine was consumed.And I forgot to eat.And I woke up to find that some prankster had inserted red hot curried marbles where my eyeballs used to be,and also my hair hurt.
However, had to be at the Algonquin Hotel at 9:45 AM to go to a Sherlockian fest with a writer pal. Which would have been fine,and generally WAS fine, except that,in my hurry to get out the door, I threw on a dress that was actually more like, say, a shirt. And put on the shoes that were immediately visible, which had four inch heels. And showed up at a dignified, canonical gathering looking like The Blonde Who Lost Her Pants.- The six foot three blonde who lost her pants. That's a lot of pants to lose.
My writer friend,the lovely,talented and newly-engaged-to-Amanda-Palmer Neil Gaiman (Miss Palmer is also lovely and talented) winced slightly when he saw me, but was otherwise the soul of tact,and almost never said "My that's a short-to-nonexistent skirt you're almost wearing,Miss Lyons."
He introduced me to some lovely people. One very nice gentleman was the former head of The Royal Academy Of Art. -I applied for that job, but I think they were put off when I mentioned "Dogs Playing Poker" as my favorite Old Master painting. I also met a very very nice Norwegian gentleman,and I have to say this: Norwegians always wind up talking about being Norwegian. No one knows why.Science is baffled.
I knew Neil when he was just a simple New York Times multiple bestselling author, but now he has achieved the kind of megastardom that makes other multiple NY Times bestselling authors look like pikers,slackers and unproductive wastrels. He's won every award I can think of, including "Tupperware Distributor Of The Month", but I think that last one was an accident. Anyway, he's one of the world's kindest humans, and a lovely human,and it's just lagniappe that, he's kind of a walking Golden Ticket: when one hangs out with him, random people walk up and offer you nice things,like membership to cool Sherlockian societies,and Maseratis,and stuff. It's a wee bit taking-abacking,in a nice way.And one has to be very nice to the people he's chatting to, becaause the person you're introduced to as,say, "my friend Bob", later turns out to be the,say, King of Sweden,so maybe asking him to get you a cup of coffee wasn't the best idea. -I'm just sayin', Anyway, I spent my last 20 bucks on "The Sherlock Holmes Illustrated Cyclopedia of Nautical References", because the nice elderly gent who wrote it was sitting by himself at a table,where his books were selling like whatever is the exact opposite of hotcakes. He inscribed it to me with much enthusiasm and many letters after his name, and I felt quite nice about it.
Mr. Gaiman and I then wobbled over to a coffee shop (wait-he walked.I wobbled) and I stared bemusedly at eggs. It was quite nice. Except for the part where my brain kept turning on and off and little flashing bits kept falling out of it. -But he was quite nice about that,and tried to be less of a genius for a bit until I could pretend to be sentient.-It didn't work--he was still a genius and I still wasn't sentient--but I appreciated the effort.

As he strolled off to a photo shoot with the glamourous Miss Palmer, I relaized that I was getting a migraine and went home to put a cat on my head and lie down. First I had to walk,in my large blonde pants-free way,through Times Square. I don't recommend this. As my pal Jim said,"Hey,ten years ago you could have made good money."-I am going to assume that he MEANT that,ten years ago, Times Square was seedier, NOT that ten years ago I was considerably more salable.-But whatever.

After resting until midnight, I got up and read the People magazine John had very sweetly brought as my Saturday guilty pleasure,and saw that Hedi Montag was on the cover,crowing about her ten plastic surgery procedures in one action packed day. She does look very pretty now, in an inhuman,plastic Nordic alien way,and has quite a career ahead of her as a very high priced callgirl. I liked how honest she was about it, in a body-dysmorphic-disfunction,narcisisstic,addictive way...if someone says that having breasts so large that she can't stand upright unassisted,is going to make her feel more "feminine", well, bully for her. She could also go for the multiple breasted, "Romulus and Remus's mother" look: that's feminine. -However, as every celebity has had huge amounts of plastic surgery and DOESN'T talk about it--Angelina, dear,I am talking to YOU--I think being honest about the expense,suffering and souldestroying vanity, is kind of admirable. Although I don't think she actually mentioned the "soul-destroying vanity at the expense of one's inner integrity" part. I might have just made that up.
But really-Nicole Ritchie's jowls disappear from one day to the next, Madonna has what look to be small steel girders implanted in her cheeks, Angelina Jolie's nose gets smaller every week,and  Nicole Kidman has not moved a facial muscle since the 90's--and everyone lets them get away with it? Please. Sure,Miss Montag is going to be facing some obstacles in her future--she can no longer stand near a radiator or she'll melt, for one thing--but she seems fine with trading future grotesquerie for present money. I might too, if anyone offered. -Actually, that's not true--Ford Models asked me to have my nose done whn I was  16, and I flatly refused. And me a Jewish Doctor's Daughter! Imagine. I've got a ski jump nose,and thought "Sure it looks funny NOW,, but if there is ever a demand for female Bob Hope impersonators,I've got to be ready!!"-No. Actually, I thought I looked fine. And I wasn't very good at modeling. I would walk off runways (no depth perception); break out in huge hives before a go-see; and try to talk to the other models about the James Joyce book I was reading. That was not a huge success.

Well, thanks for hanging out. You should probably go to bed now: it's almost 3 AM. Get some sleep. If getting to sleep is a problem for you, I have a copy of "A Sherlock Holmes Illustrated Cyclopedia of Nautical Referenes" that works better than Seconal.
love
Peri

Jacob Marley And Me

Christmas is an odd day...it always feels like an anticlimax by about 5 pm, no matter what you're doing after. It IS a perfect day for watching movies on TV, though. So I watched "Christmas Carol" and "Marley and Me". (-By "Christmas Carol", I mean the PROPER one, the Alastair Sims version. The Jim Carrey version is unthinkable-about. ) I'm going to skip "Christmas Carol" in this entry  (except to observe that you could also call it "Jacob Marley And Me"), and talk a bit about the Dog Movie.

"Marley and Me" was a HUGE hit this year. It stars the perkily inhuman Jennifer Aniston, and the tiny and dreadfully lost-seeming Owen Wilson, whom I like and feel sorry for simultaneously.  Aniston makes a living out of doing chilly, businesslike impersonations of Wacky Free Spirits. In this film, she's doing an impression of a Perfect Wife 'N' Mom which is pretty good, as long as one knows lot of Wife 'N' Moms who only have very photogenic emotions. I keep expecting her face and body to entirely crack open one day, and a metallic cyborg to step out and announce that the world is now Theirs, and They Will Be Enslaving Humans to Do Their Bidding, but They are Still Keeping Bryan Lourds As Their Agent.Just In Case.-But I digress.
I missed the first part of the film. Apparently, from the flashbacks--and this is the kind of movie that has a movie's worth of flashbacks--the golden Aniston and the butterscotch Wilson got a suitably Aryan-colored puppy some years ago. {I was a bit surprised they didn't get a darker puppy, as well, to work as staff.]
He chewed a lot of stuff, and then they had children. Wilson works for a newspaper, although it's hard to see where either of them find time to do anything, because their matching perfect highlights must require CONSTANT touching up. -So: He is the kind of writer who gets fired for Pursuing His Vision No Matter What. -My feeling about that is, unless when you look in the mirror Edgar Allen Poe is staring back at you, getting fired from a newspaper for Pursuing Your Vision doesn't mean you're a genius. It actually sort of says to Me The Viewer that you might be kind of a selfrighteous pain in the ass. -By the time I tuned in, they were moving to a place in Pennsylvania that is actually, objectively, sort of a  mansion, but a mansion just eccentric and attainable enough to lure the hapless viewer into thinking she might actually own something like it some day.-Poor,deluded hapless viewer. -On a columnist's salary?
Maybe Aniston's character has a trust fund? -But I digress.
The dog gets older, and then one day it dies. That 's the plot.-No, really. That's the plot.

Now, I am no stranger to the "God Spelled Backwards Is Dog" school of  animal writing. As a kid, I LOVED Albert Payson Terhune books ("Lad:A Dog") , and Farley Mowat (who could also be Marley Fowat, now that I come to think of it...)...and Cleveland Amory's "I Am a Closeted Upper-Class Gay Man in Boston Who Writes A LOT-A LOT-- About His Cat" books, and loved them all. Because they were heartfelt. Albert Payson Terhune may have hated everyone in the world EXCEPT his dogs, to judge from his constant, randomly inserted, semi-Brechtian diatribes against "day trippers", "speed demons", and "indecently clad young people" (he wrote around 1912) , but man, he LOVED those dogs. Farley Mowat never met an animal he DIDN'T like enough to write about, and Cleve's books about his cats are very moving. The point here being:
They meant it.
"Marley And Me" is so patently phoned in, so "yeah, let;s give the rubes a dog movie, throw in some snow,we'll get the Christmas crowd" that it makes me mad. This is a movie in which everyone concerned seems beyond caring. Case in point: In one scene, Owen Wilson is outside in the snow with his three kids, giving them detailed instructions on how to make the BEST snow angels. Jennifer Aniston comes to the door and announces that her stand in has made lunch, everybody come in!-and the three kids get up from making labor-intensive snow angels, and run in...without ONE actually turning around to see what his/her angel actually looked like. This, to me, says that the director was having it off in his trailer with an ambitious extra and let a PA direct the scene.
I'm cool with the scenes of the dog miraculously always knowing when the kids schoolbus arrives,in order to meet it: anyone who's ever owned a cat can tell you, if you normally give your cat dinner at 5 pm, and one day you're a little forgetful, at 5:01 SHARP you will have a helpful reminder in the form of ten claws in your calfmuscle. So, yes. Animals and time? No problem. And I'm cool -sort of--with the wife calling the columnist at work that the dog isn't feeling good, and he rushes home, although I'm going to say he's got a rather more tolerant boss than one would expect in a newsroom.
But the Dog Death Scene was just...too much.
Owen Wilson takes Marley to the vet and they have to put him down. -Marley,that is, although Owen is so mopey in this movie that I bet it was touch and go for a minute there. ("Which one, Doc?" "The Blonde One.""O..kay..."  Ooops!)
What ensues is a death scene worthy of Lucia de Lammarmoor. I mean, this thing goes on for 7 minutes. -Now, I would like to say that I love animals. A LOT. When my cat Eddie Sebastian Private Eye died last year, I was really inconsolable...he'd been my friend, my amusement, and my enigma for 22 years. So, please,understand, this is not an anti-dog rant, or unsympathetic to ANYONE who's had to have this painful and sad experience.--HOWEVER. It's a dog, not the Hindenburg Dirigible Disaster. Some perspective here, please,people. But, um...no. Sooping camera work, close up of dog, close up of Owen Wilson,closeup of Owen Wilson AND dog, closeup of vet who finally Understands That This Is No Ordinary Dog, ethereal music, you name it. I mean, Abraham Lincoln died quietly in a boardinghouse room...I think we can let a dog go with rather less Drama than that.
Finally, the weirdest goddamn scene ever, where Owen digs a huge hole and puts the dog in there and his children are traumatized...I mean, his children are asked to recite poems and put drawings in the grave. (If they were Neanderthals, it would be flowers. I just like that, is all.) One child declines to read his poem for Marley, simply choosing to say, gnomically yet insufferably, "He knows."
-Well, no. He doesn't. He's a dog. A dead one. They can't read minds. So, no, he doesn't actually know.
But two points for getting out of writing a poem, creatively,kid.-Also, if Owen is so adept at digging backyard boneyards, does that mean he has PLANS for Jennifer Aniston's character? Is he going to be out there two weeks later, shoveling like mad while muttering "Highlights...perky...highlights...perky...MUST STOP...perky...Brad..."


I'm sorry I seem like such a grump about this. I love dogs, I love movies, I love kids, I have even, in the distant past, kinda sorta loved Owen Wilson. But I must raise my muzzle and howl against the corporate cynicism, the disingenuous dog appreciation, the condescension and carelessness that is "Marley And Me."

Aside from that, Christmas was awesome. I took Courtney Love to Norman Mailer's house for Christmas. But that, as they say, is another story.

Moose Mania!! Or, Better Living Through Huge Ungainly Animals With Coatracks on Their Heads.

Note: Is it just me, or is there something sort of Christmassy about mooses?

Moose MANIA!

Here is the website that will solve all of your problems. 
-All of your problems that are moose-related, that is. And I believe that, until we find the courage to look inside ourselves with forthright honesty, we can't know how many moose related issues we really have.

http://www.moosefarm.newmail.ru/

If you go to the site and click on "English translations", you will find a plethora of humorous and/or alarming quotes. It reads like they took the original Russian text to a bargain basement version of "Google Translate": something offline, in St. Petersburg, where people in a dark basement crouch over their typewriters, translating madly. And I do mean "madly". "Vlad's 24 Hour Translation, Transcription and Pierogies". It's filled with smoke, the the sound of keys tap-tap-tapping, and a distinct smell of cabbage soup. 

Here are some quotes from this site:

On "Adopting Your Very Own Moose":

"The more contacts between people and [moose] calves, the more communicable and companionable will moose grow up."

(Note: This is important. You don't want a sullen and uncommunicative moose around the house. Trust me on this.)

Under "Moose In History":

"Swedish army had moose troops, but only until real battles. Moose turned out to be wiser then their knights, they left battlefield to hide in the nearest forest if danger occured."

Well, finally! At last, the shocking truth about Swedish Moose Cowardice can be revealed!

And this:

" Most moose spend their daytime in the forest, and their encounter with a tourist group is a happy chance." 

It doesn't say who would be "happy" about an accidental moose encounter in a brooding Russian forest: the tourists? The mooses? The onlookers, watching in happy schaedenfraude, from the bushes?

The next quote just sounds like a mother talking about her teenaged kids.

My opinion is: it is necessary to release  young animals in mid-summer. I believe they will return to eat oatmeal or to hide from gnats in a dark shed. Radio tags will help to control their movements.

-Or maybe that's more about my childhood than you need to know.

The thing about anyone being wildly- even irrationally- excited about ANYthing, is that it's catching. Five minutes on this site had me seriously thinking about how a baby moose (mooseling? mooselet?) would get on with my cat, Princess Love Supreme Superstar: a baby moose weighs about 85 pounds, while Princess clocks in at a ladylike,if hefty, 13 pounds.
The answer is, of course, my little Bed-Stuy Princess would totally kick her some baby-moose ass. Sad but true.

Still, I long to ride mooseback (as the site suggests) -perhaps through Prospect Park-....to use moose milk (as the site suggests) to miraculously restore my "flagging and weakly constitution" (how did they know?).. and, most of all, I wish for a weeklong stay in the site's vaunted. Moose Sanitarium! This is a real place, according to the site. I think they mean "saniTORium", which is a place you go to have your physical health restored, as opposed to a "saniTARium", which is a place where one puts either crazy people, or freeloading Japanese artists.

Perhaps they actually MEAN "Moose Sanitarium". Maybe this is where mooses go who think they are Napoleon, or Jesus Christ, or,a bit pathetically, gazelles. The mental picture of a moose dressed up as Napoleon, is kind of appealing, in a "Bullwinkle the Moose" cartoon sort of way.(And, with it's implied low throaty purr, and almost complete lack of possessive articles, the entire site sounds like it was dictated by "Bullwinkle"'s glamourous Russian Spy, Natasha.It says that fifty people can stay at one time, in the sanitorium, although it's quiet about how many moose are involved. The people have their health restored. By moose.

Worryingly, there are no specifics about how, exactly, this occurs.

So join me! We will canter merrily through Cantral Park on our noble moose steeds. We will all be dressed as Napoleon- you, me and the mooses. We will laugh merrily, to know that our flagging, weakly constitutions are being restored, that sullen teenaged mooses will be waiting for us in dark, gnat free barns,with oatmeal: and that possibly, just possibly, we will have chance encounters with tourists!! 

A happy day indeed.

Or, just another day in New York City.

A Simple Life Philosophy

Note: My lovely Scottish friend Fiona introduced me to this magic phrase. When a Scot says "I can't be arsed", it means, roughly, "I just can't be bothered." Except in a more Scottish way than that. Thanks,Fiona!

I Can’t Be Arsed                 peri lyons c 2009

there's laundry in my living room

it's certainly not clean

it's starting to evolve into a life form never seen

There's dishes in my kitchen

The color of old litchen

Is this what they mean by going green?

But I am calm and half amused

Im almost never stressed

If I don't have clean clothes to wear, why bother getting dressed?

Tranquillity is mine at last

Those days of worrying are past

here's the philosophy I fin'ly feel is best

I can't be arsed

I can't be arsed

I can't be bothered shamed cajoled or even forced

I can't be arsed

I can't be bothered

In fact, I can't even be arsed enough to find a rhyme for bothered

When you give up

Then life is sweet

the world falls at your slightly stinky feet

I don't return men's calls

It drives them crazy

They think I'm hard to get but really Im just lazy

I just don't care about

The daily grind

It was either lose my standards or slowly lose my mind

I did try yoga

And chanting too

But here's what worked for me and it'll work for you

Just don't be arsed

I cant be arsed

I cant be shamed cajoled or ever ever forced

I can't be arsed!

What's worth the bother?

If you do one dish, there'll just be another

So don't clean your house or do the laundry, be a total roundheel

The first five years are tough but after that it's simply downhill

And when your friends stop coming by or visiting or calling

Because they love you but let's face it, the smell is just appalling

They will all keel over young of heartattacks and ulcers

But I'll live to one hundred two, because I just say "NO SIR--

I CAN'T BE ARSED!!!

Some Random Observations

bits and pieces, hither and yon

"Some people say I cannot sing-but no one can say I DIDN'T sing."

-Florence Foster Jenkins, 19th/20th century eccentric: a relentlessly untalented vocalist, she used her inherited fortune to finance a vaudeville career that lasted 10 years on the strength of audiences being flabberghasted by her sheer awfulness.Good for you,Flo!

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I was browsing old obits in the Times website, and came upon this mysterious yet true quote about legendary gangster Al Capone, the original "Scarface":

..."Head of the cruelest cutthroats in American history, he inspired gang wars in which more than 300 men died by the knife, the shotgun, the tommy gun and the pineapple."

Did I miss something here? The PINEAPPLE???

"Frisk him, Al. See if he's packin' pineapple."

"No, boss. Nothing but some loquats in syrup."

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Paradox Poem

When it began,

I wanted you to be who you are;

When it ended,

I wanted you to be who you were.

(pl)

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Observations:

The only time someone you have loved and lost in the past will contact you, is exactly 24 hours after you realize you might actually, really be over them.

The ride BACK in the taxi is always significantly less money than the ride TO. Physics has not adequately explained this. Nor has Science explained the other great Truth of Taxis: When you are late, and walking to the corner to flag one down, three available cabs will go by, just a bit too far away to hail.

When you get to the corner, there will be no cab. Not now, not soon....maybe not ever again.

The grass actually IS greener on the other side of the fence. Greener, lusher, nicer. It is the actual ACT of crossing the fence that-mysteriously--makes the grass wither and die.

In NYC, it has rained on St. Patrick's Day every year, without exception.No one knows why.

The amount of time it takes to lose your gloves is in exact inverse proportion to the amount of money you paid for them. $5 gloves will stay with you your entire adult life: $150 gloves will separate themselves and one willvanish, by the end of the same afternoon you purchased them.

$1 gloves will actually GET UP AND FOLLOW YOU if you leave them somewhere.

It would be interesting to see if gloves that cost, say, $1,000,000.00 would actually disappear one week before purchase.

Your mom was right: if you ignore a guy, he will get more interested. "Hard to get" actually works. "Impossible to get" only works with men who are a little nuts, and is therefore not recommended.

I stayed up till 2 am reading  "Eccentrics", a new book by a psychologist from Edinburgh. Here's how Davy Crockett was described by a nurse at the Alamo : "he had the strangest manner i ever saw: his face was exactly like a woman's, and his manner more like a girl's than any girl...I never saw him as a hero till the last day, when he faced down a whole line of mexicans, shouting like madman and braver than a bear..."

Who'd a thunk it? Davy Crockett gay???? -Well, having grown up in Greenwich Village, I am not surprised that a man known for wearing buckskin chaps and a fur hat, might turn out to be homosexual. 

*******************************************************

And,finally, a Flashback: two years ago today....

Back when I was doing many gigs, I had my own sound system. It got swiped. I needed a new one. So,this morning, I was at Sam Ash Music Store, looking for a sound system and a mike. Vito, who was about twenty--or maybe eleven--was helping me. 

"This one's good", he said hopefully. "This one" was a godawful Yamaha piece of crap with big, candy colored pastel flat dials that looked like the buttons off a Japanese Anime Porn Schoolgirl's blouse.

"Vito" I said gently. "I don't do pastels.Do you have anything that actual musicians use?"

I finally found something good, solid, portable and workmanlike.-In a sound system,that is. 

Got a great mic, too. So I was paying for them, and I said "I have my ASCAP card here somewhere. You guys still do the 10% discount, right?"

Vito looked worried. "Um, no."

I sighed. "Okay." I though for a moment. I was wearing a plunging halter dress and pushup bra, to festive effect. In fact, Vito had not addressed one single remark to my actual face, if you know what I'm saying here. Suddenly, a lightbulb went on in my head.

"Vito! Can I get a Cleavage Discount?"

To say Vito looked a little stunned, would be an understatement. He looked like I'd just slapped him with a live Rhode Island Red.*

"Uh...wuhhh?" he managed?

" A Cleavage Discount! Look, I'm wearing a fabulous dress, it's a horrible rainy day, and I'm brightening up the store considerably! Don't you think i deserve it? I'm so cute! Someone should give me SOMETHING!!" I smiled convincingly at him.

Vito was now bright, bright red. "Um, I have to ask my amanager", he mumbled, and sped off.

A minute later, the manager, Bobby, came back with young Mr V.

"Did you actually say what Vito said you did?" He was grinning.

"Absolutely! I would like a Cleavage Discount, please." I smiled demurely.

He roared with laughter. "Absolutely! Ten percent okay?"

"Sure!"

He pulled up a stool next to me, as Vito was ringing up the sale. "You married?"

"Separated. And still pining a bit."

"He's a fool!"

I smiled sweetly. "I think so."

The next 20 minutes was a delicate tango of having a great time while not giving my number out. And I managed it! Itwas great fun.

And I saved $82 dollars!

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Thank you, and goodnight.

love per

Eddie Sebastian,Private Eye: An Appreciation

Eddie Sebastian Private Eye is a twenty year old cat. He is the oddest animal I've ever known.

Ed is,in his mind, many things: a bon vivant, a devil with the ladies, a sculptor, the official greeter for my building, a Fighter of Dogs, and (as we shall see) a major player on the New York Real Estate Scene.
In real life, he is a skinny eunuch with white eyebrows: the rest of him is the exact color orange of the hip leatherette vinyl jackets worn by Starsky and Hutch-type private eyes in 1970's cop shows[hence his name]. But he has never let reality bother him: when a pretty lady walks into my apartment, he strolls over to her, his inner Barry White Love Soundtrack obviously playing a seductive disco beat, and then, when she is seated, he lies on his back across one of her feet, the better to show off his belly. "hey baby", he says,"betcha never seen nothin like THIS before, huh?"
The ladies go crazy over him, proving yet again that confidence is everything. One friend stitched him a heart shaped red pillow stuffed with catnip, with the word "I Love Ed" embroidered on the front in white cursive script. Sometimes he uses it as a pillow, but sometimes I find it under the bookcase, because he likes to prove that no woman can own him, baby. He is a free n easy swinger.

Many years ago, when I was dating some painter, he asked if he could borrow Ed to deal with a sudden mouse problem in the studio. I said "sure." So Ed lived there for a while,intently watching the guy paint and sculpt. Obviously,he took notes, because one night we walked into the studio to find that Ed has made his own site specific piece: he had surrounded the cat food tin on the floor with nine perfectly symmetrical piles of homogenous stuff: one pile of cat fur fluff, one pile of wood shavings, one pile of dry cat food...nine round piles surrounding the cat food can in a circle. It was, not to put too fine a point on it, the goddamndest thing I've ever seen. He trotted up to meet us as we entered, and led us to it, looking back every two seconds to make sure we were following, and then he stood there with an attitude that said, quite clearly, "ta-DAH!"
If I'd been thinking straight, i would have photographed it and then found him an art dealer. Oh well.

When we were living in Carroll gardens, we had an apartment with a landing that had an entrance to the apartment on either side: it was possible to go out through the kitchen door and go straight through to the bedroom door. One day, Ed scratched at the kitchen door, so he could go exploring. Finding himself on the landing, he went across and scratched on the bedroom door. We let him in. He stopped, and stiffened in astonishment. "Hey!" his attitude said. I have ANOTHER apartment, exactly like THIS one! Then he looked at us. "And you guys look just like those OTHER people! This is AMAZING!!" He walked around the entire apartment, his tail a quivering question mark of amazement. He couldn't believe it. Here he was, only three, and yet he owned TWO apartments in a pretty nice section of Brooklyn. AND servants. This was GREAT! He walked up to the kitchen door (which I'd closed) and scratched to be let out, then did the same drill: walked to the bedroom door and scratched to be let in, and once again was completely overcome with delight to find that he had...yes..THREE apartments! With servants! In a nice section of Brooklyn! God DAMN! Same inspection, same quivering tail....
Since it was a Sunday afternoon with not much on, I decided to see how many times he'd repeat his voyage of Amazing Real Estate discovery. the answer was...eighteen times. Each time he seemed progressively more chuffed. At the end of it all, he turned around three times in a circle, curled up, and went to sleep...for sixteen hours. Hey, real estate mogul hood is TIRING.

The day we moved into that place, I was piling up boxes and Ed was exploring the fireplace. Suddenly, I heard a "CLANG!" and a black cat I'd never seen before went scooting into the room and hid under the couch. I couldn't understand where the black cat had come from. And where was Ed? When I picked up the noir stranger and my hands turned pitch colored, i got suspicious, and put the intruder under the bathroom tap: as the water ran, he gradually revealed himself to be a ginger cat named Ed, who had figured out how to release the thing on the fireplace that held all the soot back, and got drenched in it. Weirdo.

For ten years, he had a ritual that was as ironclad as it was baffling: he did what we called "The Work." It all started one night not long after we were married: ay three a.m., a series of inexplicable, loud and bizarrely specific noises began issuing from the kitchen. I turned to my spouse. "hey, wake up. I hear something that sounds like someone is tipping over a series of small marble busts in the kitchen.
the then-spouse awoke, and listened for a moment. "My God, that IS what it sounds like. What the hell?"
I got up, and walking into the kitchen, switched on the light, to find Ed sitting there with a "who, me?" expression, he golden eyes wide with completely spurious innocence. "Nothing to see HERE," he intimated. "Certainly no small marble busts. Especially not of Napoleon."
Eyeing him suspiciously, I stood, irresolute, but his innocence convinced me, and I went back to bed.
The next night, 3 a.m., we were awakened by what sounded like someone teaching hamsters to pole dance.
"Psst! Wake up!" I nudged my fella.
He sat up, and rubbed his eyes, and listened for a moment. then a strange expression crossed his face. "Is there some sort of hamster strip club around here?" he asked.
'It's Ed!" I hissed. "What is he Doing!"
We listened intently for a moment. Then my husband's face relaxed.
"He is doing...The Work."
"Oh. I think you're right." I had to agree.
"And...the Work Must Continue," he said, and started snoring.
This went on for years. I thought it was just a folie a deux, that all married people had delusions about their pets, until a brother in law stayed overnight i the study. In the morning, Pete got up and I found him searching through he trash.
"What are you DOING, dude? I made you a nice breakfast, it's on the table, you don't actually forage for scraps, you know."
He muttered "yeah, yeah.." distractedly. the he straightened up and faced me squarely.
Listen," he said, "I could swear I heard someone building a small, dog-powered dirigible last night." He looked defiant." I know that sounds crazy.But it was an inexplicable yet very specific noise."
"Oh, THAT," I said, relieved. "That was just...The Work."
At that moment, Ed strolled by, tail in the air.
"And, "I continued, "the Work..Must Continue."
"Oh, okay, "said pete. "Then I want coffee."

Many years later, after Ed patrols the hallway here twice a day, and greets visitors by officiously showing them the many amenities of the building, such as the stairs, the floor, the stairs again and the place where I once dropped a platter of fried chicken (a day that will live forever as a golden memory for Ed), and after he challenges the two pitbulls who belong to the nice lesbian postal workers on the sixth floor to a duel (thank god Susan, their main walker, has very good leash control), he comes back in, and after checking to see if there are any ladies aside from me, he sits in his favorite place. the inside of a the base of a wicker stool. It's round and perfect for an old guy to curl up in, and he can also keep an eye on what's going on, in case pit bulls or Pretty ladies stop by and Action needs to be taken.
These days, he's not as spry as he used to be. I noticed recently that he doesn't hear me when I say "Ed man, I'm home, pal!" and he can't hear the celestial sound of a can opening. Sometimes he falls over, but I always act like I don't see, and he gets up again and starts nonchalantly cleaning the one area on his bod he cleans, a patch the size of a quarter near his right leg. Pointless, but apparently VERY important.
He has to take medicine, and his eye is a little cloudy, and I think he might be nearing his last days, but he's proved me wrong before. But just in case, some nights I sleep in the floor, because he can't make it up the ladder to the loft bed, and he cries when he feels he is not getting his fair share of attention. he retired from the Work some four ears ago. Except one night, when my friend Jennifer stayed over, a longtime Pretty Lady friend and admirer of Ed's.
As I was making coffee in the morning, she said, "Is it possible that someone was teaching mice carpentry here last night? I swear I thought I heard really tiny sawing."
I asked, carefully, "What time was this, Jenjen?"
She tought for a moment. "Oh...maybe 3 a.m?"

I smiled. The Master had come out of retirement. Like Sinatra, Like Streisand, like he great masters before him, he always had one last trick up his sleeve for his admirers.

Because..the Work Must Continue.

And so I wrap myself in a blanket on the carpet, solemnly hand Ed his red heartshaped pillow, and we both settle down for a cat nap, dreaming of catnip, fried chicken, and...The Work.

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Author's note: Today would have been Ed's birthday. Sadly, he left us recently,at the ripe old age age of 23.
A week before he died, he was staying at my (now ex) husband's place. Ed asked to go into the backyard.There was a full moon,and Ed spent an hour gazing at the moon,strolling the perimeter of the garden,and taking time to look at and smell eaxh flower. It was as though he was saying "Thank you,World.It's all been beautiful. Goodbye."