Later, Gator
My cantaloupe Casanova, I should have known you’d break my heart. Being the color of gold bullion was not enough to keep you in the Development Department. You were always bound for greater things.
My cantaloupe Casanova, I should have known you’d break my heart. Being the color of gold bullion was not enough to keep you in the Development Department. You were always bound for greater things.
Winter straggles, and we sigh. But into the bony bramble comes a plump promise. Into the wizened cold comes one purple-green day. Into our leanest moment comes the largesse of cats. The largest cats.
On this blog, we regularly discuss ways in which we aspire to be more like the cats. They are our swamis, our sherpas, our saints and our scholars. Except when they most decidedly are not.
Sing to me, oh resplendent reader. What are the lyrics running like children through your mind-yard today? Are you sure you meant to open the fence?
Oh my goodness. Listen up, kittens. I have very big news. I’m pretty sure I’ve found the single most catlike man who ever trod the earth.
When we’re young, songs choose us. We are all indoctrinated into the Hokey Pokey and The Wheels on the Bus and all the cheese from the great animated dairy farm that is Disney.
I am aware of at least four definitions of “hurdy gurdy.” (Perhaps you are aware of more. Let’s talk.) A hand-cranked medieval string instrument Madness, chaos, and/or generalized cattywampus, topsy-turvy, hurly-burly bedlam Tabby’s Place (see #2) Life as a mortal being Obviously, all four of these meanings pertain to one Verde Rosenberg.*
Never underestimate the power of cured meat to complicate your day. I think Winston Churchill said that, but it might have been J-Lo.
By the time you read this, the Olympics will have picked its victors and pickled the rest. Skateboards will have soared. Swimmers will have splashed. Basketballs will have bounced into history. But 6,700 miles from Tokyo, the sportiest of all B-girls are still making headlines.
Here’s a hill I’m willing to die on: the very best novels, movies, and miscellaneous media all fall into the genre called “coming of age.” Here’s a wrinkle: we’re all perpetually “coming of age.” Just ask Mishush.