I Drowned My Downy Ball

Last night was my first attempt to use a Downy Ball. I failed at it. Miserably. I peered into the wash after spin and found the ball just at the bottom, still mostly full of the blue goo. I realize now that I threw it in the middle of the load, which would cause it not to work. You have to throw it on top so it can float. Der.

Last week, I was telling Jessica over lunch that I never see anyone famous anymore. I saw Ken Starr once and managed not to hocker on him. I see Clarence Page a lot but that doesn’t count because he works in my building. I’ve seen that tape of Jack Abramamoff walking down the street so many times that I think that I’ve fooled myself into believing that I’ve seen him in person. And by the way, it’s he who saw the hat on me and thought it was the coolest and stole it from me, not the other way around. Okay? I know it’s the exact same hat (it is, it really is), but trust me, ol’ Boris Badenov, he swiped it from me. Got it? Yeah.

You can’t really dust for vomit.

Anyway, so right after that lunch, that afternoon, I done seen Matt Cooper of Time Magazine getting on the Metro at Met-ro Center.

By the way, here’s one more technical hint regarding the XM To Go radios. Let’s say you’re doing a session recording and you have to leave, so you want to interrupt the recording. I had been doing this by yanking it out of the cradle. However, it appears to me that if you push the power button whilst it’s in the cradle, the XM is programmed to default itself out of session recording and into My XM. I was always concerned that interrupting a session recording would mess it up, but it appears to me to be in the programming even if it ain’t in the manual.

How’s that for some serious poo-poo?

Programming Note

Howard Stern is psychic, no? I was in the shower and an ad came on the radio for The Aristocrats, which I will be receiving as part of my Christmas stash, and I heard Gilbert Gottfried’s voice and began to wonder when the hell Howard was going to have Gilbert on the show.

Not a minute later, Howard said he’d be on this week.

Gilbert is my very favorite Stern guest. I can’t wait. Maybe he’ll recreate his Mel Blanc/Jack Benny tribute…

Me, Too, Actually

Jessica the Girlfriend and I were just trying to set the agenda for this weekend. The potential plan was to see Syriana, but I’m going to see her in sunny Maryland, and it’s not playing near her. The theater at Green Belt is playing Brokeback Mountain. Her stance on this subject is about right.

“I’m not really into seeing Brokeback Mountain. Not so much because they’re gay, but because they’re cowboys.”

We’ll probably end up staying at home and watching Glengarry Glen Ross from my Netflix queue.

Speaking of the movies, I just watched Howard Stern’s Private Parts again. It was worth seeing again, considering that I am knee-deep in Howard these days. I think I enjoyed it now more than when I saw it in the theater.

Now, a quick programming note: Due to technical difficulties (e.g., Yahoo! Webhosting SUCKS) I am once again starting from scratch. Archived posts should be up soon, tho.

Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

People are under the mistaken impression that they adopt cats. This is wrong. Cats adopt people.

For me, this was more than true. Six years ago, I moved from North Carolina to Arlington because a room was available. A family friend couldn’t keep Matilda, a.k.a. Tilde (Til-dee), at his own place, so she lived at the house and had for some time.

Tilde and I made friends one evening when she decided that a cashmere coat I had plopped down on the bed was an excellent place to sleep. Dry cleaners have still not been able to completely excise the fur from that coat.

Other housemates who had been in the house before me had taken care of her. But they moved on a few years later, and so the task of caring for her fell to me. It made sense. She had adopted me by that time anyway. I started calling her “Alice.”

She was, indeed, the perfect Alice, the perfect cat, gentle, simple, and always beautiful, except maybe when she was barfing. She didn’t squirm away from snuggles the way a lot of cats do; the usual sense of feline claustrophobia in her lost out to lovin’ the snuggles. You could practically lie on top of her, and she’d just purr. She would, sometimes, take to using my hand for a pillow.

She was one of those beasts you meet and you wish that “they” would hurry up with moving that cloning stuff on down to mass market. I have actually considered keeping her tail, so I’ll be ready when cloning reaches my price range. I said “considered.”

Alice got sick about a year or so ago. She lost weight. She never stopped losing weight. From the time the docs told me something was wrong to now, Fat Mow—as another housemate once dubbed her—was no more. I’m amazed she never got caught up in the wind and blown to Maryland. But she has been comfortable until the last few weeks, when she started to exhibit the dopey behavior of a cat about to die.

She had taken to hiding in a corner in my home office where she’d never spent much time before. She began peeing inappropriately. I saw her pooping in the front yard. Outside, she would wander to places where she’d never previously tended to roam. So, today, she took her last trip to the vet. (I was having doubts this morning, thinking that perhaps I had made a rash decision. When she tried to walk and stumbled, I knew I had made my decision at exactly the right time.)

Alice, a.ka. Matilda/Tilde, started her life as an abandoned kitten, rescued from the wilds of Wisconsin or some friggin’ place and ending up on my cashmere coat. She liked Fancy Feast wet and Science Diet dry, fresh water, lying in the sun, belly rubs, bathing herself, and being under things.

She died at 3:50 p.m. today by euthanasia at the Capital Cat Clinic in Arlington. Her last meal was a junior cheeseburger from Wendy’s.

Wasn’t she pretty?

I do not know what wonderful deed I completed in a previous life to deserve being adopted by this particular feline, but it must have been a doozy. With her departure, my home becomes a house. My bed becomes just a place to sleep. And my life…well, I reckon it’s just going to be a little rough for awhile. I suspect that for many months, I will reach down while I’m in bed expecting to find that furry purry ball only to draw up air. But I take heart in the fact that, though she no longer actually exists, her fond memory always will. Thank you, Alice Bean, for adopting me. I love you, and I will miss you, always. Always. Always. Always. Always. Always.