Courtesy of CNN Breaking News, October 14th, 2013.
Category Archives: MeHow
I’m Still Alive,
Fair Readers All
A Feat To Be Sure,
They Say Cats Have
Nine Lives to Live
If this is My Third,
I’ve Time to Give
To Penning Sweet Prose!
& Verses So Rare
You’ll LOL ThiS TiMe
In your Desk Chair
But really, I know
My impact is small
– One Cat’s Caterwaul
In the Ever Rhizomic Sprawl
Of the INTERNET,
Oh Internet. Woe is me.
Why do I persist?
In my Courtship of Thee?
I wander your Hallways
Chew Through your Gum
Paw Through Your Pages
Wall-eyed & Numb
I Burrow in Trash Heaps & Frolick in Rot
Mine Troves of Text
All of these Pages
& Pages Pinned Up
Pages for Wages
And Then some for Naught
But For Audience, Yes!
Well, Presumably So
Or A Deeper Understanding
Of What it Means to Know
The Self. The Self.
And to Have Others Know You
Through the Two Way Mirror
Of the Thrilling Unknown
So Alright, Ok.
Let’s Cut To the Chase
This Cat is Back
~ Yours Ad infinitum ~
Hey ho dear readers!
At last, I write. My promise to recapitulate these post-collegiate ramblings must now be enacted. I quiver with regret at these long weeks that have passed since my last entry. Seven months of folly and disillusionment, uncharted by my pen!
But oh, sweet sorrows of post-collegiate life, stay awhile! Let me skewer you with my ink-laden sword, and lay thee thick upon the page.
Rest, dear readers, for I have come to provide.
I. M. A. Cat
To all three of my readers,*
The cat is back.
After 321 days of absence, I have decided to publish my post-collegiate musings once again. And I’m excited. Things are different. Don’t worry, I’m still floundering in the vast sea of post-collegiate life, but it seems I have gotten better at treading water. Or so my swim coach tells me.
So in honor of a new beginning, here is the chorus and my favorite verse from a song by KiDiddles:
The Cat Came Back
“The atom bomb fell just the other day,
The H-Bomb fell in the very same way;
Russia went, England went, and then the U.S.A.
The human race was finished without a chance to pray.
But the cat came back the very next day,
The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
But the cat came back; it just couldn’t stay away.
Away, away, yea, yea, yea”
Tits for Cats!
Your feline friend
*and every other person who falls into this self-reflexive portal of whiskers and furry flailings.
I just went through old drafts of unpublished post collegiate cats entries, and was delighted to find a few nuggets of creative insight. They were written during a blue period, from May – July of 2011, which featured, among other things:
2. Filthy laundry, EVERYWHERE.
3. A declining number of Facebook friends
So please, if you are seeking some cheap thrills, stop scrolling through pics of Ryan on feministryangosling or whatever you do with your computer at night, and indulge in some of my greatest outtakes as a post collegiate cat!
May 19, 2011
“i am currently ensconced in patti smith‘s novel “just kids,” the story of her obscenely romantic, well-connected blossoming into a rock n’ roll star. i am both fascinated and tormented by these accounts – because – let’s face it: my greatest post collegiate dream is to be an artist, but all I am doing about it is sitting here in my underwear writing this…
June 7, 2011
I am standing on the train platform this morning in a really foul mood considering flinging myself onto the tracks, when a guy I’ve been avoiding starts walking down the train platform towards me. OH BOY, what FUN. He is wearing shorts. I’ve never seen him in shorts before, and, it makes me feel a little queasy. I duck behind a curtain of hair and dart behind a subway pole. As he walks away down the platform, and I stare after him grimacing, I note he has pale, white, chicken sausage legs. Nom nom nom.
2) Nom nom nom.
Felines Fume Ferociously
A Furry Fury…
Rosie (the Cat)
Dear Crown Heights,
Why are you in my life? I gave up my apartment in “East” Williamsburg at the end of July and fled town for a month. With the wind in my hair and my hands on the wheel, I spun my way westward, across the United States, in a flurry of friends, family, and wasabi peas.
I slept on a loveseat on the outskirts of Nashville TN. I sunbathed poolside at the Virgin River Motel and Casino in Mesquite Nevada. I wound my way up the California coast and spent a week in the bay, going to nude beaches, getting free passes to JCC yoga classes and hanging out at the Anarchist bookshop.
Now where do I find myself?
Deep in Brooklyn, where there are less hipsters, more bums. Where your average pair of jeans accommodates four legs as opposed to one. Where, instead of keeping pens in my backpack, I should probably tote a gun.
Here, in my new, temporary home, I feel the weight of my identity all too keenly. I, my friends, am an YWFAG:
Young White Female Agent of Gentrification
Last Wednesday evening, in typical YWFAG fashion I decided that I needed to get out of the house, go to a coffee shop, write, drink some herbal tea and glance at plaid shirted, twenty-something boys with scruff.
So I did a google search for “coffee shops in crown heights, open late.”
The first hit was the Yelp listing posted by another YWFAG.
“Sarah Jo “SJ” M. says:
Looking for OPEN LATE coffee shops in Prospect / Crown Heights, or a goup of people to put pressure on the non-late-night shops already in existence! Anyone interested??”
Here is a sampling of the responses “Sarah Jo” received:
Mike “Sexy Beast” S. says:
Sarah look at the crime statistics for those areas. That will explain why they close so early.
Peter “I was being facetious” D. says:
Crown heights and late night = stupid
But fazed, I was not. The last comment from the thoughtful Young Yelper self titled “John “stone crazy” Q” was –
“It looks like Outpost on Fulton St is open late too, that’s a bit closer to you.”
An outpost was exactly what I was looking for.
1. A small military camp or position at some distance from the main force, used esp. as a guard against surprise attack.
2. A remote part of a country or empire.
So I decided to go.
The only problem was, it was a twenty-minute walk away. By the time I got there, my nerves were so jangled I had to order a glass of wine. And of course they didn’t take cards, so I had to order two glasses of wine to meet the minimum.
As I drank and hacked away at my keyboard, I surveyed the selection of males in the shop. Mediocre, at best. Crown Heights is in need of more imports from north Brooklyn (or, even better, Texas.) The most entertaining café sitter of the evening was an elderly hassidic gentleman who kept ordering orange juice and ogling female patrons.
At 10 o’clock I decided I better get home before I was stabbed / groped / licked etc. by a passerby. I walked to the nearest bus stop. But the arrival sign had been smashed and from what I could make out from the schedule, I’d have to wait on the corner of Bergen and Washington for twenty minutes in the dark. Walking seemed like the preferable option.
After just five minutes of walking, a man started following me, addressing me in all too endearing terms. He was trailing me for about two yards before I turned around and hissed at him with intensity,
“What do you want?”
That showed him! He shuffled away in a hurry.
I crossed the street and trundled on, at a faster pace. To my dismay, less than two minutes later, I found myself approaching a dark figure who appeared to be – GASP –
Taking a shit on the sidewalk.
He looked up and saw me swerving across the street.
“Sorry Miss! I couldn’t hold it in any longer!”
“Oh that’s fine! No problem!” I called. “Really!”
When I slipped the key into the lock and closed the door to the apartment, I couldn’t believe it. I was alive?
Crown Heights = Crown Frights.
MeKnow How Now
1. Get some brass knuckles
This happened last night. Where? 4 blocks away.
Rosie (the Cat)
I quit the restaurant job last week. Tuesday was my last day, and yet, strangely, it felt like every other day at the host stand: Painful feet. Boredome. Elicit trips to the busboy closet to stuff rolls in mouth. 20 minutes cursing on the subway platform. You know, hell.
What did I gain from the experience? 5 pounds.
What did I lose? The ability to wear pants.
A Google image search of the word “hostess” basically describes, in pictorial form, what this job entails:
I was there until 2 in the morning, so one would think multi-purpose apparel would be condoned. However, it was not.
I could not sleep when my circadian rhythm said, “SLEEP!”
I could not sit when my lower back said, “GODDAMMIT!”
I could not read when my mind read, “VACANCY.”
WHAT, my friends, are the perks of being a hostess?
(silence in the cyber-sphere)
This cat is flat on her back, and has forsaken the ROLL of hostess. Never again my friends. Never again.
Rosie (the Cat)
1. You know the aphorism, “You are what you eat?” Well it’s true.
This cat’s wallet is a fat wallet.
In truth, my wallet’s bulge is a little grotesque. When I try to snap it shut, it pops right open again. Bills are constantly spilling on the floor of bodegas and grocery stores. I find myself bent over in front of cash registers everywhere, apologizing to customers, trying to pull down my skirt so they don’t know what color underwear I am wearing. Maybe, they think I am a drug dealer! But drug dealers would probably shoot their clients if they paid them thirty dollars in 1s.
Having large amounts of petty cash in your wallet is a recipe for overspending on un-necessary items. Here is a illustrative scenario:
I am prowling through the subway at 2 AM after work. I am beat. I slink past one of those little food stands in the subway, with all the brightly colored candy wrappers, and glossy magazine covers, and I realize that the giant wad of $1 dollar bills in my pocket can buy me most of the contents of the candy stand. Out comes the wallet, and I start counting out the 1 dollar bills…. one, two, three, four…
But really, is all this impermanent distraction going to make me feel better in the long run? NO.
Spending tips is a temporary fix.
I’m a hopeless addict!
Tips are this post-collegiate cat’s nip.
Rosie (the Cat)
Tats 4 Tips
1. Put your money in the bank.
These days, I am hostess at a hip restaurant on the Bowery. Everyday, when I peer into my closet before work, and try to piece together an outfit, I get stomach pains. I am not cool enough to work at this restaurant. This is a restaurant where everyone has really good hair and expensive pants. They do not have frizzy fly-aways or cow licks or limp bangs. Nor do they have dorky pants they bought for a soulless office job last summer.
Ohhhh, but friends, I do. I DO. AND I WORE THEM TO WORK. And my HAIR: A story best told in this brief anecdote:
On my third day at work, my manager came up to me, waved his hands at my face, as though he was performing some kind of magic trick and said –
“This… has got to change.”
By “this”, I was unsure whether he meant my face, my sad half-smile or my entire being, but I took the critique with a wide-eyed grin. Then he said -
“Hold on, I’ll get you a hair thing.”
What a relief! I did not need to get a new life. Just a new hairdo. I guess air drying your hair, sleeping on it in a weird position and then leaving it down is not the way things roll on the Bowery.
Despite my hideous pants and lackluster hairdos, I’ve got a touch with customers, most of which I chalk up to my “great smile.”
My “great smile” is comprised of two generous cheeks, and two large dimples. Some customers may find my cheeks overwhelming, but there are definitely some men who LOVE dimples – and they are usually men with dimples themselves. I can’t TELL you the number of times I gotten men with dimples making really hilarious jokes about how, if we had a kid, their whole face would be one giant dimple. (gross.)
There is a redemptive message though contained in these off-color pick-up lines: grooming isn’t everything. My hair may look like a dishtowel, and my pants may look like a melted kitchen mit, but gosh darn-it, it’s the smile that counts.
Proof that obsessive grooming is over-rated.
Rosie (the Disheveled) Cat