Elvis has Left the Building...

I'm going to be gone for a while. Probably for a few weeks. I just don't feel like I can write at this moment. Whenever I stay late to post a new entry, I feel guilty that I should be doing something else, something more important. And whenever I leave work on time to socialize or do whatever, I feel guilty because I haven't posted. The war of priorities rages on.

But right now, I do have something more important to do. My cat, Elvis, aka Demon Spawn from Hell, has disappeared and I'm having a really hard time holding it together.

I'm not sure when he got out of the apartment. He's always had a bit of the wanderlust, but I've always seen him sneak out the door and bolt down the hallway. It could have been Friday morning, when I left in a rush because I was late for work as usual. I'm laying good money that it was Friday night, when I came home from a rather crappy night out. The acquaintances I had been out with stranded me at the bar we'd been at, and the resulting phone call to get said acquaintances to pick me up and take me back to my car had left me quite distraught. (Understatement of the year. I was a freaking nut case. The abandonment issue and my friend's insistence that I just get my car in the morning had unsurfaced demons long thought dead and buried, and I was a sobbing mess by the time I hit my neighborhood.) Needless to say, I didn't open the door with the usual full body block I usually employ to keep my feline flatmate from doing laps between the fire doors.

By the time I got inside and finally calmed down, I realized that I hadn't been greeted with the the whiny yowl that loosely translates as, "WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN? DIDN'T YOU REALIZE MY FOOD BOWL IS ALMOST EMPTY?" I checked in all his usual hiding places, becoming more panicked with each unsuccessful attempt at finding him.

I spent most of Saturday handling this crisis in my usual fashion: sit on the couch in paralytic fear and cry uncontrollably. Not an effective method, I know, but.... After some sympathetic phone calls from Roger Mexico and Rosencrantz, I finally sprang in to action and did a little investigative work. No one had seen him. I walked the halls of the apartment building, as well as the parking lot and the surrounding neighborhood. Nothing.

The signs go up tonight.

Needless to say, I've not slept very well for the past few nights. All of my dreams involved me finding him (and making me think that maybe this was reality, and he'd never been gone in the first place) or not finding him ever. Strange dreams of me walking the streets shaking a can of Pounce and a catnip toy.

I think I've run through every possibilty in my head. I open my door and there he is. I walk out to the parking lot, and find him huddled under someone's car. I get a phone call and he's been living with the hippies up the street all this time. I find him after a car has hit him. Or after one of the neighborhood outdoor cats has beaten the living shit out of him. The hippies up the street decide they want to keep him and don't call me. I call the SPCA, and there he is, pissed as hell. I call the SPCA, and they realize they just put him down. He's been in the apartment all this time, and I find him a few days later, dead in the back of a closet.

I hate the way my mind works.

Maybe it's crazy for me to get this worked up over a cat. No, that statement's completely insane. How can I not be this worked up? This was my first real pet (goldfish don't count). I remember going to pick him out at Scalphunter's house and taking him home in a K-Swiss shoebox. I remember my parents "helping" with name ideas. (Mom suggested nice happy names like Blackie, Inky, and Midnight. Dad suggested Dumb Ass since that would be what I would inevitably call him.) I remember the night he broke his leg and Game Night was called so we could find a vet that was open at 1:00 am. I remember the point when we though he was part hamster since he chewed up every piece of cardboard in the apartment. His first experience with carpeting after growing up in a hardwood floor apartment. His first introduction to snow. His weird addiction to the scent of patchouli. (An acquaintance came over for Game Night one night wearing patchouli oil. Elvis licked all the patchouli off his arm, bit him, and ran away. My cat has always been an excellent judge of men.) How he would play fetch, but only when I was trying to work on something really important and he wasn't the center of attention. How, when I was taking care of a friend's unfixed female, he would hide from her every time she went into heat. How he seemed to know when I needed extra attention, and would curl up with me whenever I was suffering from cramps or upset about a breakup. How he liked to play in the bathtub, then headbutt me at 3:00 am with a very wet cold head.

I miss my kitty. My apartment has been very quiet for the past few days. Too quiet. And looking at the empty food dish and unused cat toys hasn't helped.

Come home, Elvis. I won't complain about you coughing up hairballs late at night or shedding all over everything. I"ve got cans of Sliced Beef and Gravy (your favorite!) waiting for you, as well as some fresh catnip. I'll never make you eat that awful 9 Lives Turkey flavor again. I won't nudge you off the couch when you're blocking the TV. I'll clean the litterbox every day. I won't laugh at you for lacking opposable thumbs anymore. Whatever you want.

I seem to sleep better when I've got a cold wet kitty head thudding into my shoulder at late hours.

Theatrical Debuts

I'm going to the theater tonight, so tonight's post will be a little short.

Tonight is opening night for Closer at the Cincinnati Playhouse in the Park, where Roger Mexico works. He knows I like theater, so often he will try to get me comp tickets for the productions that run throughout the year. Lately the shows have been selling well, and I've ended up trekking up to Mount Adams at the last second and ushered to unorthodox seating. (I saw I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change on the last day of the extended run. I had an aisle seat. As in sitting in the aisle.) Not that I care where I sit; I'm very grateful that my friend goes out of his way to do nice things for me, and I try not to take his generosity for granted.

So when he told me he was reserving me a seat for opening night, I pretty much fell off the couch. Of course, he warned, there was one caveat: I had to dress up. Not that I have any qualms against dresses or heels, but since I'll be going straight to the Playhouse from work, I could either bring a change of clothes or dress up for my business casual job.

I'm wearing a suit today. I look like a grown up. Or a mortician, since the suit is black. Or season 6 Scully on The X Files. (Yeah, like I look like Gillian Anderson. I should be so lucky.)

As soon as I get off work, I'll be exchanging my clunky Mary Janes for a pair of 3-inch strappy heels. (This may or may not last, since I haven't worn the heels in a few years, and I may end up twisting an ankle in them.) I'll be heading to the bathroom, plugging in the curling iron, throwing on some makeup, and making myself presentable enough to hobnob with the upper crust.

After the show, who knows? I may end up getting a drink with the crew at their usual opening night hangout. Or I may try to catch up with Nash, who may be doing karaoke up the street. God help me, I may actually sing. (I've been running through a few songs in my range just in case I'm brave enough. Everyone sitting around me thinks I'm insane. Not like that's anything new.)

So, to make this post seem a little longer, I'm unleashing more of my poetry on you. It ain't happy stuff, kids. You have been warned. (For those of you who were at the Volk Gallery show back in July, you've heard this one before.)

...People Who Build Their Houses in Your Heart

this building is condemned.
someone used to live here
you can see where they left their mark.
once a long time ago
someone cared about this place.
but the house is long since vacated
run down
weeds growing around the door
left wide open.
ransacked by countless squatters
lowest common denominators
the dregs of society
passing through
each leaving behind a bit more trash
doing a bit more damage.
all that's left now is a shell
rotted boards and sagging supports
chipped paint and broken windows
faulty wiring, a disaster waiting to happen.
the authorities have tried their best to keep the vagrants out
brick walls and barbed wire to no avail.
the damage is irreparable
time to raze the building and start again
put the lot up for rent
and petition the city for gentrification.

someone used to live here...
but now it's just another abandonded building
in the bad part of town
and not even the shrewdest slumlord in the world
can find a willing tenant.

(June 26, 2000)

Yeah, I know. Maya Angelou's really sweating over me, huh?

Out of the Film Loop

I feel like such a cultural moron.

The traditional "best-of" lists and award show nominations have been popping up for the past few weeks, and for the most part, I can't offer a decent opinion since I've apparenely managed to miss everything the critics were raving about. I mean, I only managed to see two of the movies on the dueling top ten lists in the year end issue of Entertainment Weekly (Requiem for a Dream and Gladiator). I am so pathetic.

Actually, I don't know which is worse - thinking I'm pathetic because I didn't see very many "good" movies this year, or letting the critics think I'm pathetic because I didn't see their picks.

Small consolation, but I only saw one movie on the "worst of" lists (Bless the Child), and I only spent $2.50 to see it. And a lot of the movies on the "best of" lists were movies I meant to see during their short runs in Cincinnati, or have either not opened or never played here.

A critical list of excuses:

Dancer in the Dark - played for two weeks, I think. I meant to see it, I swear. Just because it sounded so divinely strange and I heard that the director hired Björk after seeing the video for "It's Oh So Quiet." Waiting for rental.

Almost Famous - I'm just lazy, OK? I kind of figured this one would last longer since Cameron Crowe movies usually fare pretty well. Guess I figured wrong. Damn. I was looking forward to seeing Philip Seymour Hoffman as Lester Bangs. Blockbuster is gonna love me in a few months.

Chicken Run - I believe I suggested seeing this movie the night we saw Bless the Child, and for once JohnnyB vetoed an animated film. I was really excited about this because of the Ab Fab shout-out in the vocal casting, but I procrastinated and now it's on video and my movie-rentin' partner in crime (Roger Mexico) is anti-animation. Guess this will be one of those "Saturday night, all alone" rents.

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon - awwwww yeah. Just as soon as the damn thing opens (Friday!) and I've got enough money to go see a movie at the first run theaters. And from what I can gather, practically everyone I know will be in that line with me. (Mental note: remember glasses so I can actually read the subtitles - my Mandarin Chinese is a little rusty.)

Traffic - the jury is still out on this one, since I haven't really liked Michael Douglas in a movie since Romancing the Stone. May go see it because the plot sounds interesting and part of it was filmed in town (hey, I sat through Fresh Horses for the Cincinnati scenes, and that movie was a non-ending crapfest). I also really like Benicio del Toro, but I think that Catherine Zeta-Jones is the latest graduate from the Keanu Reeves School for Thespians. Decisions, decisions. (I'm also amused by the fact that Cincinnati Country Day School is trying to have the references to the private school removed from the film. Because everyone knows that rich people don't do drugs. Certainly not rich kids. Yeah, I'm sure every student at that school is sweet and innocent. Whatever. I won't go for the cheap drug-related crack. Oops. Guess I just did.)

The Filth and the Fury - I know this only played at the Esquire for something like 20 minutes and I've almost rented it several times. But just like Boys Don't Cry, I always decide I'm not in the right mood for that particular film and the tape goes back on the shelf. What mood one has to be in to properly enjoy a documentary on the Sex Pistols is beyond me, but....

You Can Count on Me - it just opened a week or two ago. I'm going. Soon. I promise.

Wonder Boys - see above comments about Michael Douglas in Traffic excuses. And if the studio had to release the movie a second time, that never seems to bode well in my book. Yeah, if they're shamelessly trying to make more money (like the rerelease of Scary Movie), that's pure and simple capitalism, but the message I got from the rerelease of Wonder Boys was Paramount Pictures waving its arms franticly, yelling, "Hey! Over here! Oscar contender! We'll give you another chance to see it, since apparently you were busy the first time around!"

I just pulled up the AFI Best of 2000 list, and I feel a little bit better about myself because they included High Fidelity, which I did see and absolutely love. As my friend Monica put it, it's a movie with John Cusack standing in the rain. What's not to love? (I'll also go ahead and say I loved the book as well. And Jack Black is funny as hell. "Sonic Death Monkey!" Teeheehee.)

I guess I should add some of my own favorite movie moments to this list, just so you all know that I can think independently of critics' lists....

I know everyone on the freakin' planet except a small twisted handful of Bret Easton Ellis worshippers hated American Psycho (the novel), but Christian Bale was amazing in the Mary Harron movie. In my opinion, the film completes the trilogy of "Corporate America Will Steal Your Soul," along with American Beauty and Fight Club. My latest question to ponder over: who's more screwed up and morally devoid, the narrator in Fight Club or Patrick Bateman? (Although, I do feel kind of sorry for Christian Bale. Roger Mexico and I rented Shaft the other night, and I fear he may be suffering from typecasting. Well, except he wasn't running down the halls naked with a bloody chainsaw.)

Best foreign fims of the year had to be Run Lola Run and After Life. Yes, I know neither of these movies actually came out this year, but I just got around to seeing them on video. Don't tell me you don't like subtitled movies. Just go rent them. Now.

Most interesting concept piece - Time Code, from Mike Figgis, the writer/director of Leaving Las Vegas. The film was shot from four points of view, which were shown simultaneously on a split screen. The entire thing was done without edits, and at the end of the movie, I realized that all of the dialogue had been improvised. Not a brilliant film, but intriguing.

Best use of inevitability of evolution to lighten up a boring Disney film - "Get in my gas tank!" (JustJoe to the reptilian stars of Dinosaur.) I think that retort alone was worth the $8.00. Maybe you just have to know JustJoe. Or maybe you just had to be there. Whatever. JohnnyB and I giggled maniacally for about three days.

Best reason to start hounding Roger Mexico about going to the movies in the next week or so - State and Main opens this weekend, and I don't know anyone else who will go see a David Mamet movie with me.

I guess this means the next few weeks of my life will be spent playing as much catch up as I can, or I'm going to be really lost this year trying to decide who to root for at the Academy Awards. As if I'm not still playing catch up from the last few years. I just saw As Good As It Gets on Christmas, I have unopened and unwatched copies of L.A. Confidential and The Insider, and (as I mentioned earlier) I can't bring myself to rent Boys Don't Cry, mainly because I know how it ends and it depresses the hell out of me.

Of course, I'd get around to seeing these movies if I didn't feel the need to watch South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut at least once a week...sometimes I'm a cultural snob, sometimes not so much.

Brand New Year, Same Old Me?

No regrets
No regrets
I leave the 20th century with no regrets

- Transglobal Underground, "Thousand Year Heat"

Happy 2001, everyone. I apologize for my weeklong hiatus; I've not been lying drunk in an alleyway all this time. I seemed to be having problems getting connected to Blogger. I personally think it's a conspiracy - the firewall at work continues to claim casualties in the never ending battle to keep me focused on my actual job. Tomato Nation bit the dust today.

I must admit I don't understand the logic behind the Great Corporate Firewall, and how it determines what is appropriate and inappropriate for me to view from my cubicle. Apparently it's fine for me to do my virtual window shopping at Amazon, but reading the editorial page of the Cincinnati Enquirer will warp my fragile little mind. Reason #847 why I must get my apartment clean, redecorated, and reorganized so I can move my new computer home.

I had a great New Year's Eve, which I still can't believe. After a decade of really crappy New Years, I got to kick back and chill out. JohnnyB and I hung out, watched DVDs, and ate lots of junk food. To be honest, I didn't even drink all that much. Two beers before the ball dropped, some Kahlua and Baileys in my morning (mid-afternoon, same difference) coffee, and some bizarre concoction that JohnnyB made with Baileys and 7-Up. (Mental note: leave the bartending experiments to the professionals. It tasted fine until the Baileys started to clot.)

Everything was perfect for the most part until JohnnyB decided we should go see Little Nicky on New Year's Day. Despite my explanations that I really didn't like Adam Sandler movies all that much (except for The Wedding Singer), I complied and trudged off to the Super Saver with him. I think I laughed twice. Maybe. I felt embarrassed for Harvey Keitel. Hey JohnnyB? Nothing personal, you know I love you and all, and I had a wonderful time up until that point. But that movie just bit.

As usual, I went to see another wonderful theatrical production on the last day of its run, so recommending it is a moot point. But if you ever get a chance to see I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change drop everything and go. Half of the first act was based on my life, and there's a good tearjerker song in both acts. (And a million thanks to Roger Mexico for getting me in to see the show. I know I got really persistant on this one.)

My soon-to-be kitten is apparently doing well. (For those who I haven't explained this to, the kitten that I selected out of the litter currently at Rosencrantz and Guildenstern's is not very coordinated. One of his back legs doesn't seem to work very well, and for a while couldn't go more than a step or two without taking a spill. Other than that, he's a perfectly well-adjusted kitten. He just looks like he's got a bad case of the caffeine shakes - just like his would-be owner. Most people have nicknamed him Wobbly, but I've been calling him Ma Huang.) I spoke with Rosencrantz today, and she said he is not falling down as much, and is tearing up and down the steps with the rest of his brothers and sisters. She also reported that Roger Mexico's kitten likes to fetch, just like the cat he already has. I foresee many hours of throwing paper wads for anxious kitties while we're trying to watch movies.

Frighteningly enough, another reason why I haven't posted lately is I have nothing to bitch about. Seriously! As much as 2000 sucked, 2001 has started off calmly with relatively few problems. Yes, I lost one of my notebooks and the book on Kwan Yin that Rosencrantz got me for Christmas over the course of this weekend. Yes, my favorite necklace shattered into pieces in the bathroom stall at Spy Club on Friday night. But that's been about it.

If bad things cease to happen in my life, what the hell will I write about? It's hard to be sardonic when this weird sense of balance has settled in my life.