See? Coal-Meltingly Adorable

It is my most solemn vow that this is the last time I will post pictures of my kitties, for at least a month, but...last night I had the fortune of capturing the rare, raw, in-the-wilds-of-my-futon footage of Herr Fluff making sweet sweet love to Prince Brat. As seen below:

I realize that this picture looks like Audun could well be eating Xavier's paw, as opposed to licking it, so for further proof I offer this:

They totally love each other! It's so fantastic & warm & fuzzy.

Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!

BEAUTIFUL Soup, so rich & green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!

Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beautiful Soup!

Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,
Game, or any other dish?
Who would not give all else for two
Pennyworth only of Beautiful Soup?
Pennyworth only of Beautiful Soup?

Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beauti-FUL SOUP!

Lewis Carroll may or may not have been a Victorian pervert, but DAMN was he spot-on about soup. SOUP is the best, most wonderful part of winter! Ice-scraping, breath-seeing, shiver-inducing, scarf-producing, soup-ingestingly fabulous winter. Sweaters & bare feet on cold linoleum are simply sacrifices made for the good of soup. (Chili is good too. Mmm. Nice & spicy.)

Also, the second most wonderful part of the season-of-'tis-the-season is hot tea. Choice Organic Green Moroccan Mint is currently favored within the walls of my abode.

A Cemetery Is A Park, Only With Dead People & Carved Rocks

This weekend I indulged in a bit of cheating - instead of trying to find some fabulous new park to explore, I opted to go instead to the Lone Fir Pioneer Cemetery which is about two blocks from my apartment. In my defense, it was a rare day in which it rained steadily-heavily from morn til about 2 pm (usually, in the event of an all-day rain, it's more of a moist constant drizzle). For a cemetery, it was quite pleasant, full of big old fir trees & decomposing headstones - though, frankly, after having lived on the east coast for so long (&, well, particularly having been to Italy a lifetime ago), I do find it a bit difficult to be much impressed by things that date ALL THE WAY BACK TO 1855! (Oregon's geology, on the other hand, I find more fascinating & extensive than its white-people-population history).

In addition to the requisite fading headstones, one thing Lone Fir possessed which I have not before seen (to be sure, I've not spent loads of time surveying cemeteries) was a large number of modern black headstones which were all either decorated with pictures of Oregon scenery &/or pictures of the deceased. The writing was in a strange language; I'm gonna go with Greek on this one, since I do know that Portland has a large Greek population. These graves were well tended - indeed, many were plots-cum-flower gardens. One such gravesite was even liberally festooned with silver garlands & "Happy New Year!" balloons.

Oh, & did you know that Julius Caesar is buried here? & that, by request, his gravestone is inscribed with the epitaph "PLAY BALL"? I kid you not! Only, it's not quite the Et tu, Brutus Caesar. Nope, this guy was an emancipated slave born in 1830 who loved baseball.

Though I took lots of nice pictures of headstones, fir trees, funny little buildings & the like, I must confess that like the child I am, I was struck most by this wonderful tree. Mr. Tree, I don't know what you're actually called, but henceforth I dub thee "Elephant Tree".

My Own Private Cute Overload

Hey, guess what I got for Christmas! (Hint: it ain't a cat.)

Haven't been able to get a shot of Audun (the grown up) cleaning Xavier (the kitten) yet - melts my lump-of-coal heart every time.

[To Be Sing-Songed]

Shortest day of the year; they only get longer from here!

[Yay!]

You Would've Bought It Too

How fantabulous is this? I don't know jackshit about grenaches, but didn't even have to think twice about picking this lil' number up when mine eyes espied it on the shelf. Fortunately, it happens to be tasty enough to deserve its magnificent name & packaging. My favorite part is the cap (no corkscrew here! Maybe because the wine sees no oak...? I'm pretty much a wine retard, so I have no idea), which repeats the dagger-in-heart image seen on the back of the bottle - the big one, up toward the top.

I got the last bottle on the shelf at Zupan's, my neighborhood grocery store. Made up for the fact that I didn't have time to saunter over to the Wine Garage as I'd planned, where rumor has it that nary a bottle exceeds $13.

Verdict? If, like me, you're a sucker for packaging, pink & (semi-)dirty words - & want a nice, easy-to-drink, somewhat sweet wine - you'll friggin' love it.

Volcanoes & Reservoirs & Views, Oh My

Continuing my weekly park-y exploration, on Sunday 17 December 2006, I trekked over to the 196-acre Mt. Tabor Park. Okay, so I drove. It's only 30 blocks away from my place, but Mt. Tabor happens to be a (vertically-inclined) extinct volcano (one of only two such volcanoes within city limits in the U.S., the other being in Bend, OR), so despite my overall goal to drive my car as little as possible on the weekends, I decided to hop in & head over, to enable me to walk more in the park, particularly given my late start. Five minutes later, I was parked partway up the hill & walking past one of the reservoirs, the fence of which held a sign emblazoned with a warning to the effect that if I threw something in there, I could be arrested. "This is your drinking water!!!"

Mt. Tabor Park is simply gorgeous. I'd been there before, at the age of 16, on the day Jerry Garcia died. A friend & I decided to run up to Portland for some sort of vigil in the Rose Garden (I think), not that I'd ever listened to the Grateful Dead, but I did love leaving Scio. Only of course Misty was running on Misty-time & we didn't get up there until midnight or so, long after the vigil was over. Long story short, we ended up at a drum circle on Mt. Tabor, where I sat round a fire & smoked the devil weed for the very first time & didn't get home until long after the sun rose, marking another first - the first time I'd ever stayed out all night. (Strange to have moved 3,000 miles, to a city in which I've never lived, & yet still be coming home, in so many ways...)

Anyway, yes, my drinking water is up there. In architecturally lovely reservoirs with little castle-like structures to do whatever it is they do to the water. I gather that there was recently some sort of city plan to bury the reservoirs, but given that three of the six reservoirs were placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 2004, I expect that plan has itself been buried. But the reservoirs are only one of the features that make a trip here worthwhile.

The paths are wind-y & very nice. Several were paved in 1930s as part of Roosevelt's Depression-era parks project, but several more are simply gravel covered with blankets of pine needles. Walking on pine needles in Oregon is quite different from trodding on the leaf-strewn paths of deciduous forests in Virginia. I can't quite explain it, but I do love the near-silent sound of treading on pine needles. Also from the 1930s, at the top of the hill, is a bronze statue of Harvey W. Scott, who was editor of The Oregonian from 1865-1872 & 1877-1910. The statue was sculpted by Gutzon Borglum of Mt. Rushmore fame.

The real treat of Mt. Tabor Park, though, is the views it affords. Simply spectacular. At the volcano's crater, depending on where you are standing, you get stunning views of Mt. Hood to the east & the city skyline to the west. You can even see Mt. St. Helens on a clear day.

This one will most definitely be hard to top!

Parks, Parks, Everywhere a Park Park

There are somewhere between 30 to 40 parks in the Portland area. We have the most acres of park in correspondence with city area, of any city in the U.S. (I think that's the right statistic...if not, it's some sort of similar statistic that means the same thing - Portland has a buttload of parks.)

Anyway, it's become my mission...my goal...nay, my very calling...to go to a different park each weekend. Rain or shine, because in Oregon, mind, if you wait for it to not rain, you might never leave the house from November through May.

First up: Laurelhurst Park, Saturday 9 December 2006. Why? Because I could go there on foot & it wouldn't interrupt my plans to attend Tuba Christmas downtown in Pioneer Courthouse Square later on. This is a park I will go to a lot, largely because it is a seven-minute walk from my apartment. Which is good, because reading about it gives me a suspicion that I ended my exploration too abruptly. But, what I did see was quite pretty. Apparently the park is based on Central Park in NYC, albeit on a smaller scale. Ummm, much smaller scale. In 2001 it became the first park ever named to the National Register of Historic Places.

My impressions? A lovely pond. Nice paths. Ducks! Picnic tables. Alcoholic beverages are permitted in the park in certain areas, so I think that in tandem with its walkability would make it a lovely place to picnic in warmer weather. Apparently there's a recording studio about the park somewhere, & in the summer outdoor productions of Shakespeare plays are put on. (Not unlike Central Park - egads!) Overall, a pleasant little place.

Polydactyl Madness!

After being a total kitten slut (I had no fewer than 3 simultaneous appointments to look at kittens last night!), I went with the Hemingway cat! He is a 10-week-old little gray thing; looks like there is some slight stripe-age going on, but he's mostly just gray. And judging from his older brother, he is going to be a BIG boy. His paws are quite large; but what else can you expect - he's got 24 friggin' toes.

Unfortunately, Audun has yet to really take to him. That's not surprising. The kitten hid mostly behind the bathtub, but he did wake me up in the middle of the night crying. And he ventured out into the wide world this morning before I left for work. I played with him; Audun watched from the futon; all was well. Leaving them alone all day is cause for mild concern; but the hiding place behind the bathtub seems pretty secure, there's food & water there, & the litter box is just outside the door.

Now, the most important question of all - what ever am I to name the creature? I toyed briefly with Half Dozen (y'know, "six of one...") but decided that was far too silly for even a silly creature like me. Then, last night, I thought I had settled on Xavier (using the mangled English pronounciation "ig-ZAY-vee-ur" like the barbarian I am). I've always adored the name; plus I figured I could call him X for short. But when I woke up this morning, I found myself almost automatically wanting to call him Jasper. I attribute this to my current (re)reading of Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca, which ranks up there with Jane Eyre on my list of many-times-read guilty pleasures. (Hmm, I wonder why...could it be because Rebecca is in some ways just a retelling of Jane Eyre?) At any rate, Max de Winter's faithful dog happens to be named Jasper.

So, there is a battle. Xavier vs. Jasper - who will win? We shall see this evening, I am sure, for I am determined to settle on a name as soon as possible.

EDIT: He is Xavier. And so sweet! He's already figured out that Audun is naught but bluff & bluster. Last evening Xavier managed to climb onto the futon without awaking the beast slumbering near my knees, & he cuddled with me all the night through. Appreciate your fortune that I possess not a digital camera, or this weblog here shouldst be inundated with an unseemly array of photos.

My Cat Needs Some Pussy

Not to be crass (whoops, too late!) but he seriously does. See, the thing is, Audun has never ever in his whole life except for two weeks in September 2006 lived without another cat. And let's just say he's not exactly taking to being a solo cat quite as well as I'd hoped. Okay, he HATES it. He's super-lonely. And how does this unhappiness manifest itself? Well, luckily he's not a pisser. Or a shitter. Or a tear-shit-up-per. No, my darling cat is...a meower. A follow me around all the time crier. I try to cuddle him - but no. I try to play with him - but no. Hell, even feeding him barely quells the incessant bellyaching.

And, insomuch as I am glad that his ennui does not result in anything more destructive than some whining, it is starting to drive me CRAZY. I've actually left my apartment because of it.

So, continuing the strong masturbatory bent of this blog of late, herewith will I share my inclination in the world of cats: male, because most of the female cats I've known are either psychotic, bitches, or psychotic bitches. Audun happens to be a sensitive little thing. Kitten, so Audun can be a dominant cat for once in his life, however brief the duration. I know that everybody wants a cute little kitten & oh the poor adult cats but - here's the rub - if I was getting a cat for me, I would totally be into getting a fully-grown one. Honestly, though, I don't want another cat right now, much as I adore the critters. But Herr Fluff demands it, & I think he would do better with a kitten.

Development in progress. Perhaps Audun would do well with a...SIX-TOED kitten? I *heart* Craigslist. Trying to arrange to see a six-toed kitty smorgasboard tonight & hoping to find a good fit. Will touch my blog again tomorrow if all goes well!

You Want Character? I'll Give You Doors.

Last night I figured out that there are no fewer than eight doorways in my foyer. In fact, one entire wall is comprised of nothing but doors. And the foyer ain't that big.

One for the water closet (AKA my toilet room), one for the bathroom, two to my next-door(s) neighbor's unit (which are locked & have no doorknobs, of course), one to the loft upstairs, one for the foyer closet & two to my living room.

Eight is my "lucky" number, largely by dint of its eerily frequent manifestations in my life, so I'll take this as fortuitous.

Also, what a great title & great idea for a film! Eight Doorways. Of course, I wouldn't use literal doorways. And there probably wouldn't be eight of anything really. But just think how hard people would look for the eight "doorways" & the crazy ideas they'd derive from the film to interpret the title. C'est fantastique!

I May Be Old, But My Sense of Humor Isn't

I've had a pretty cracked day at work, which no doubt explains why I find this so funny, but sometimes you just have to take a break from fruitlessly trying to place Inland Marine coverage for logs & lumber (ah, Oregon) & appreciate insurance company typos:

You're Always a Day Away

I AM SO FRIGGIN' HAPPY. My wonderful apartment is EVEN BETTER than I remembered. And, after the what-the-fuck stage & the intense I'm-needy-love-me stage, my cat Audun (AKA The Best Thing That Ever Happened To Me) seems to love it! He's already back to blanket-fucking. Okay, so technically he's actually still in that desperation cuddle phase where he clings & purrs & follows me around meowing at me because he wants to be held. But still. He was definitely pumped when he discovered that there are TWO floors for him to run around in. Technically three if he feels like going downstairs to the door. Also, I can totally let him out on the porch on a semi-supervised basis. And there's so much room! I needs the paints, & the shelves, but I'm totally in love.

I can't walk - only painfully hobble - but that's okay. The pain will end; the apartment is long-term. At the risk of sounding overly self-satisfied, while I recognize & appreciate my good fortune, I have to say that I totally deserve this. And overall, karma has been a really good friend to me since I got out here.

Oh, concert update: saw The Faint on Sunday. Awesome, awesome show, though I'm sad that I missed most of the opening band, Ratatat, 'cause they were great too. Any mild disappointment I may have had because The Faint didn't play "Violent" was countered by the fact that they did play "Worked Up So Sexual" & other favorites of mine which heretofore attained "dance 'til you're sweaty" status only in my living room(s). I'm guessing the guys have an album in ye olde pipeline; they played several new (great) songs & alluded to testing out new material as being the reason for their tour. & for those of you keeping score, we got two compliments outta the lead singer for The Faint: the first was "We love playing in Portland". The second came when they took the stage for their encore, about which the entire audience was much enthused (replete with foot-stomping & chants of "Faint, Faint, Faint, Faint...") - "You guys are sweethearts". Yes. Yes, we are.

Sigh. I can't wait to go home & bask in the glow of fabulosity.