The thing about theft is that, as in a post-truth world, it’s all in the eye, or hand, of the beholder, or the be-stealer. One cat’s burglary is another cat’s night-time stroll around the neighborhood. I mean, just ask Cary Grant in To Catch A Thief. Was there ever a more handsome, urbane, lovely and gorgeous two-legged feline as Mr Grant? The answer is: there wasn’t, and Gracie knew it, too.
In fact, do whatever you can to obtain a copy of the film so that you, too, can share in the joy of watching two thoroughbreds going through their paces. Not to mention Alfred’s involvement in the minor role of director. And while I’m at it, gather in Sabrina(the 1954 Billy Wilder version, the best and only one to watch), too, and make a rainy Saturday afternoon of it with Audrey Hepburn, Humphrey Bogart and William Holden. Now they were real movie stars, grasshopper, and don’t even get me started on Ava Gardner, Virginia Mayo, or Greer Garson. Or Errol Flynn, or Gary Cooper, or Randolph Scott. Just don’t – well, maybe another time, then.
While I’m not given to effusive celebrations here on the red planet at this time of year, I fully appreciate the excitement gathering speed on the third rock.
I well remember Mama and Papa and my sibling, Sibmo, enjoying each other’s company way, way back when we’d dip a delicate paw into the backyard pool before emptying it so we could stretch out and sleep on those cool, cool yule tiles in the midst of tropical summer heatwaves.
And is there anything more sublime than Bill Evans on the old CD player as you barbecue your tuna steaks and sip a delicate and frothy tunanog while swaying along to one of the coolest dudes in the jazziverse? I think there is not, my dearest friends, so I’m off to get in some practice before the big day in my rainbow robes of wondrous, all-inclusive hue.
Meanwhile, let’s all send healing vibes of peaceful energy from wherever we may be to surround and suffuse little mother Earth with kindness and the calming balm of love. I mean it, dudes, let’s start vibing the positive before the place does itself an irreversible injury, okay?! Okay-a-rooney.
Click on the chicks to go to the Pozible crowd-funding page
Hello, patriots, and other parrots. Here on Mars we don’t see many members of the Psittaciformes order, if you want to be all KIngdom-y and Phylum-y about it. And who doesn’t?
Anyway, it’s imperative that we all act now to save this bird called the Orange-Bellied Parrot, who lives in south-west Tasmania – I know, tropical types like me find it hard to understand the virtues of the cooler states of being.
On such a momentous day (the 2016 US Pestilential, sorry, Presidential election), perhaps we could all benefit from cooling off down south with our Antarctic friends (and a polar bear visiting from the Arctic), however misguided they may be in the matter of parental origins. Enjoy it now, friends, because the times are truly changing.
The wonderful people at the European Space Agency in Darmstadt, Germany are a bit sad, but hopeful, just as I am hopeful for my shiny (and rather glary) new friend, Schiaparelli lander’s recovery. It’s touch and go, and yes, the chocolate bars helped, but you can never be certain on the Red planet, especially with all these jostling space-o-nauts scurrying around and recklessly stealing tuna pies.
In the meantime, my dearest Earth peeps, keep dreaming of Martian playing fields just as I dream of my feline ancestors who lived a mere furball’s toss up the A5 from Darmstadt, in Frankfurt am Main. Many are the imaginary plates of tuna-wurst helpfully digested with a litre or three of catnip schnaps I’ve shared with my great-great grandparents, Charles Gustav and Margaret (or Meowgaret, as she was known in the family). Ah, those could have been the days but for pesky physics. Dream on.
Didn’t every kitten play cowboys and aliens and lemonade stands and baguettes with their siblings and neighbouring cats of all the lovely varieties under the Martian sun? I know I did.
So it was no surprise at all to find this gaggle of upstanding equines and not-terribly-wild westerners discussing the important thing in life: hats and their place in the synchronised scheme of things.
Also, tuna-flavoured lemonade – the next big thing at your nearest pretentious cafe – move over coconut butter latte frappe-cino with hundreds and thousands, your time is up.
You may have heard rumours that the aquatic life on Mars is less than satisfactory. However, I’m here to tell you that, but for a little dust storm every so often, the fishing is extratunaordinary with bells and whistles, and an occasional crabby crustacean. Soon enough, Hale crater will be invaded by reckless teenagers from other, less salubrious (read extinct) water flows and I’ll be forced to seek out new life and boldly go, or go boldly, down the avenue.
Meanwhile, well, meanwhile, stay a while, and doze in a daze. When the time comes, you may hitch a lift with me in the PeskyCATarian-mobile.