My point, and I do have one, is that most felines avoid pointy things like the proverbial plague. You know, claws, fangs, those sharp bits when the toast is a little burnt – they can really lacerate the tongue and inside cheeks. Also, people who point me the wrong way to the tuna festival are the worst of all and I shall take my revenge – what? no, that wasn’t me, it was my evil twin, Second Last Cat On Mars. Calmer now, pointiness in its place, tuna on the way with Martian Eats: It’s Here or It’s There, or It’s Free.
Psycatry has existed for as long as we’ve needed it, or since the first felis catus psycatus decided it was time to pitch in and try to save human- and other-kind from themselves. It may be a losing battle but as Dr On Mars says, If you have the tuna, I have the time. So let’s get cracking, shall we, and do a little therapeutic dance together. You never know where it may lead. (With any luck, to edible victuals).
So I made a quick trip to the third rock this weekend and look what I saw! And you, too, fellow, planetarians and Martians, can see it in its full splendiferous and colourful magnificence on SBS TV tonight at 8.30. Any minute now, in fact, if you live in the southern states with their funny hour-ahead cult of the sun. Probably on SBS on Demand, too, maybe, perhaps, check it out anyway. And if you need more about Mardi Gras – and who doesn’t? – check out the Mardi Gras website.
And don’t forget to remember as you count sheep to sleep tonight, and every night, that love is all there is, really, in the end, and forever and always. That’s what we kittens remember, and also, tuna melts on sourdough with just a hint of parsley and a sprinkle of freshly crushed peppercorn, yeah …
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.
There are nine – that’s 9 – creative ideas currently at large in the world, up from 7 a mere twenty years ago. I think the Interwebz have had a little something to with that relatively large increase in the numbers. I’d work out the percentage, but I keep running out of toes.
The trick with the Super Nine, as they’re called, is in how an artist decides to use them in ever more ingenious and You-Tube-Virally ways. Modest though he is, credit is certainly due to Burly Barry McBardly-Bard for his enormous contribution to all things artistic, and recycled for that matter. And his great big orange truck full of, er, stuff. Her name’s Performia Faultymuch, by the way – the truck, that is (of the Somerset & Maugham Faultymuches, whatever that means). Keep an eye out for Performia (if your eyes are that acrobatic) in your street. She gets around, you know.