Monday, August 02, 2010

Born to Boogie


I am sure that some are born to write as trees are born to bear leaves:
for these, writing is a necessary mode of their own development.

If the impulse to write survives the hope of success, then one is among these.

If not, then the impulse was at best only pardonable vanity,
and it will certainly disappear when the hope is withdrawn.

C. S. Lewis

Sunday, August 01, 2010

One Dark Night

I don't remember how I stumbled across this blog, but Suebob is hilarious.

Her mouse-that-refused-to-die post reminded me of a story.

A long time ago,

In a land far, far away?

No.

A long time ago, or at least, beyond recent memory. Right here at the old home place, kiddo's cat died.

Don't worry about Fat Pete. He lives and eats on. This was the much beloved Fat Pete's much beloved predecessor.

So, the cat died by car.

(Which explains why Fat Pete doesn't get to go outside, but I digress.)

One night, shortly thereafter, in the middle of the night, I hear stealthy quiet foot steps on the carpet. I turn on the light.

Nothing. Nada. No one.

Lights out.

In a few minutes, I hear those same quiet foot steps on the carpet.

Lights on.

Nothing.

So, I wake up Dearest, who, it is well-known, could sleep through a nuclear device being detonated on our front lawn.

I'm being haunted by a ghost cat, I tell him.

Now, I betcha, of all the things we wake up our spouses in the middle of the night to say, I'm being haunted by a ghost cat, must rate a ten on the Say What scale.

Not to my Honey Bunny.

He says -- there is no such thing as a ghost cat, and if there was such a thing as a ghost cat, you could not hear it walking on carpet.

And he goes back to sleep.

Oh really.

Lights out, but this time I don't try to go back to sleep. I lie there, clutching a flashlight to my chest like famous personage lying in state clutching a lily in cold dead hands.

Shortly comes the stealthy, quiet foot steps on the carpet. Then tap, tap, tap.

I snap on the flashlight, shine it toward the sliding closet door, where I see illuminated, not a ghost cat but a live mouse.

But not just any mouse.

Mouse-Zilla.

Mouse-Zilla carrying a Milk Bone dog biscuit, and the tapping noise is Mouse-Zilla trying to force the dog biscuit horizontally through a vertical opening of the closet door.

The whole house is awakened by screams.

Dearest sets a mouse trap and goes back to sleep.

Really, I ask you, what is it with men?

Not me, baby. I stay awake wondering, where did the Milk Bone come from? Who was it for? Baby-Zillas or something larger?

Was King Kong bigger than Godzilla? I can't remember.

SNAP.

eew.

Wake Dearest up again.

Corpse-Zilla unceremoniously disposed of in the garbage in the garage.

And then.

And then.

The husband goes back to sleep without commenting on the auditory acuity of someone who can hear a mouse walk across carpet.

A fact, which seems to me, should be noted in scholarly articles and record books somewhere.

Monday, July 26, 2010

The Cat Wised Up

Person normally in charge of feeding this behemoth is on a trip to acquire a new fire truck.

Team B, person perennially distracted, wondered why she hadn't seen the cat yesterday.

Normally, cat will seek us out to make clear his wish to be fed. We pretend to acquiesce whereupon he runs down the hall to wait by his dish.

It's a long wait.

He returns. Same results.

Hey, it's the only exercise Fat Puff gets.

Eventually, we feed him.

I always wondered why he didn't figure us out sooner, but you know, cat.

Since I killed the Resurrection Rose, I went looking for the cat to make sure I hadn't accidentally starved him to death in one day.

After only fifteen years of pondering the problem, the cat figured out how to tip over the cat food bag and help himself.

Potius sero quam nunquam.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Fire Season

Late afternoon, July 16, a fire started in Brown's Gulch.

First on scene, all the volunteer fire departments in the county.

When the feds arrived, they named the fire, the Lakeside Fire which didn't make sense because the fire was nowhere near Lakeside.

You could see it from Lakeside -- close enough for government work.


Sunday night, the area looked like this.

Approximately 800 acres burned.

Death of the last Montana unicorn has not been confirmed.

Emulate the Greats

I Write Like . . . came across this test surfing, you know, when I should have been writing. I copied my first chapter, farked tenses and all into the form and got this.

I write like
Dan Brown

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!


Um, oops or yea? Can't decide.

Oh, I liked DaVinci Code but seems like Brown attracts detractors to his writing like flies on ... well, you know.

So, I put in the second chapter, ditto the tenses and got this.

I write like
Isaac Asimov

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!


A little better. Perhaps my plot moves with the speed of Dan Brown and the intricacy of Asimov.

Now, this next is verifiable Weird.

I copied in the first eight pages of my latest script, which happens to take place in Ireland and got this.

I write like
James Joyce

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!


yes I said yes I will yes.

Liked that better, but how weird is that? Ireland for the Irish.

So, then I put in a blog post and got Dan again.

Tried with a blog post in which I cursed and got . . .

I write like
Chuck Palahniuk

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!


Right, um, who?

Yeah, yeah, looked it up.

Guy who wrote Fight Club, a novel turned into a movie with Brad Pitt and Edward Norton and one good line.

So, notice no women turned up?

According to an article on this nifty little test, there are only two women in the data base and one of them is Jane Austen.

If the badge came up that said I wrote like Jane Austen, I'd break all my pencils, throw my computer on a bonfire and take up bungie jumping.

I wish I wrote like James Lee Burke.

I just finished his latest, The Glass Rainbow. He evokes setting so well, I found myself stopping to stare out the window to think about the picture in my head.

Or Harper Lee. Who wouldn't want to write like her?

Oh well.

Guess Dan and I will always have Paris.