Friday, May 23, 2008

I Feel Better Now.

My medication still tastes like cheese and I am feeling much better. I even like the new cat who visits because he pets me nice and hard.

Yesterday was dark and rainy, but I am still in a good mood.

I never got the covered cat box and I am wondering if keeper is still considering that. Also, the spying on the people next door has kinda not really worked lately because they don't seem to be there very often. Maybe they figured me out? Or maybe everyone took my advice about batting things about the room and now they are all better and do not need to visit next door anymore. I am sure that is it. Congratulations to them.

I plan to fill this weekend with purrs. I might get combed, but that is okay.

Must go burrow under comforter so I can rest up for hardcore purring sessions.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Medication=Not So Bad.

It tastes like cheese.

And I am getting my girlish figure back.


Wednesday, May 14, 2008

I Have To Go On Medication. Therefore, I Am On Strike For The Day.

In my place, I offer Hunter S. Thompson's "The Wave Speech" from Fear and Loathing...(Unfortunately, I doubt my medication experience will be as eventful as his.)

Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era—the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. . . .
History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of “history” it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time—and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.

My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights—or very early mornings—when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder's jacket . . . booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change) . . . but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that. . . .

There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .

And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.

Monday, May 5, 2008

I Do Not Have Mange.

But I am appalled at my diagnosis:

"Fat Cat Syndrome"

Which basically means: I cannot groom myself as well as I could when I was young and spry.

I am, obviously, a complete and total wreck due to the name of my condition.

To add insult to injury, a one-eyed orange cat terrorized me while I thought I was in the privacy of my examination room. He just walked right in as if he owned the place. I immediately hissed at him. He had the audacity to look hurt and confused. He then walked away and Keeper acted as if I had been cruel.

Then, yesterday, Keeper refused to give me kibbles until I had finished the few, pathetic stale ones left in my bowl from my previous meal. How rude. I hate her.

The world is obviously against me and I cannot believe I even found the motivation to write this blog today. I may have to take some time off to collect myself and recover from my traumas.

Friday, May 2, 2008

A Request.

I have a request.

I ask all my faithful blog readers to keep me in their thoughts and prayers tomorrow about 11am PST. I will be at vet at that time.

Thank you.