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Che Henry Persival
At dawn I sauntered to the windowsill and took two types of baths: coat-licking and sunbathing. This summer I’m participating in a sabbatical from my musical career. Yes, I’ve produced hundreds, perhaps millions, of songs, mostly underground dance tunes which nevertheless always cream to the top and win me a gramophone or something like this or that. And thank you very much, though lately all the superfluous time has me recalling days in Paris, where I studied to be an Egyptologist. I’d prance into class wearing a headdress like that of the sphinx, and a silk scarf around my neck.
In Paris, I harvested innumerable friends! There was Elfiez, a stout mini-elephant creature (about a foot tall) with light blue skin and a wild tuft of electric blue hair atop its head. There was Sniffy Mint, a skunk with a powder-pink coat and white stripe who emitted the slight scent of anise. Then there was Shervert, a tiny, benign-looking ram thingee with magical chocolate eyes. Consider also the two Nordic children, both about a foot in height, who bore close resemblance to Hansel and Gretel. These were my friends, and surely a cat in Paris could not dander for more!
Oh what fun we had!!!!! People questioned, “Are you French? You speak it so well!” or “Are you Egyptimagician? You know so much of Egypt’s history!” And I’d touché, “Do I appear as a Pierre or a Tutankhamun?!”
Mais non! I may spray over the symphony of the French tongue (a romance language, as is Romanian, surprise surprise) but I am mixed breed, the sprightly child of a Persian Prince (Shazdeh) and (ripley believe me or not) a common though irresistibly embraceable Calico alleycat from the toxic dump streets of Jersey City. But I am, make no milkshake, a Prince.
This sabbatical finds me splashing the web more and more and I find myself marinating with awe over the mysteries of the internet, a realm infested with indefinite tendrils of kibble and bits branching into gaps of space. But how pray/prey tell (I love Edgar Alan Poe) does it work? For instance, this very afternoon I shot electronic mail to my human mommy who sits uptown in a box (cubicle?) and works with a computer. Only a minute after quilting my electronic note, she responded! Ravishing! Information dots instantly ping-ponging through space! It’s like warm instant oatmeal or perhaps grits.
Sleeping on my mother’s t-shirt is my half-sister Cornzee, the orange marmalade cat with a weight that far succeeds mine, though she is female and I am boy. Also sleeping is Thumby, the grand puba of all best friends. She is, although narcoleptic, the truest and most alert of all. Thumby teaches at a children’s school on Norfolk Street around the corner from the lesbian bar with the felinesque sobriquet “Meow Mix.” Thumby teaches kids how to write fake stories, and how to shimmy. She has appeared in music videos for such luminaries as Snoop Dotty Doe and Crust Daddy.
About the music videos, Thumby does not wear suggestive clothing when dancing, for she possesses neither the body nor outfits to do so. Thumby is a doll with a rubbery-plastic body and blond, crispy fried, brillo hair. She stands a foot tall and about half a foot wide.
Today it rained. Thumby jigged to Funkmaster Flex then fell asleep (narcolepsy calling). After minutes she awoke and said, “The Sky is going to break” and fell back out. I panicked and woke her up. She explained that she meant to say “The sun is about to come out.” And it did.
What does it all mean? Taking a break from my musical career has inspired within my protoplasm a quest to define the true meaning behind this whole yeehaw we call life. So many possibilities tangoed across the synapses of my circuits. Unfulfilled with these fruits, I sought out the grandmaster Google, and typed “Who are you God?” I received a lot more confusion. Today I learned that indeed there are questions without answers. Regarding life, I suppose that no one really knows. Heck, half the time I am just trying to figure out if I am bigger than a breadbox!
Cornzee is bigger than a breadbox. Today she swallowed her food and some of mine. That’s okay, quilt on my dry food, Lady Marmalade, but don’t jimmy the Ocean Whitefish lest you be short innumerable tufts of your orange quill-like fur!
Ocean Whitefish opens me to princely days when, as a tot in my father’s court, I queried fresh fish. Here it’s canned, a lot of, how shall I say, garbage goulash, yet my most refined palate does yearn it, perhaps in the manner that humans palpitate upon McDonalds, or that other place where they serve globules of “popcorn” chicken.
Well lollapalooza me… Today I discovered that one can read news online! My whiskers burned and my Egyptologist angst rickshawed when I grazed upon an article about a woman who believes that bones, discovered over 100 years ago, may belong to Mrs. Lovely Nefertiti herself! Good morning Envy! Had I not given up Egyptology, I can assure you that I would have discovered the discovery.
And yet (and thank you) what the heck. Let those Egyptologists have one measles day in the sun, finding Nefertiti or whomever those bones belong to. I have music, not to mention Thumby and Cornzee.
I feel sorrow for mommy as I epiphany that she walks not astride with the rest of the human species, for she is better assembled and more kind. Today I read on internet that people here and in exotic sandblown lands do bombs to each other. One group bombs one, the other bombs back, reminiscent of Cornzee when she chases her tail. Apparently some explain their bombs by piggybacking to the bible, a most overrated book, I think, with wads of fairy tales and contradictory information that homo-sapiens sashay through, producing mangled-up knots of hate history. I much prefer Poe!
I splashed the web and emerged into multitudes of sources pertaining to doing bombs and using the bible to accommodate this. The beliefs involve everything from a mountaintop temple to a red heifer! I dreamt Christian funnydamentalists doused my whiskers with ice-water then tried doing bombs to Thumby because she said, “Who wants a God that loves one group and smites another, all because of one’s ethnicity?” She is true. The bible says: If you’re born in the wrong place too bad for you! If you’re born in the right place, with the right jeans, you’ll inherit lots of cows.
The president has monkeypox, or so my almond-shaped eyes whisper as I perchance upon Bush Jr.’s image online. His pouts, grimaces, cranial structure, and close-set eyes reveal themselves as splendidly simian, and I’ll not even grouse around his politics…
Regarding monkeypox, why don’t humans ask the important question? Surely, as a member of the Felidae contingent, I’m frilled with bias, but prey tell, why are pet shops selling “exotic” animals like the Gambian Giant Rat which, according to internet news sources and Ask Jeeves, brought the disease here? Pardon me punks, but why are humans selling any animal at all?
And so last night it happened that my primordial, big cat genes bottlerocketed into high art and pancaked me into a tizzy when I first smelled, then caught, a feisty mouse who decided to play possum with me! Heaven’s Betsy, I caught him, released him, he played frozen, then frankensteined into life again. Oh what joy to have a toy to frappe! And is it so wrong? And why did mommy take the mousie away? And did I behave, as Thumby (who narcoplepsied through the event) suggested, something akin to the humans who do bombs? No, I think not. Yes?
Perchance these preternatural Weapons of Mass Destruction never existed, that’s what newsmakers are crackering about. But is that really news? Perhaps it’s presumptuous (sumptuous) of me - a latchkey black-and-white tabby - to query but didn’t you or one of your thinking buddies or sexy dates have a tinkle of a notion, monsoons ago, that chunky Saddam possessed no WMDs and Curious George was performing lies again as he tap danced on WMDs of his own? If George lied on election day, why not today? Let’s bid the phrase “WMD” farewell as we send it speedily down the commode. Squirt.
Thumby rumbas to “In Da Club” by Fifty Cent and I giggle back to days when I directed her, Cornzee, and several other household members, in musicals that we exploded in our living room while my human mommy seesawed away at work… We’d splat a sign on the corner of Avenue B:
5 cents only! Please come see our production: "For The Love of Rumplestiltskin"
Oh we concocted so many plays: “Stephen King Takes A Vacation,” “The Old Testament in 15 Minutes,” “Bend it Like Fosse,” “The Yogi and the Taxman,” and the very successful, multicultural tragicomedy “I am IchibanHooHooSpartmo.”
The internet news tells of a bishop, who I’m inspired to call Bishop Drivel, who bamboozled a human with his car then spooshed away, saying “I thought I hit a cat or a doggie!”
Just recently, Drivel was charged with patting the heads of pettyfile priests then sending them to another church to do more. I prescribe that the humans lock Drivel in a cage at an animal shelter for 20 years. This shall teach him many things. And he’ll be able to graduate with a degree, perhaps honors, in how to distinguish between cat, doggie, and humanoid. Thank you.
I've got one paw in nirvana! As you all know (or don’t) I’ve been curtsying for a year, begging my human mommy for a Puffin, an orange-beaked, flying, swimming and flapping bird! So pickle this: Today mommy struts home with cereal, sent from her apparent cousin (I’m still confused about this matter), and it’s called Puffins! Douche the cereal, it’s the box that I’m all about. Along with noble puffins gracing its exterior, there’s a – get this - website address where one can adopt a live one! Now it’s just a spatter of time. I’m filling the bathtub with water.
Oooohh, more news from the internet news! Burly General Colon Powell has been crimsoning the international circuit. Yesterday he yaks for 3 minutes with a North Korean Ambassador named Ho. Today he launches a plane to a place that bears the most historically inappropriate name ever – the Holy Land. Hee hee. Tony, please.
On the puffin front, my tender hopes have been temporarily squished because 250 cereal boxtops are required for adoption! But I shan’t give up! I’m going to Ask Jeeves if he knows 250 humans who wouldn’t mind purchasing Puffin cereal then frisbeeing their boxtops over to me.
Who is this Harry Potter? And if I poodled books about a boy with noxious glasses who flits with goblets, would I ginsu millions? No. For the Potter books are simply 2003’s Cabbage Patch Dolls. Humans quack “Harry Potter is so cool! I have to have this book now!” and millions follow (consider, also, SUVs). I plan to concoct and hatch a million-cat march on Washington to brourahrah against Cabbage Patchism. I also plan to foosball a letter to J. K. Rowling (Potter author) as I’m certainly certain that big money is jihading her bank accounts. Maybe she can help?
As a child, did you plow dreams? Perchance you yearned to be the proud stepparent of a parakeet? And did you epiphany that one day you’d be crackerjacking so much money you wouldn’t know where to potter it? Certainly I jest, but I have a smolting query. Would you, with your tumescent bank account and apparent love of children, wish to purchase 250 boxes of Puffin cereal? Thanks, and please cache the boxtops! My puffin dreams moor themselves upon your shore.
p.s. I’m fully peppered to care of my puffin. A bathtub jiggying with lukewarm water awaits
Well sharpshoot me purple! Today I straddled foreign press websites which alerted me that many African countries juggle daily with civil wars! I get hairballs when I consider that grave political jigsaws, such as those in the Congo, are practically ignored by U.S. reporters who, on the other paw, can’t stop snorkeling about “settlers” in Israel. “Settlers”? If words could sue, “settlers” would skivvy forty-two billion smackeroos from reporters who have completely chopsueyed its meaning! Yes, perhaps it’s delightful to huff and panfry words, but egregiously lying to the world with them engages another ballpark altogether.
I’m going to bed.
As evidenced by yesterday’s entry (my most bold, shall you not agree?) I’m heimliched by the popular press. Between that and my puffinlessness, I feel turquoise and it may be hours, nay, days, before I’ll once again purr like a lawnmower on crank. Thumby tried perkulating me, pouring milk in my bowl, dropping a hint of tea in it and calling it Chai. But the diluted concoction simply reminist of the news - half-derriered and inaccurate! Once again I recall my Parisian days, husking Egyptology. Oh, to don a Sphinxlike headdress and interpret Rimbaud! More tomorrow. I earnst to sleep.
Last night I dreamt my mommy kindled me fresh whitefish then fried open an orange box. A puffin, swathed in a dry ice mist, rose out of it like a saint, flitted to the bathroom, shnizzled his beak and dunked into the tub! Water rearended my toes, and Thumby, resplendent in a fake teddybear stole, bellydanced and tossed sunflower seeds. She remained awake, her narcolepsy finally nullifoid. Cornzee, several pounds sprightlier, sported a sharkskin bonnet. My purr box hiccuped into overdrive, then suddenly Cornzee began spackling me with kisses and hugs. That is when I understood that I was dreaming.
My puffin woes are amassing a Sasquatchian hairball in my gut that’s being blowdried by discoveries I’ve made about mainstream press. Apparently U.S. reporters were embedded, like ingrown toenails, during the invasion of Iraq (whiff whiff, I smell a Gambian Giant Rat). Next, I discovered that the media refrained from projecting images of dead Iraqis lest the American public get perturbed, possibly gargoyled. Well Schlitz, and pray tell, did the public think the army was line-dancing at a bake sale in Iraq? Oh woe, perchance this is why I am so fumigated lately… Apparently most humans don’t think very much.
I shan’t be acquiring 250 Puffin cereal boxtops anytime soon… But today I splooshed upon the Audubon Sociey’s Adopt a Puffin website. For $100 I’d get: adoption certificate, vital stats, and letters perpetrating my puffin’s shenanigans. What? $100 and I can’t grappa my puffin home?!
Nevertheless, I tingle to do this, for sometimes one has to hoochie inside the system! And perchance, eventually, the Audubon Society would fatigue of quilting me letters, and simply FedEx the puffin instead. I pleaded with mommy, but her eyes cranked back “Even if I had the money, d’ya think I’d spend it on that?!”
Thumby and myself babaganoushed down the fire-escape, bonded hands and skipped to the theater where, as always, we sauntered in and no one noticed. What a wondidfull movie! The miniscular bell, that Thumby recently affixed to my tail, tingalingalings with joy!
But imagine my chastegrin and how my whiskers hokey-pokeyed when I read the news that humans are suddenly purchasing Clownfish by the swampload! Did they not, ahem, cough cough, ack, uck, dear reader, forget it… I can’t do donuts around this right now. I’m too rubbernecked. Suffice to say that once again humans have missed the point.
Well Shasta! I’m poezest by the internet! Imagine, I take a vacancy from my musical career and suddenly tryst into a rabbit hole called The Web! Slide over Charlotte! I can read blogs by Quakers, gander at pictures of folks with country and western hair, and pilfer recipes for peas in punk sauce! And more joys awaste! Nevertheless, caution must be enjoyed, lest I carpel my tunnel! Hee hee hee…
(Those of you with a pockmark of insight and a spottage of cynicism can probably sleuth that I’m trying very hard to forget that still, even today, I remain puffinless…)
Taking a sabbatical from my music has proved brainlifting, but I shall return to it, preferring the exquiverite nature of creating over the inzaniness of the human whirled.
Today I read about the Patriot Act and detainees at Guantontono, and had to hug Thumby to barbiturate my quivering toes. Oh, I feel too much! But puff this and make no mistake, the bill of rights may only be a scrap of antique paper by the time the GOP has finished its weenie roast or marshmallow toast. You pick. It does feel good to have a choice about something, n’est-ce pas?
Today my Aundy Aida, aware of my pufflinlessness and ensuant turquoiseness, parceled these words to me:
"Take the dung and make it flower
Take the pain and make it power
Let your own fear make you bold
Take the straw and spin, spin, spin the gold."
Oh, how I danced! Thumby tortled, “I’m always telling you things like that!” Perchance, maybe, but Rumpelstiltskin rhymes and he’s the one whose story I’ve fonzied since kittenhood. Lately I’ve been too carried away with the buzzings in my head, but now, thanks to my Aundy (so beautiful and forgiving) je comprende.
I woke up the clock this morning. Perchance you know what I mean. Perchance you don’t. And perchance it doesn’t matter…
I’m so potpied with bubblessence, and all the atoms connecting us, and how I’ve decided to feel entitled! So perchance a puffin won’t be freefalling into my paws anytime soon, but should that swipe from my present moment? And perchance the mass media is dissajointing, but my own universe remains honest and lovelysome!
I know where beauty lives. I always thought it was someone I once met on a hill, but now I realize it’s always lurked inside me…
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