A Song of Smelt and Herring (Short, Idiotic Fiction by Drew)

Because sometimes you imagine conversations you might have, and things go downhill from there.

No Glens were harmed in the creation of this post.

Meet Patty Marx

Hi. Do you know Patty Marx? She’s a lot cooler than you’d expect from a lady named “Patty.” She is the first woman ever elected to the Harvard Lampoon, for one, and she’s written for Saturday Night Live, Rugrats and Clarissa Explains It All. (She is not, I regret to inform you, the Brazilian singer Patrícia Marx, but now that I mention it, doesn’t the name sound like it belongs to a Brazilian lady?) Anyway, Patty (American version) write one of the funniest short essays I’ve ever read, and in lieu of anything special from me, I’m sharing it with you.

You will not regret reading this.

Attention: Lost Cat

Reward if you find my cat, Sally. Sally is eleven, but she has the face of a cat much younger. She is taffy-colored and has no distinguishing features except for the spot on her lung. Sally understands eight commands. Nine, if you count “Drop it! Drop the baby!” Sally loves a good steak but will gladly have whatever you are having. If she seems to have trouble swallowing, call Dr. Sidarsky, at (570) 555-1212. Dr. Sidarsky calls every day to ask if Sally is back. Once, Dr. Sidarsky invited me to a tennis match where a little girl who could not speak English beat the defending champion. If you ask me, Dr. Sidarsky has a crush on me. Before Sally was lost, Dr. Sidarsky nominated me for Pet Owner of the Year. When the judges came to our house, Sally would not come down from the breezeway. I’m not saying that was the reason I lost the title, but it cost me points.

Sally was last seen in Kansas, where she fell out of my car — a 1998 yellow Toyota Corolla, Indiana license plate FJ3-JR57. To tell you the truth, Sally didn’t actually fall. My ex-husband was trying to push me and my suitcases out of the car and Sally was in the way. I’d opened the door to throw out a pair of pants and some other garbage of my ex-husband’s. I hate a messy car. My ex-husband says he was leaning over to close the door, but I definitely felt a nudge. Sally and the gourmet-cooking cassettes that I had taken out of the library landed all over Route 23 in Kansas. Sally ran toward Nebraska. We were on the ramp toward Missouri. My ex-husband’s sister Sugar lives in Nebraska. I don’t like Sugar and I know Sugar does not like me. She sent me a bathroom scale as a wedding gift. Normally, I have nothing to do with Sugar, but I called her just in case Sally had turned up there. Sometimes animals have a sixth sense about knowing who your relatives are and how to get in touch. As usual, Sugar was unpleasant. She said I sounded like I had gained weight.

Sally has been missing for more than a year, and I am losing hope. Her mother belonged to my grandfather, and now my grandfather is dead. Sally is my last link to my grandfather. If you find Sally and she is dead, send her back anyway. My parents are dead, but I have their steak knives. Once, I had a locket of my grandmother’s. I gave it to my daughter for Christmas, since my daughter was named after my grandmother, who was named after her grandmother, who was named after Sally, but not that Sally. When I lost my daughter in the custody suit, I lost the locket, too. I lost everything. Well, not all of the steak knives. Or the weight — I didn’t lose that, either.

In spite of what the judge said, my ex-husband is not fit to care for my daughter, pony or no pony. The only things my ex-husband can cook are Texas Tommies. My ex-husband’s girlfriend cannot cook, either, but I have to admit, she knows good food.

If I still had Sally, I think the judge would have let me keep my daughter. Pets are a sign of a loving home life. I know the judge would have been impressed if I had been Pet Owner of the Year. I might have gone into politics if I had been Pet Owner of the Year, maybe alderman. I am not too old to get into politics, and I have a lot of ideas. Let’s not forget that after the Russian Revolution they turned the stock exchange into an aquarium. For the people! We could do something like that. If Sally came back, I would take a picture of me holding her and use that on my campaign poster. And if she didn’t my slogan could be “Help me help you find my cat!” Even if you don’t find Sally, please send cash. It’s not the same thing as a cat, but it is a consolation.

This essay is permitted without permission from The New Yorker, but given the relatively small readership of this blog and the age of this essay, I feel like The New Yorker doesn’t really care. Do you, New Yorker? Wait — don’t answer that: I’m conflicted about how I want you to answer.

Encyclopedia Drew and the Dubious Diorama

When I visited the Natural History Museum, I escaped the fate that befell poor Sally Draper and did not, thankfully, begin my period immediately after viewing the animal dioramas.

Yes, in true Don Draper fashion, Mad Men fibbed and passed off Los Angeles Natural History Museum as its New York counterpart. This is not news, and this post isn’t about Sally’s diorama-prompted womanhood. No, I’m actually more concerned with the oryxes.

The Arabian oxyx, according to the Natural History Museum’s website, is notable for a horse-like gait and the fact that it, when moving in profile, appears to only have a single horn and therefore may have been responsible for belief in unicorns. But even that’s not enough to warrant this post. No, here’s what did. Not the oryx family but way in the back corner…

Do you see it?

Okay, you have to see it now — a cat whose shitty expression is masked by the cat-colored grass around it. The diorama placards made no mention of Grassy Grumplepuss, leaving me to consider several possible explanations:

• The diorama curator placed the cat, but a higher-up exercised an anti-cat agenda and saw to it that the cat was not mentioned at all.
• The diorama curator’s cat died while he was making this particular exhibit, and so he taxidermied the cat and slipped it into the background as a way of letting future generations appreciate the severity of his cat’s scowl.
• It’s actually a live cat that snuck into the museum, Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler-style, and it’s posing as if it were taxidermied so as to avoid detection.
• It’s the mouse-deterring version of a scarecrow, and the museum would rather not publicize its rodent problem.
• The museum placed the cat in the exhibit, unannounced, and they’re giving out prizes to whoever spots it first. (Me! I did! Give me the gift certificate.)
• Ghost cat.
• Something something illuminati symbolism.
• Oryxes naturally have guardian angels that take the form of cats, but the museum — being a scientific institution — is reluctant to endorse such spiritualist notions, and so the resourceful museum-goer is left to research on his own and come to his own conclusion.
• “Oh, shit. We have this extra cat. Will anyone care if I just stick it in the oryx diorama? I need to take lunch, like, now.”

Your input is valued and appreciated.

Previous Encyclopedia Drew mysteries:

• Encyclopedia Drew and the Mystery of the Rabbit-Eared Woman
• Encyclopedia Drew and the Haunted Clock
• Encyclopedia Drew and the Look-Alike Cats
• Encyclopedia Drew and the Mystery of the Unclaimed Canvases
• Encyclopedia Drew and the Missing Maori Fuck
• Encyclopedia Drew and the Mysterious Table of Mystery

Kitty Got the Boot

Perhaps you have a heart. Perhaps you actually care about injustice in the world. Perhaps you wonder what became of the mewling kitty who needed a home.

Well, this story actually ties up two lose ends on this blog: the adorable orphan kitten and the mannequin legs that my friend Stephanie bought for reasons unknown.

Well, here you go.

Any idiomatic reading of this image will tell you that the kitten got kicked out. It did, but in the good way! She found a home, and therefore no longer needs to cuddle around the dummy leg for companionship. It’s all the more remarkable that Stephanie was able to find the cat a home when you consider the photo she chose to send out in advertisement of the particular animal’s cuteness.

Some pet owners have unusual takes on cute.

ADORABLE MEWLING KITTEN NEEDS HOME!

I guess today will be an unusually cat-centric day on this blog, but it’s for a good cause. Mere days after I told my friend Stephanie that I miss having pets, a kitten presented itself to her. Alas, she already has a cat (and he’s rather territorial), while I just don’t think I’m at a point in my life at which I could be a good pet owner. Thus, I’m doing my best to find this cat a home.

Just look at this freaking cat? I mean — right? What a kickass package of kitten you’d be getting here. If that’s not incentive enough, please watch this video of the kitten able demonstrating her cuteness, helplessness and tininess with a series of plaintive meows.

She’s mewling for you! But will you be the one to save her from this bathroom dungeon of despair? Seriously — if you’re in the greater Los Angeles area and needing an additional feline presence in your life, contact me.

The Cat Breed Whose Name Must Be Whispered

Did you know that there exists a breed of cat with Corgi-like proportions? Literally, it looks that the great maker got distracted during these cats’ construction and simply attached the feet straight to the torso, It’s the Munchkin — yes, that’s the actual name — and I have to imagine that it’s just not capable of the high-jumping acrobatics that its non-mutant-legged cousins.

Gaze, if you dare, upon this unfortunate creature.

So unfortunate! It cannot jump to the highest, comfiest seats and dandelions tickle its nose as it strolls through the meadow!

But here’s the thing: The shortest-legged, squidgiest of the Munchkin cats has a name… and that name is Rug Hugger. I would have trouble saying this name out loud, because to me it sounds like some horrible offensively name for one minority group or another. I’m not sure which.

Rug Hugger.

Rug Hugger!

You lousy, misbegotten Rug Hugger.

Maybe I should just yell this in crowds and see who gets mad?

Other disturbing cats:

• The Janus cat
• The treadmill cat
• The suspiciously productive neighbor cat
• The dyspeptic statue cat
• The wild cats who wore pyjamas
• The dead, bouncing cat
• Mr. Pants and Alexandre 

Stage Directions for a Play About the Lives of Housecats

[breaks eye contact to stare at wall]

[blinks coldly]

[looks down at paws; maintains gaze for three hours]

[much yawning]

[raises right leg above left ear]

[licks own paw with great interest]

[rolls over to display supple belly]

[tongues hindquarters firmly]

[skulking, sulking]

[sleeps]

[sleeps entire play]

[peers our nervously from beneath chair; retreats instantly]

[inches forward to track shifting sunspot]

[bats furiously at sunspot]

Tell Me How We’ll Be Alone Again

I was stupidly happy that “Cho Cha,” a bizarre little team-up between Teddybears, Cee Lo Green and The B-52s, might actually be about a passionate but innocent love of a man for his pet cat. Not so. Chocha is apparently Italian slang term for the female genitalia. How naive I was to think that a pop song about a cat could ever be just that.

But had I watched the bizarro video for the song sooner rather than later, I would have started suspected something… deeper — anatomically deeper, that is.

Is that a fucked-up video or what? And all the same, isn’t it natural to hear Cee Lo’s voice come from a stuffed animal?

The Soundtrack to a Feline Heart Attack

Asked by a co-worker: “Now, if you were to have been the music supervisor for this video, would have chosen a similar song?”

This is the video:

My response: “Yes, I would have chosen a similar song, and that’s this song, because nothing is more similar to this song than this song. It is the most appropriate song for this video, and in fact is the perfect melding of subject and soundtrack.”

No, kidding. Of course, I said “Baby Elephant Walk.”

Kitten Rides Turtle! KITTEN RIDES TURTLE!

You asked for it!

Personal tidbit: The expressions the kitten makes approximate my own feelings about public transportation.

A Poem That Is, Unfortunately, About a Diminutive Cat

I don’t care what anyone thinks. This is hilarious.

The title, the lyrics, the accompanying art — literally everything about this poem is a total success in my book. They had to know, right? I mean, yeah, this is from a kids’ book, but they had to know.

Dyspeptic Kitty

A horrible cat statue found in Solvang.

For the simple price of more-than-it’s worth, this object d’art can be yours. Of course, that price includes both the price itself and a trip to Solvang, the sum of which may be more than you’re willing to pay.

Solvang, previously:

• Solvang on The Simpsons
• Mysterious punctuation at The Corner Closet
• My Solvang postcard
• Drew and Jill’s lost afternoon

A Lenten Tabby Land

Long overdue: an update to the menu sign anagram game. The last was back in September, and in the remaining time the menu sign read as this:

A bit of a downer of a sign, I’ll admit. Apparently it made sense at the time. As of today, however, the sign bears a more seasonally appropriate message:

Plus cats and stuff.

Previous menu sign adventures:

• Tableland, by Annet
  
• Bandana Belly Tent
• Antenna, by Tall Deb
  
• Bent, Yet Bland Anal
  
• Banyan Latte Blend
  
• Blatantly Nab Need
  
• Bentley Banana, Ltd.
• Le Bad Nanny Battle

Elegant Nightwear for Large Felines

Much in the way Dina concluded that the Wikipedia page for cooties would fascinate me — it did and this fascination resulted in the preceding post — Spencer also recently pointed me toward the Wikipedia page for pajamas. Only he did so through a direct link to the below image.

In the end, I was a little disappointed. I was immediately drawn to the cheetahs and their little cheetah blankets, which I assume constituted some form of feline pajamas. (Or, as the term is often written in the article, pyjamas, which I have to admit is a far more charming way to spell it.) Cheetahs do not wear pajamas, it turns out, either in nature or while in captivity. The image’s caption explains that the pajamas are actually being worn by the men attending to the cheetahs — and, also, that the technical term for these loose trousers tied around the waist is paijama. At least according to Wikipedia, the word came into English by way of Hindustani but ultimately from the Persian word payjama, meaning “leg garment.”

But wouldn’t it just be so much better if cheetahs wore pajamas or however you spell it?

That My Love For You Is Getting So Much Stronger

Etymology nerd though I may be, I’m nonetheless delighted when the origin of a term turns out to be exactly what it sounds like it might be.

A new term for today that, unfortunately, is timely: “dead cat bounce,” which refers to the tendency for a spectacular decline in the price of a stock to be immediately followed by a moderate and temporary rise before resuming its downward movement. According to Wikipedia, the term comes from “the notion that even a dead cat will bounce if it falls from a great height.”


Personally, I think the term should be used more often, and its meaning extended to realms beyond economic and the political it seems restricted to at the moment. For example: Your trainwreck friend shows up to an evening out with a new and surprisingly appealing significant other. They drink a moderate amount, make pleasant conversation and return home safely without starting a physical altercation. Everyone remarks on how well the friend seems to have pulled his or her life together, but you assure everyone that the night’s good show is merely a dead cat bounce and that the downward-spiraling friend will mostly be one the news by Monday, if not Sunday.

Today's Moment of Fuzzy Animal Sentimentality

And it's as true today as when Jesus first said it thirty years ago.

Kitty on Her Tibby-Toes

A quick addendum to the previous post regarding words and gender: The same site that told me about the widow/widower, bride/bridegroom thing also explained that the masculine "tomcat" has a feminine version that I'd never heard of. Apparently, the complement to "tomcat" is "tibcat," though the latter seems fairly archaic. Even the British, who originated the term, don't seem to use it very often anymore.

What's especially interesting "tibcat" is that by virtue of the feminine version vanishing from English, the generic "cat" could arguably become associated with female cats. Most people are familiar with the expression "tomcat" — perhaps as the verb "to tomcat," meaning to roam around looking for sexual gratification — but if the term is associated with male cats without an understood complement for females, the construction could arguably become "tomcat and cat," as in "dog and bitch," "cock and hen," "lion and lioness." What, then, does that say about the culture that uses the feminine synonymously with the generic?

The two other animal words that jump to mind as examples of the feminine being used frequently to refer to the whole species are "cow" and "duck." Think about it: How often do you drive by a dairy and say "Look at all the cows and bulls"? You don't. Regardless of how many of the animals are male, the whole group gets takes the female term, possibly because the activity humans most associate with them — milking — is inherently feminine. Ducks do too, though what feminine association we have with ducks is beyond me. "Duck" can technically refer to the species as a whole or the just the lady-ducks, with "drake" referring to just the man-ducks. (I blame Ducktales for the confusion.)

What trips me up when speaking of these strange animal gender problems is that other familiar species avoid the problem altogether by having an understood name for the male, the female and the whole species in general. Take sheep, for example. Most people know that a boy sheep are rams and girl sheep are ewes, yet we can still refer to them by their species name and not identify gender one way or the other.

Strange, strange.

And on a final note, does this mean that Mindy and Sally Sue can go out on the town, tibcatting around?

Ten Thousand Balls of Yarn

My parents called me Wednesday night, but I was at the dress rehearsal for "Cabaret," watching a pigtailed Palmy Palmerston twirl her legs in an entertaining fasion. When I got the message — "Just calling to say hi!" — I naturaly assumed something bad had happened, like my bank account taking a turn for the worse.

The next night I finally called my parents back and they told me the cat had died. I immediately thought back to a conversation with my parents I had during my last few days in London. They told me that they had bad news and I assumed then that the cat had finally kicked the bucket. She was fifteen then — and that was a year and a half ago. Instead, my mom and dad informed me that the departed loved one was my grandmother's sister, who had been like a second grandma for me and my brother.

I dno't feel especially sad. I guess having once mistaken my dead relative for a dead cat kind of shut me off to the idea of missing the cat. If I think about the cat, I end up thinking about how much more I miss Gigi. When I go home on Thursday, I might feel sad when I realize the cat won't be there, waiting to greet me with an indifferent stare — a look, I honestly believe, is cat language for "bring me food or fuck off" — but I can't say for sure until then.

This is the only picture I have of her. She was a good cat, I guess, though if you look at the list of her accomplishments over her nearly seventeen years, it doesn't amount to all that much. Then again, the net result is never all that important.