Of Granfalloons & Kiskas

I flipped out last night.

Had a massive panic attack over (of all ridiculous things) the House of Representatives’ failure to pass a government spending bill.

Unless they pass a government spending bill in the next 15 hours, the federal government will shut down.

The government spending bill that did not pass was that rare bipartisan effort, so this is an auger of things to come: In this country, there will be no more bipartisan government ever. One side will be on top, the other side will be humiliated & ignored.

Plus fuckin’ Elon Musk is the shadow President. And he is a complete sociopath.

And Biden, having opened the Umbrella of Protection over the head of his scuzzball son, seems bound & determined to let the country go down in flames as retribution over having been forced off the ticket.

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Why this particular news story freaked me out is impossible to say.

What do I care about the United States?

I mean, I do recognize that I am extraordinarily lucky to have been born here. All of us who were born here won the lottery.

But I don’t tear up at The Star Spangled Banner, & in general, I agree with E.M. Forster who once wrote, If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country.

Patriotism in the words of another favorite writer (Kurt Vonnegut) is a granfalloon.

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Anyway, there was nothing to do about the panic attack except watch endless episodes of Dead Like Me, one of my favorite comfort shows.

Dead Like Me has a truly enchanting backstory: Certain dead people (for reasons unknown) are charged with becoming Grim Reapers, helpers who guide the recently departed to whatever comes next.

The Grim Reapers meet every morning in a diner that looks a lot like Denny’s to receive their assignments, which are always delivered on yellow post-its.

The titular Me is an actress called Ellen Muth who is utterly brilliant in the role, though it is somewhat disconcerting to watch her grow more & more anorexic as the show’s two seasons progress—her legs getting skinnier & skinnier, her skin getting drier & drier. You can practically see where they lasered the lanugo down off her!

After the show was yanked off the air, Ellen Muth disappeared

I mean—I’m sure she’s still around somewhere. But she ceased acting & makes no move to capitalize on her former celebrity.

She took the money & ran!




I’m bad with anniversaries.

But some time during this past week was the one-year anniversary of the day the kiska girls came to live with me.

They hated me for the first three months.

And merely tolerated me for the next six.

But now I think they love me—whatever “love” means to a cat.

Though their habits & preferences are very different from the other companion cats that have lived with me. Neither of them like being cuddled, for example. Only recently have they adapted to the joys of lap-sitting.

I really don’t have much of a time table for them. What their lives might have been like before I picked them up at that forlorn little cottage in Hudson. (I wonder whether the woman who bequeathed them to me is still alive?)

I think Mabel was mistreated as a kitten or a young cat. She has a three-inch line on the right side of her skull where the fur doesn’t grow, a scar I’m thinking. And she startles very easily. And though she’s very self-possessed bordering on bossy around me, she hides from all other humans. The cat sitter did not see her once the entire time I was away.

Molly Cat is braver. She hisses at new humans before she runs away. It’s not aggression! It’s totally a defensive reaction, Don’t even think about messing with me!

Anyway, they’re good girls despite their idiosyncrasies and excellent company.

And I have a shitload of work to do today, so I better have at it.