December 27, 2011
Music for fur-balls.
Artists have a tough enough time trying to believe that we’re not worthless, talentless frauds, without further assistance from those who live with us. Pictured above is the face that often looks down on me as I’m composing. It’s a face consumed by a mix of utter condescension, and muted disgust. On second thought, maybe not so muted. If the kibble bowl has not been attended to on some mystery timetable known only to the furriest creature in this household (hey, I shave), there is hell to pay. The emperor does not like to be kept waiting. Not when his hunger strikes. He will not wait in the name of Art, as I try to commit my sonic ideas to paper. And he will not wait in the name of 5:43 a.m., as I try to commit my weirder ideas to dreams.
When Catzilla is in his wake state, I am reminded that He Reigns.
Fortunately, as is the case with most house cats, this aforementioned wake state exists only about two and three quarter hours out of 24 each day.
His other 21 and a quarter hours are spent in various positions of recline and snooze-enabled, paw-trembling, imaginary kitty adventures. Most, with a big pink tongue dangling laughably (don’t tell him I used that word) from his cute kitty lips. Smudge was dealt some good hands in this life, not the least of which is the musical home that adopted him from the mean streets of downtown Los Angeles about a decade ago, when he was a 5 month old stray hiding in a paper sack from some dogs that were trying to, uh, eat him. His subsequent pampered and protected indoor-only, coyote- eagle- raccoon- pit bull- horned owl- vulture-free existence, has been something out of a fairy tale; he’s among that rare, lucky class of cats my grandfather used to refer to as “the one percenters.” Well, just about all of him is a “one percenter,” with the exception of his genetically terrible teeth, which are in the rock-bottom 0.14th percentile. Over the years, with each cleaning, a few more chompers fall by the wayside, making his already adorable visage (and, when not vying for instant feeding, his very adorable temperament) ever the more… goofy.
It’s hard to look too condescending and dictatorial when you’re asleep.
Not to mention, when you’re upside down, or when your tongue is hanging out of your mouth.