Surplus Cats

First, this new Wuthering Heights cover makes my heart hurt:

I can’t even. Just. Really?

Dangnabbit. I lost my entire train of thought and this just became a list.

Things that make me happy, July 2K10 edition:

• almond tea
• all the awesome dogs that live in my town
• finding Kobo Abe’s The Box Man at the used bookstore
• Kate Bush videos on youtube
• the sweet brush in Sally Hansen’s Insta-dry polish (& blazing blue)
• Sebastian Bach as as Gil in Lane’s band on Gilmore Girls

There’s a lot more. I’m in a really good mood lately. I think I am in love with this summer. Is that allowed or is it like when lions lay down with lambs? Fickle, fickle kid, no?

Here, have some tunes –perhaps to fold clothes to. A mostly new wave mix:

Don’t turn your back on me baby
Don’t turn your back on me baby

1990. I was 12. It was hot and sticky and my father’s car didn’t have air conditioning, but it did have a tape deck and one cassette. The tape was a blank one he’d filled both sides entirely with Santana’s Black Magic Woman, and the deck kept auto-flipping so that we’d been listening to it nonstop from Philadelphia to wherever it was he lived back then.

Yes, don’t turn your back on me baby

At one point he pulled up to a gas pump and shut off the car, and then gave the key a slight twist to keep Black Magic Woman going. “No!” I shouted over it, but he was already inside paying to fill up.

Stop messing round with your tricks

I hit the eject button and flung the tape into the bin between the pumps. His radio was, of course, tuned to the classic rock station and when he got back in the car Black Magic Woman had just started again. As it finished I side-eyed him, watching his mustache twitch before he turned to me.

“Did you take my tape?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to give it back?”

“I threw it out of the window.”

“What?”

“I didn’t litter. I tossed it into the trashcan back at the gas station.”

“That doesn’t make it ok!”

“I won’t do it again. You don’t have anymore tapes.”

“They’re just at home.”

“More tapes of just that one song?”

Don’t turn your back on me baby

I didn’t see him again after that, but I did get an email right after I’d left school, about a month before my university account was purged. I refused to listen to his bullshit. Six years and not even a birthday card from him? (Let alone years without court ordered child support checks.) And now he was blaming his long, silent absence on my mom? I replied with the coldest, meanest dismissal I’ve ever produced. He fired back an angry reply and I told him to leave me alone. He did.

Turning my heart in to stone

Several years ago my stepfather had a heart attack, and a bit later spent an entire night on the telephone with me telling me all of the things he would’ve done differently if he could do it all again; none of it included my mother, me, or my step brother. He insisted I promise him to not repeat his mistakes, to do what I want, and not be miserable like him. A few months later, or maybe even then — who knows? — he was cheating on my mother. They’ve been separated for three years now and he lives in their house with his girlfriend and her kids –a replacement family younger than the one he’d had plus one more kid. (I don’t really get it either.) I’ve tried to be civil, but it’s easier to just leave it alone.

His almost-dying and turning into a completely different person made me wonder how often people do change. Does everyone? And if one can change from a relatively decent person into a complete ass, is the opposite also true? Could I be less of a jerk to my own father now? Could he have also grown up a bit over the years? I started looking for him, and the closest I came was discovering that my grandmother had passed in 1998 — not very long after our ridiculous email argument.

I can’t leave you alone

Last week it occurred to me that perhaps my search was too narrow. As soon as I checked the social security death index, I found him; he’d died in 2008.

How do you lose two fathers at the same time and not know it?

I spent a day or so (it’s a blur) laying flat and still and mostly crying on the couch. You should see my back¹. Either a stuffed monkey made from socks too large for the largest lumberjack came to life, went goth, and gave me a smooch right above my ass, or the hardwood stairs I fell on the other night are really and truly hard, possibly even the hardest substance on Earth. Ouch x infinity + 2.

In my painful leisure I’ve been sleeping and not sleeping, in a weird schedule that on the upside is decent for keeping up with the fun stuff. That’s right, the World Cup, friends! My favorite part of it is when all the people who love to talk about how not into sports they are join forces with all of the people who are always more than happy to expound on how psyched American football or hockey or whatever makes them, to make sure everyone knows how stupid they think everyone who is “suddenly” excited about soccer² is for being stoked about a sport they like actually being on regular tv for a change. Because the United States is entirely made up of only NFL meathead jock douchebag fans and too-cool hipsters, and totally not a place where people from nations all over the world have immigrated –a world that is hugely taken with … soccer?

Soccer is a touchy subject for me because when I was little soccer was the one organized game that I could play where my best friend Melvin and I could be on the same team. Soccer was awesome and most of the people who told me otherwise insisted they were right because it was the sport that girls played too. I very strongly believe that is at the root of soccer not being regarded as a real sport here. And still, today, despite it being a worldwide phenomenon, you have people trying to erase a large percentage of the country’s interest in something because it is deemed “lesser than” — a stupid thing that even little girls (and foreigners) can do. How could it possibly be popular if it’s not a real sport? And anyone who is talking about it must be faking it because if people –meaning this very limited notion of the default American– really enjoyed it, it wouldn’t require some fancy sports package to keep up with more than once a year. This American essentialism and sexism rolled together and casually thrown around, even by some of the raddest women I know, is such a bummer.

Anyway how cute would a sock monkey in a wee soccer uniform be? Oh look, I found one³. God, my fucking back hurts.

1. except, no you shouldn’t [↩]
2. I’m calling it soccer for sake of clarity, and when I say “American” of course I mean USian. [↩]
3. adorable soccer monkey ganked from flickr user sockmonkeyfun. [↩]

So I’m sitting up late working on a design in the living room and there’s a terrible Syfy movie on in the background about giant spiders. I glance up from my laptop just in time to see a real, live, unacceptably large spider hiking up the wall directly behind the television. If the movie was at all creeptown that shit would’ve been like if The Ring had been unsettling.

Anyway, if you are going to watch Ice Spiders, I feel you could greatly improve your viewing experience by watching it in a 100+ year old home that you share with impossibly huge arachnids. You should probably just go to bed though because I’m positive your dreams would be more entertaining.

Oh hell, it’s 6am. I’m too tired to write about the tornado. Bedtime!