August 17th, 2005


(no subject)

Athena is a good cat, a nice cat, a loving cat, a very cute cat, and dumber than a sack of wet mice. (Now, the late Loki was no Einstein, I'll admit, but he was smarter than Athena. I still treasure the memory of Athena hiding in a sack on its side, swiping at Loki from the protection of the bag, obviously believing herself to be invisible. Loki got up, ambled around the back of the bag, and body slammed twenty pounds of cat, sumo style, onto it. It was arguably his finest hour.)

Today, I heard the birdlike chirp that serves Athena for a mew. I looked over to discover that she was prancing around on the end table that houses the X-box and my birding binoculars. There's not much space for a cat to manuever there, but she has delicate little paws and seemed to be doing okay. I got up and wandered in that direction, gazing idily out the sliding glass door at the soggy forest. Athena chirped. I looked over at her. She looked up at me, all four feet firmly on the table, and chirped again. As I watched, she extended a hind leg out over empty space, and apparently without realizing that one haunch was simply hanging in the air, lifted up a front paw delicately and shifted her weight to the dangling foot, obviously expecting thin air to support her weight.

Physics caught up a moment later. I dove for her as she slid off the end table, butt first, flailing claws seeking purchase in the X-box, the tabletop, and thin air. One of those rapid, hard-to-follow flurries followed, and then the cat was three or four feet away, wandering off, and I was checking myself to make sure that all my limbs were intact.

I looked at her. A smarter cat would have had the grace to give me the haughty I-meant-to-do-that or that-was-all-YOUR-fault look. Athena's expression, however, is simply "What?" She apparently forgot the entire episode while still in mid-fall. She didn't even give herself the whoa-that-was-a-close-one couple of licks. She just wandered off and fell asleep in James's chair, content with the universe.

Ignorance is bliss.

(no subject)

So...err...Digger got mentioned in the New York Times.

I am moderately floored.

Admittedly, it was in a discussion of comics better suited to traditional format:

"Consider "Copper," a beautifully drawn animal comic that won the prize for best art in the Web Cartoonists Choice Awards. To see the whole colorful page that Kazu Kibuishi composed, you either have to scroll up and down or look at the thumbnail sketch. It's roughly the same situation with "Digger," a graphically powerful comic, featuring a wombat, by Ursula Vernon. The whole thing almost fits on a full-page display, but the horizontal screen certainly isn't the most felicitous format for it."

--but there are much worse fates than having the New York times call your stuff "graphically powerful" any day, even if they think it'd better suited to traditional media.

So, err. Dude. Crazy.

(no subject)

So I was ambling around the living room, trying to think of what to do. Still buzzed from the NY Times thing. Not really interested in reading--a couple of books on hand, but none grabbing me intensely. I have a hard time watching TV and NOT doing something else--TV requires half a brain at most, and I need a book or something simultaneous. Sketched already for awhile, not really feeling it. Won Bard's Tale last week. Hmm. Hmm, hmm, hmm. Wandered the living room a bit more. Examined the cat. Was examined by the cat. Continued to wander.

"James," I said at last, "I think I need a game."

And James, wonderful, patient, indulgent James, James, who's games are his religion, art form, and great love*, looked at me with his eyes aglow and leapt to his feet and said "I'll get you a game right now! I know the one! You'll love it!"

"But--it's after nine--"

"We'll rent it!"

"You don't have to--" I was talking to air. James was long gone. I think it went from a vague longing for a game to James leaping into the car in under two minutes, and that included a minute worth of cleaning cat vomit out of a shoe. I think James takes a certain pride in finding games that I enjoy--I am a finicky player at best. He's not a demonstrative man, for the most part, (I'm not terribly so myself, mind you) but if I ever doubted that he loves me, the care he puts into locating games that I will enjoy would prove it in a heartbeat. Particularly since half the time, they're games he doesn't play himself.

He's a nut, but I love 'im.

*I don't ask him if he loves me more than games, and he doesn't ask me if I love him more than painting. Of such silent agreements are successful relationships made.