Did I just Eat a Murakami Cat?

Inspired by Haruki Murakami, his cats and maybe my roommate has something to do with all of this.

Well my dear darlings, I don’t know what happened here and why you were not reading my wonderful passage I wrote about E. Nokrošius just a few days ago, I just don’t know and, I guess, I will never know. Even thought I might pretend that I don’t care about things of that nature, but I do care and it hurts me so much that I want to grab another gallon of my favorite Port (of course it has to be my favorite Port, what else?) and have it down to the very last drop right at this moment. Drown that sadness Mr. Plastikoff, drown it!

That’s right, I am definitely going to do that… as soon as I have these seventeen dollars and forty cents to spare, of course, but for now, I guess, I will just have to write something about cats and be sad.

You are probably surprised (or at least I want to think that you are) and are asking yourself, why cats? Well, my darlings, there are a lot of people who love cats, so since they do love them, I have to write about them, right? Oh bullocks, I am just a little too emotional right now and there is a reason why (no, I am not allergic to cats, no, just probably a little verklempt (you really need to read this drunk, it’s more enjoyable this way. There is a reason why I am releasing all this gas on a Friday afternoon) (smiley face)).

It might be that I have inhaled way too much of that smoke which came out from that tea pot my roommate left unattended for a few hours on the stove and almost burned this whole damn house down. Could it be that? Yes, it could be.

The smell of burned hair is still lingering around me like some kind of esoteric mist that you spray around to make all these daemons disappear.

I have a suspicion though that it could be that my roommate might have cooked that poor cat which was looking through our kitchen window the other day, sitting peacefully on the fire escape. It could be that, yes, it could be. This definitely would explain that burned hair smell around the apartment. I hope that this is not the case, because otherwise how am I going to write about the cat today when I have no immediate inspiration looking at me as if I am some kind of head of a smoked fish I ate a week before on Brighton Beach. Could it be that? Yes, it could be.

Now why the duck a cat I want to write to you about today, why? Well, my dear darlings, I do not know. What I do know though is that somehow I need to get your attention, because, you know, I am an attention whore, why would I work in theater otherwise for, a cute smiley face? I don’ think so.

If you would have read my previous entry, you would already know how I feel about this Lithuanian cat Nekrošius, who is more of a tiger, if you ask me. I am still afraid to meet him though. I am scared that he might bite me (pun intended) and I might lose all the motion in my, let’s say, left hand. Brrrr…

This is quite, what’s the word for it, horrific? No, that is not the word I want to use here, but whatever. Nobody wants to lose their left hand to anybody unless… hmmm, the cat is definitely not around anymore. That is a little too suspicious…

So, alright, cats, cats, cats and the theater. What kind of connection do they have? Oh God, I am going to have a really hard time naming this entry. Good luck with not sounding like some crazy Russian who just ate a cat and have forgotten about it the minute he did it.

Yes, I am crazy and who wouldn’t be considering that I have chosen theater as my carrier. Darlings, I get it, working in theater is equals being homeless, yes, I get it, but I am not that crazy yet that I would forget about the cat I just ate. Too many “that’s” on this page, if you ask me. Hmmm, I have a weird feeling in my stomach all of a sudden.

Well alright, I guess I will need to ask my roommate about that last meal he invited me to taste just before that fire broke down. I sense a Shakespearean plot brewing, but moving on…

As with all of my genius entries which have no particular place or need to be on the almighty Internet it happens so that I give you some valid information at the end of my jumbo-mumbo every time I talk. You might not realize that, but I do.

You, most likely, will never need to use that “valid information,” because, you know, even though I like sharing, I share only things that are more convenient to me. Would I be sharing information about how to get rich? I don’t think so. It’s all a secret, even to me, so ride the subways as I do, when, of course, I have those two dallas and fity cents fo a ride. God gracious, that’s almost the prize of two bagels and a coffee…

Sharing is carrying, you must understand that, unless you are a cat, of course, then a smoked fish head sounds more appealing to you than some guys ranting about things that matter only when you are alone, surrounded by the smoke and think that your roommate wants to smoke you alive because you dropped a few water drops on the kitchen counter (true story)… oh wait, no wonder I feel like eating myself. I smell like that smoked fish. Let’s just hope those cats can’t… oh damn you Murakami.

But anyway, what is that “valid information” I want to share with you, my dears? Oh that’s right, books that you should read before you are smoked out from your apartments by your roommates. These books below all have talking cats and are just… well read it and let’s talk about them.

So here they are:

Mikhail Bulgakov’s “Master and Margarita”

Haruki Murakami’s “Kafka on the Shore” and

Definitely something by Edward Gorey

Here is a little clip to spice things up. We all know how we like some youbty clips do go with those words. I present you Gorey and, of course, his cat:

Oh and to those theater fans, Grotowski used cats as examples for actors to watch, but about it at another time. I need to make sure my neighbor’s cat is still alive.

Have a pussy day, or should I say a weekend, my darlings. And what is this here on my plate? An eyeball? Should I faint for a dramatic effect now or should I leave it for tomorrow? Oh whatever (faints)!

Theater Farts

Theater in Times of Cholera or the Beastly Baby and a Chainsaw

Now now, My Dear Darlings, Muffin Tops of mine, I don’t know if you are aware but we are living dead. (Pff, first sentence and I’m already using “The Living Dead” reference. Whatever!) Dead or alive we all suffer from lactose induced farts, so who cares? Cholera!! Cholera is everywhere! – somebody screams. It’s here and there are mere times when I ask – do I care? In times like these we’re all better off… oh, that’s right, I said that already. Must be the cheep Port I am drinking now that affects my d(r)eadliness.

What is all this nonsense? – you ask.  Well, my Dearests, since we are still alive and kicking (so cliche of me, even the spell check doesn’t want to put the “`” above the “e”), why don’t  we discuss the pointlessness of theater? See, I am confused and perplexed again. Do you spell “theater” or “theatre?” Oh so Russian of me, I know, but it seems like my spell check is all disoriented about it too. Whoever decided to play with my emotions changing that last letter and the “`” (whatever that called is), is going to get my word. What word, I haven’t decided yet, but, I believe, it will be a word that describes that beastly (sorry for my French) baby outside my window. Yep, there is a baby and it is screaming, if you haven’t understood it yet.

See these “lovely” babies sometimes grow into, well, let’s just say, into somebodies like me, artists, who write about things that make absolutely no sense whatsoever (I just wanted to use “whatsoever” in this sentence, forgive me my abundance). One of them is now exercising his vocal cords (oh, how lovely!) and do I hear the sound of a chainsaw accompanying the high G? No, I am not going to give it up to hate, but I am going to say this, we all were babies, at one time (or another), I should add, some of us still are, but that’s not the point. The point is that that time was lost long ago (À la recherche du temps perdu, Le Proust and la croissant (see I speak French too), by the way he started writing those “temps” in 1913) now its 2013, if you didn’t know that already. So here we are, all bitter and full of lactating gas, still spending our hard earned money for those coffee lattes, sitting in some God forgotten offices and waiting, because there is nothing more satisfying than a fart after being yelled at by (insert a name), but I digress. I will be doing that a lot, as you can see or rather read already (smiley face).

Okay, what was it I was going to talk about with you today? Oh right, theater. I don’t know if it is ever a good idea to start a theater business anywhere in the world, but from the looks of it, we decided to do it. Oh duck it, one day we’ll all die anyway, so why not. Reading books about successful theater companies doesn’t help, because, first, you don’t know if you are going to be successful and second, well I haven’t thought about the second yet. At the end of the day we all need to pay rent and make sure that we put chairs in front of our doors for them to make some noise when our crazy roommates decide to kill us (oh, how I feel like reading some Agatha C. right about now). I am not sure if I should be discussing this with you here, but since I am hearing some strange noises my roommate is making at the moment, I say, why not? You will be my witnesses (of course, if this blog has more than one reader, that is, otherwise I will disappear with other written mumbo-jumbo in the digital oblivion).

Oh no, one might say, another blog about starving theater artists, paranoiac roommates and hard times living in Nueva Jerk. And I say, have you heard the baby outside my window, the saw and the hammer at seven o’clock in the morning? Ha, the sun is still shinning (even though it seems quite cloudy today) and I am still breathing. So go and grow your own veggies  somewhere in the country (hmm, I actually though about doing just that) and leave me and my hungry city rats (oh no, not rats again!) alone. If the rats can survive in the city, so can I. If not, there is always a public library somewhere. Why the public library, you ask. I don’t know, maybe that’s the last place hungry rats go to feed themselves?

Damn, what an uplifting first entry on this fabulous Monday morning (even though I am writing this on Sunday, but who cares). I don’t even remember (again!) what I was going to tell you here, my beastiful and chic readers, but one thing I am sure about: at this very moment, this baby outside is going to start screaming again as soon as it hears that saw and the hammer, but I am going to forgive it all. It is rehearsing  something, mind you. What is it preparing for us, I’m not sure yet. The saw is still running but the baby (for some reason) is quiet. Everybody expects some kind of disaster anyway, but, I guess, anything can become entertaining in these times of… ah, forget about it…

So, Darlings, My Muffins and Stuff, who can tell you what you should and shouldn’t do? Pursue whatever duck you want, just ducking do it, because who else is there left when everyone’s running with diarrhea? You! You, who, against all odds, uses their diarrhea to entertain others (definitely somebody had way too much Port or was it coffee?). I have to use my bathroom now. Ta-ta and read you next time.

Your Splastikoff or is it?

P.S. Oh my goodness, so many words and comas. I am getting dizzy!!