Achy breaky art

A picture's worth 1K words, but I'll add a few:
Creepy showbiz dad. Ewwwwww.

Tigger

I have said before, and I'll say it again, that my blog is not a forum for cute cat photos. The lady of the house tries my very patience on this issue. So when she approached me today with a photo of her Dad's cat that arrived in the post, I put my paw up in defiance. Then she screwed up her face, leaned in close and hissed: So, how's your latest blog entry going? The one about Billy Ray Cyrus' poor parenting skills? Can't WAIT to read it!

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: Tigger.

Stymied

What does it mean when one has writer's block and writer's cramp simultaneously? Does the former render the latter insignificant?

Ah, but suffer from both, I do.

Jason Cats-tro has likely never heard of T.S. Eliot

Some American Idol contestants have gone on to Broadway success, which is the only reason I can think of that dreadlocked Jason Castro would choose to sing "Memory" from Cats on Andrew Lloyd Webber night. He can barely sing, but he would save the guys in hair-and-makeup 50 percent of their time grooming Grizabella. That is if the Broadway show was ever resurrected (and we dearly hope it won't be). It was worth the hour we lost of our lives to see the look on ALW's face when AI's resident stoner announced his song choice. And from the look on Sir Andrew's face as he watched the show from the audience, we think he may have lifted some wacky tobaccy from Castro's purse before their mentoring session was over. Sometimes the pain is too much to bear without self-medicating.

One of the hawkeyes in the living room recognized Miss Betty Buckley in the house, which prompted her to share an anecdote from when she saw Cats on Broadway. Buckley's rendition of "Memory" was the high point of the overpriced affair, and during a moment of boredom, our ticket-holder stepped outside for a Salem Slim Light and was mistaken for a prostitute. At that point, she began to feel that wearing a pair of leopard-print spandex leggings to the event was a bad idea. Yet, she got a strange satisfaction out of being gawked at by a New Yorker. She felt she'd arrived.

All that said, Jason's performance outshone the other weakest singer in the final six, Nanny Brooke, who would never be mistaken for a lady of the night. She still proudly waves her "I've never seen an R-rated movie" flag (which is at least a tad more palatable than the erstwhile contestant Kristy Lee's Stars and Bars fixation).

We like Sayesha for the best performance. The red dress, the twins and her lively choreography may have saved her. We think Jason or Brooke will get the axe. Stay tuned.

Earth Day musings

From space.com:

"Astronomers know that over the next few billion years, the sun will swell so large as to envelop Earth. If we're still here, we will probably fry and the planet will be vaporized. There's a chance, however, that the changing mass of the sun will cause Earth to move into a more distant and pleasant orbit. One mathematical calculation shows it would be theoretically possible for humans to engineer such a move before it's too late."

Whew. For a bit there, I was worried.

YouTubers can't be trusted

Back in March, I wrote of the young Dutch entrepreneur who began taking donations to finance his addiction to napping. And I proposed a similar scheme to make a little money off my own torpor, posting a video of myself slumbering on YouTube. Since then, 241 people have viewed the clip, yet I've received not one thin dime! I know the economy is bad, but that's no excuse for stealing. I would not accept a pat on the head without at least a modest purr in return. Homo sapiens, I am VERY disappointed in you.

BSG Spoiler Alert: Cylon Model #12 Revealed

Be careful what you google for

I wanted to reassure myself that there'd be no way Stephen Colbert could actually put his stink on the Newseum. So I googled "Stephen Colbert" and "Newseum." Oh, me. It turns out, the Newseum will be displaying his "first script about truthiness" alongside Bob Woodward's notes from the Watergate scandal exposé and the typewriter used by WWII war correspondent Ernie Pyle! If I poked around the living room long enough, I'm sure I could find the cocktail napkin I used to sequester the ill-timed third-quarter hairball I horked up during my historic live Superbowl blog.

Who does a cat have to frack to get a drink around here?

Catscan

Warning: If you sit on top of a scanner, the computer technician might be tempted to engage in a bit of mischief.

I feel violated.

Paula Abdul suffocates chihuahuas!

American Idol was barely under way Tuesday before the Madame and I started wagering on what Paula Abdul was concealing beneath her torturous bodice. Following Michael Johns' ear-shattering "glory notes" at the end of Aerosmith's "Dream On," Abdul announced: "I think my chihuahuas are going to come join you on stage." Yet, they never materialized! During the commercial break, the truth was discovered: the chihuahuas expired before they could be wrested free from the amalgam of boobs and taffeta. In order to preserve the integrity of Adbul's "cleavage," the dogs remained in situ until after the show, our sources confirmed.

The chihuahuas' next-of-kin could not be reached for comment. Charges are pending.

World Rat-Firefighter Day

That's it, I'm firing my secretary. He was supposed to remind me that April 4 was World Rat Day. I beg your pardon, dear readers. Dare I say there's still a whiff of the holiday in the air? Join me as I pay photographic tribute to these brave, firefighting rats. (The one under the truck is not cowering—he's just inspecting the chassis. Aye, by my whiskers! I do believe there's a radiator leak).

Hip-hip, hur-rat!

Cat warns Colbert: Keep your grubby paws off the Newseum!

American History Museum Director Brent Glass has bowed to pressure and added Stephen Colbert's portrait-in-portrait-in-portrait to the items on display in the Smithsonian's Treasures of American History exhibit, which runs through April 13th. So this goofball's mug now shares the stage with Abraham Lincoln's hat, Dorothy's ruby slippers and Helen Keller's watch. I regret that I didn't get on board in time to have my own portrait considered.

But maybe it's not too late to get my paw in the door at D.C.'s Newseum, which opens April 11. After all, this is an institution that explores the history and import of the contributions of journalism, and I think a blogging cat bloody well deserves her due. I bet Colbert's lackeys are already trying to weasel their way into the Newseum too. Such a mission would fail, of course, because Colbert is a satirist. I, however, am 100% real—in your face with the truth, not the truthiness.

Undoubtedly there's stiff competition for space at the Newseum. But surely there's a spare corner for a modest kiosk showcasing my blog. I know, I've never reported from the battlefield or stayed up all night to bring you election results. But I've missed a lot of naps to bring you my view of the world.

Whaddya say, Newseum?

I am so busted.

"Celebrate Me Home" causes spontaneous hemorrhaging in cats

I can remain silent no longer. That "Celebrate Me Home" song by Ruben Studdard — the one they play whenever an American Idol contestant gets canned — is MAKING MY BRAIN BLEED. It lacks any redeeming value, musical or otherwise. I guarantee you that if any Idol contestant in the history of the show had performed that song, including RS himself, he or she would be seared by the judges afterward for making "the wrong song choice."

The other reason I hate it is because it makes absolutely no sense. You can't celebrate anyone home. You can celebrate an accomplishment, as in "Japanese scientists are celebrating their recent success at training rats to use rakes."* But you can't transport a person from point A (i.e., the set of American Idol) to point B (i.e., a room ablaze with the harsh light of reality) by "celebrating" him there.

If it were possible to celebrate someone somewhere, I would temporarily waive my personal policy of non-celebration to celebrate the new cat, Max, back to the cluster-fracked** universe from which he came. I would put a crown of daisies on my head, don a sequined skirt and propel myself 'round the maypole if it would make him disappear.

*They hope to one day celebrate success at teaching ferrets to drive snow plows.

**Battlestar is back on Friday, so hold onto your fracking hats!

"If you can't say something nice ...

... say nothing at all."

I will pledge to do this as I assess tonight's American Idol. Why? Because Maxim was mean to Sarah Jessica Parker, and I got to thinking that maybe my words have unduly hurt the feelings of some of the AI hopefuls. This doesn't mean I am going to just lie down and take everything they unleash on us without retribution (I promise I'll be back next week with my fully intact claws at the ready). Think of this as a temporary ceasefire—a free pass to the kids, so to speak—from a temporarily kinder, gentler me.

1. Brooke White. I like the name "Jolene," which was the name of the song you sang.
2. Jason Castro. I think you graduated from college dorm room caliber performance to coffee house caliber performance.
   
3. David Cook. It's a love-in. I love your new hairdo. The plastered-down Liza Minelli look was really ill-advised. I loved your song. I also loved that even though you sang higher up in the roster than normal (number 3 , I believe) I still loved your performance best by the end of the show.
4. Carly Smithson. You sang so sweetly. You didn't scream. And I thought you looked soft and pretty somehow, in spite of the tattoos and dark clothing and eyeliner. It reminded me of the time Amanda Overmyer gave her makeup artist the night off.
   
5. Ramiele Malubay. "If you can't say something nice, proceed to number 6."
   
6. Sayesha Mercado. You demonstrated that it is possible, though difficult, to really work the color yellow.
7. Kristy Lee Cook. It was pleasant. Just like Simon said. You sang the Lady of the House's favorite Dolly Parton song and didn't ruin it.
8. David Archuleta. I can't remember what you sang. But I do remember all three judges saying they liked it. They couldn't all three be wrong, could they? So, well done. I guess.
9. Michael Johns. This is the first time you have performed as well as you did at your audition. I remembered why I liked you at first. I want to say something about the ascot. I really do. But I can't. I promised.
   

George W. Bush keeps fingers out of nose

The commander-in-chief threw the ceremonial first pitch at the Washington Nationals season opener Sunday night, and it remains to be seen whether it'll bring the team good luck or bad. I personally think he left a bigtime stink on the ball. Sure, they won the game, but they still have at least 161 games to play. Remember seven weeks after the beginning of the Iraq war when Bush boasted "Mission Accomplished!"? Which, by the way, is exactly what the lady of the house yells whenever she's done scooping our litter box each night. But then the next day, guess what? All has turned to s**t again.

To Bush's credit, I think he behaved pretty well overall. He didn't call the fans that booed him The Enemies of Freedom. And he refrained from doing this.

Feminist Tuesday haiku entitled: "Some Teenage Boys Never Grow Up"

for CBB

SJP is hot
No matter what Maxim writes
Bathroom walls still live

—HTC