Drawing conclusions

I have just come to the marvelous conclusion that the reason I’m having trouble getting back into drawing is because I am pressuring myself to think I have to draw stuff like landscapes and flowers and people, when I have absolutely no desire to draw any of them. What do I want to draw? Waffles and dogs and shirts that zip up the front with a jaunty round zipper pull. Maybe a fanciful hat that could never exist in the so-called real world.

I am not an art student. I have no exams to take, no grades to achieve. Like with writing, I can draw what I know. And if what I know is waffles, then that’s what I’m serving.

There’s a reason I’m the only person in New York City who doesn’t have a therapist: Because I’m so damned good at it myself. And my cat is an excellent sounding board.

Perhaps I can draw her too.

The answer is “no”.

In answer to the question that, if my apartment were being bugged, was never asked since it wasn’t heard, but if my brain were bugged, was asked but silently within its nougaty confines: “No.”

No, the stuff I made for dinner was not something I would deem acceptable at a restaurant. I would not be happy to be paying for a plate heaped with an inelegant jumble of baby carrots, yellow bell pepper, tofu, and sweet potato (or yam?) (Aside: Ask Alexa what the difference is. She is sure to say, “I’m sorry, I don’t know that,” and then I can intone “Hey Google” into the phone and pose the question or just spin around, sit in the chair, and do a Google search without saying a single word) roasted to hell and back with several careless wrist-shakes of black pepper, salt, garlic powder, sweet smoked paprika, red pepper flakes, and a touch of nutritional yeast (which I will never call “nooch” even if you put a gun to my temple and tell me that pulling the trigger will not yield a little flag emblazoned with the word “Bang!”).

Did you get all that, what with the parenthetical asides that added more flavor and pizzazz to this snooze-worthy account than the seasoning did to the stuff I had for dinner?

Oh, and it was all dumped atop a “bed” of lettuce with my famous tahini-lemon-dill dressing and several enthusiastic shakes (again with the shaking) of Frank’s hot sauce. And eaten on the sofa while watching an unappetizing episode of “Black Mirror”.

No, I would not have been thrilled to pay for this in a restaurant. And no, I would not have licked the plate clean in a restaurant as I may have done here at home.

Also, the same answer applies to this question: Was it really necessary for me to devour a whole apple right before this hapless heap?

And no, there is no photo.

Shhh. It’s not a resolution. I swear.

Just because this is my second post in two days, and the first one just so happened to coincide on the first day of the year doesn’t mean that I’ve made a New Year’s resolution to post here every day. I haven’t. Indeed, I didn’t even realize, when I posted yesterday, that it was the first of the year. I just posted on a whim because I had more than five words strung together that I thought were perhaps 2% worthy of perhaps one person in the world seeing, so I put them here for posterity. Whatever that means.

Today was the first time I left the apartment since last Wednesday late afternoon/early evening, except for a jaunt on Saturday morning to Whole Foods via Lyft and home via a regular ol’ cab. I was suffering a bit of cabin fever, or studio apartment fever, having cooped myself up here after suffering a bizarre episode upon my arrival home from the aforesaid late afternoon/early evening of Wednesday past (rhetorical question: Can I sound more pretentious?). Because I’m incredibly vain, I wore boots that were ill-equipped to handle the tundra that New York has been for the past ten days or so, and fear my feet suffered at the hands of the nasty freeze and thus the rest of my body, attached as it is to my feet (go figure!), was ill-affected as well, resulting in me seriously thinking I was on the verge of a stroke, which prompted me to speak aloud, loudly, to the otherwise quiet room, knowing that if indeed I were suffering a stroke, I wouldn’t be able to do so.

I felt as if I were outside myself, beyond myself, and trapped within myself all at the same time, and must confess to a fair amount of what I’ll just call quiet panic at the prospect of not being able to type (my left index finger was not fully cooperating) or walk properly (my big toes were being big jerks and felt deflated and hot and as if they had lost all tone) and feared I would have to get myself to an Urgent Care facility but didn’t want to jump the gun.

I was afraid to go to sleep, fearing that perhaps what I had suffered would do me in if I were to surrender to slumber. Alas, I did fall asleep. And apparently woke up the next day. And have succeeded in every day since then.

I left the house today, without event, and with much quiet silent celebration inside my head, on my predawn walk to the gym, where I not only did “the usual” weights but did so with rather good strength and proper form and ran on the treadmill without event for 52 minutes while listening to, among others, The Partridge Family.

So 2018 is off to a brilliant start. And anyone reading this deserves a medal for not suffering a stroke out of sheer boredom.

Small Victory

jesusshaves jesusshaves

The coffee’s held hostage in its pot until I get something done. I must complete the task in order to earn the reward, so the coffees languishes, my silent incentive, just wanting to be poured into a mug already and quaffed. It’s getting impatient.

I would complete the task with more expedience/happiness if only I’d had the coffee, but I can’t until I’m done the task. It’s, yes, a Catch-22, or a Caff-22, or just plain old ridiculous since I’m the one imposing this rule. Still, I must abide or I’ll have let myself down.

My task? Writing these words.

The “Jesus Shaves” mug was sent to me as a gift from a friend who makes me laugh hard enough to make me almost pee my pants, a charming event that would be hastened by coffee quaffing (coffing?).

In the mug’s “ready” state, anticipating coffee, it depicts Jesus, looking like a long-lost BeeGee on the brink of harmonizing with his brothers. When hot liquid is added, he loses the sexy beard and several years and looks like a poetic-souled boy who’d pair bellbottoms with his tunic in my seventh grade class circa 1975 and earn several pages in my diary.

About Face(book)

Well, hello. How nice of you to have taken the time to find me here or follow me here now that you’ve noticed my absence on Facebook. So, welcome, and have a seat and thank you for stopping by.

I deactivated Facebook two weeks ago today for several reasons. Perhaps the least serious is that I don’t want to witness a glut of holiday posts, especially those containing any iteration of the elf on the shelf, a blight that plagues Facebook this time every year. Even worse are the “funny” elf on the shelf posts where the elf finds himself in hilarious risque situations revolving around Barbie or Barbie-type dolls and a dearth of tiny pants. Oh, look, the naughty elf has apparently been a very good boy the rest of the year, because he’s being serviced to plastic perfection by a bobble-head! Good job, my friend!

I shan’t (no, I shan’t!) go into the more “serious” reasons, because it’s just not important. What is important are these things, with which I will delight any visitors here just as I did over there: My cat, Lola; my food; photos of random nonsense in NYC; and some general rantings and/or ravings, none of which will invite debate because I don’t like debate and just want to lounge around quietly on my sofa, giggling over “The Partridge Family” like it’s 1973.

Stick around. Let’s see how long I keep this up.

State of the Mewnion


This was the state of the mewnion here on New Year’s Eve. This is how my cat, Lola, and I spent 92% of our time from Saturday morning after I got back from Whole Foods (she “held down the fort” while I was out foraging among the Upper West Siders) until yesterday. The grayish-blue expanse behind her that looks like a TV is not a TV. It is part of one of the windows looking out into our stunning courtyard, which is about as riveting as Rockin’ New Year’s Eve, which we did not watch because we don’t have cable. And if we did, we would have read on the sofa and eaten popcorn and not turned it on anyway.

Fun fact: My cat is just a head, as pictured here. Any photos floating around where she appears to have an entire body are of her in her prosthetic full body suit that she wears only for purposes of being photographed. While at home, simply relaxing, she is just a head. A fluffy, impossibly cute and round head that brings me incredible joy.

This is our life. We embody glamour.

Hello, 2017

Hello, and Happy New Year, and all other usual greetings of the season that, although sincere, still come off like obligatory sound bytes devoid of meaning.

Anyway. Here we are. Where that is, exactly, I don’t think any of us knows. I know I am here in New York City, on the Upper West Side, in my crazy apartment that I adore, with a crazier cat whom I adore, in pajamas that I quite like, contemplating more coffee, which will turn into a reality the moment I hit “Publish”, which of course means that I now have incentive to get this thing out there. This … thing … where I’m not even saying anything.

Or am I?

But where are we? And where was I on this “Where are you” front? Ah, yes, saying I don’t think we know where we are. Or where we’re headed. Although Facebook and Twitter are clogged with everyone saying, “We are doomed!” and “We’re all going to die!” and running around with their hair on fire, their panicked faces melting down into their necks, with their mouths somehow still magically functioning.

I won’t be talking about the P(E)O(TU)S here on my “blog”, because I don’t want to sully my entries. I’d rather write about picking off a scab from my knee, starting at the edges, and peeling it up a little with a bit of a wince and grimace, revealing a slightly gooey pink bit of skin, or about a baby’s phlegm, or the squish of maggots that writhed beneath a tombstone my sister lifted in a graveyard next to a house my parents were looking at as a possible home for us. I would rather write about mold and lint.

This is not putting my head in the sand. This is just my need to have a space of my own free from the bleakness of social media, in which I barely participate these days. I deactivated Facebook, am on Twitter really only to get news from reliable sources and to occasionally toss my hat in the ring on a particularly hilarious hashtag game, and to post photos on Instagram, the least social media-y of the social media, of a round bread I baked and ate all in the same day, an occasional drawing, and photos of dogs and/or cats.

But here I am in my own little corner of the world, if you need me for general whateverness. Hello.

Neighborhood Splotch, No. 4

Originally posted on Instagram on 19 October 2016
Originally posted on Instagram on 19 October 2016

At first I saw a skinny kid with big hair leaning against a wall, perhaps on the verge of being up to no good or just contemplating an annoying practical joke, but then a strange girl in a tiny hat (not a tiara, good god, no, NEVER a tiara) on a uni-pogo-a-gogo took over, and that was that. Vroom. Or boing. Or something.

Neighborhood Splotch, No. 3

Originally posted on Instagram on 13 October 2016
Originally posted on Instagram on 13 October 2016

Neighborhood Splotch, No. 3. At first glance, I saw a loveable, hapless, clumsy waitress like, say, Vera from “Alice”, stumbling with a tray of food while descending a ramp. But when my hand took over, somehow things took a less appetizing turn and instead of spilling goodies, she was spilling her guts. Quite literally. Much to the shock and consternation of an unidentified internal organ who now finds himself quite external.