Stacy Horn

I swear this macro function turns every cat into a supermodel. Or … maybe … my cats are the most gorgeous cats in the whole wide UNIVERSE. (This is what I tell them.)

I keep meaning to say, I have to turn off the comments section on every post after a week or so, because it eventually starts filling up with spam comments for sex with hookers in the UK. So, I’m sorry if you try to comment and can’t.

Today I’m going out to Brooklyn to see friends I have known since junior freaking high school. Who have sons who are long out of junior freaking high school. Hey, Chris and Adrienne both have two sons. Have I noticed the perfect symmetry of that before? And I have two male cats! (Yeah, yeah, I’m the losah. I KNOW.) Chris is the one who just got married on New Years Eve. And I posted a picture of a slightly drunken Adrienne at my wedding a few months back.

Hopefully I will be back with embarrassing pictures of everyone tomorrow.

Picture missing! Where it went I know not!

Regardless of the fact that I have walked down Bleecker Street pretty much every day of my entire adult life, I learned from someone here in the comments section that Bleecker Street has a “c” in it. Who knew?? (I can’t remember who it was and I can’t find it now, I’m sorry, or I would totally give you credit for enlightening me! You knew!)

This is an original advertisement for the recently deceased Gian-Carlo Menotti’s opera The Saint of Bleecker Street which proves the spelling. But I checked a street sign when I went out and sure, enough, it’s BleeCker.

Meanwhile, in my life, this poltergeist chapter is still kicking butt, and I’m thinking I will not make a drumming gig tonight. I’m in an all-percussion band called the Manhattan Samba Group. But what can I say, I like to stay in at night.

Oh god. Just kill me now, I suppose.

These nice men were cleaning the steps at the Met yesterday so we wouldn’t slip and break our necks.

The show that my friend wanted to see was Glitter and Doom: German Portraits from the 1920s, and it was the better show. It was amazing, but horrifying. It leaves on the 19th, so get there now if you want to see it. The paintings of prostitutes were overwhelmingly, disturbingly sad. It’s such a terrible roll of the dice, what you get in your one shot at life. You’re born — and what are the odds of even being born, it must be incalculable — and you’re plopped down in midst of this one moment of history and circumstances that bring you to what was portrayed in these paintings, and then you die. That’s it. No second chances.

Unless you are convinced by the research of Ian Stevenson, who I just learned died on February 8th. I wanted to interview him last year, but he was already too ill. Stevenson did research in reincarnation, and I’m not familiar with that work, but I have some stuff bookmarked and I hope to include a brief over-view in my book.

Rest in peace, Dr. Stevenson. And come back soon, if that is, in fact, possible.

This oven came from the apartment next door to me, which had been empty for decades. The story goes, a young cop who was killed in the line of duty had lived there with his wife and baby daughter in the 50’s. When he was killed his wife took their baby and left and never came back, leaving the furniture and a lot of their possessions behind. They continued to pay rent, though, so the apartment stayed empty.

I moved in next door around 1981 or 1982, I forget. One night there was a radiator leak in the apartment and the super had to break in to fix it. I was home so I went inside with him. At least part of the story was true. It was like going back in time. There was old furniture there that had been sitting unused for decades. Wallpaper was peeling off the walls in great big chunks. A desk full of someone’s papers sat dusty and cobweb-y.

And there was also this stove, which I thought was beautiful. The super said I could have it and it now sits in my bedroom. This picture doesn’t do it justice, it really is a lovely thing.

Which was a long lead in to this website. Michael who reads this blog sent it to me. It’s called the Baby Boomer Death Counter. Good freaking lord. Prepare yourselves fellow boomers.

Someday someone else will have my beautiful stove. They will tell their own story about how they came to own it. Maybe they will talk about how they got it from the cat lady’s apartment on the top floor. (Except, technically, I am NOT a cat lady. Two cats do not count as “cat lady,” right??)

WAIT. Have I told the stove story before? Am I repeating myself?? Has it come to this?? (Forgive me.)

There is no connection between what I’m going to say and this picture. But, God. Will you look at those claw marks? These cats are ruining the place. One of them was sick on my lovely sofa, and I had my upholstry cleaner guys out yesterday but no-go. There’s a faint outline. So now I have to resort to the cover-up. I’ll find some pretty lace thing.

In fact, here’s a shot of my current cover-up solution:

I’m uploading these pictures of the slow destruction of my apartment by cats because future historians from other planets who will chart and write about the fall of our civilization will need proof.

Future Alien Historian: No really, look. There were wars and genocide all over the place, the debate on global warming was over, they knew it was coming and this is what she concerned herself with. I’m not making this up, I swear. Look. I have proof.

Still to see Before the Oscars

Babel
Pan’s Labyrinth
The Queen
Letters from Iwo Jima

Seen

Dreamgirls – not recommended.
Children of Men – recommended.
The Painted Veil – highly recommended.
Catch and Release – a nice diversion.