Post-Lunch Naptime Open Thread

Waaaaaay behind on today’s writing quota, so none of the posts I have queued up in my lizard brain can issue here.  But we need some more conversation, so to prod any dulled after-lunch synapses, here’s a little internet goody my musicologist sister sent me:

This was stimulated by Tikka’s just-now, post-midday-kibble behavior:  a leap onto my desk and a stroll-to-a-stop directly above my keyboard.  I petted him; he purred.  As he accounted tribute duly paid, he walked off to his usual spot just northwest of my right-hand screen:

The forte will come in a couple of hours, when he concludes that it’s time for second lunch.


He won’t get it, and we’ll have that conversation until six or so.



Have at it, everyone.

Okay, Reek, You Can Use Some of the Ottoman

Sometimes he is a benevolent dictator:

Sometimes. Back to my GoT marathon. On Ep. 6 Season 5.

(Some Of) The Kids Are All Right

Via my 17 y.o., who is my last link to what Da Utes T’ink, I present the winner of a Reddit photoshop competition:


‘Bout right, I’d say.

A little more goodness.  Here’s a true, heartwarming story of a boy raised right in the Levenson household.  I’m walking one day in the neighborhood with my spouse, and as we get to the local library I see an abomination parked in the lot across the street.  My gob is so smacked I have to take a picture.

Flash forward a couple of hours.  My son has just come home from a ramble round the ‘hood.  I asked him if he happened to see this amazingly awful automobile.

“The one parked by the library?” he asked.

“Yeah — I took a picture” say I.

“Me too!”

Good boy — I think.  De gustibus and all that…

…but no.  Some things are simply abominations.  Like this:

For those of us who aren’t car buffs, that’s a Porsche Cayenne.  It starts at around $60,000, and shoots up fast from there.  Which means someone out there woke up one day and thought that his or her life wouldn’t be complete without a more-than-the-US-median-family-income’s worth of pink Porsche truck.

There is a saying in the car business:  “There’s an ass for every seat.”  I rate that statement True.

(I’ll admit that this isn’t the most offensive car I’ve ever seen.  Hell, I rented a Pontiac Aztek once, and last year in LA I saw someone driving around in a fully chromed Mercedes E-class sedan, which went beyond ugly into a rolling public hazard.  But as the son of a mother who once drove twenty miles to the nearest Costco to return a case of dishwashing liquid bought in ignorance of its pink-titude, I reserve the right to loathe the above without any qualification.  I miss you, mom.)

Finally, by popular request (by at least one person here), and so as not to make this a whole post of horrors, here’s Tikka in one of his most echt poses:

And what the heck, one more, just for catness.



Y’all get the message. It’s Sunday.  The weather’s great here in the Athens of America, and low tide hits at around 6 — perfect for an evening at the beach.  For a few hours at least, the pleasures we each enjoy are ours.  The folly and worse will still be here tomorrow; sufficient unto the day and all that.

IOW:  Open thread.

Saturday Night Open Thread

The message here is clear:

“If I can’t sit in the box, I will sit ON the god damned box.”


Steve is now on a special vet prescribed diet to lose some weight and to take care of his urinary tract, and I have run out of his food and the vet does not open until eight. I am currently barricaded in my office and there is a vicious bobcat outside threatening me and hurling himself at the door:

I’ve been in here since 5:30 am because I no longer felt safe asleep in bed.

I don’t want to die.

Shitmas in July

While I cringe in horror every time I think about it, many of you fondly recall the Balloon Juice yuletide tale of the Legend of Shitmas 2016. Well, happy Juicers, it appears Shitmas came early in 2017.

Steve has spent the last couple of days pottying on carpets. Why? I don’t know. But I suspect he may have a urinary tract infection, as he has had them before, so I called up the vet and scheduled an appointment. Rosie also needed her nails trimmed and it had been about six months since her last pain shot for her hips, so I made it a twofer. Plus, everyone knows it’s not really a trip to the vet unless it costs close to the last damned dollar you have in your checking account.

After a little while, we managed to coax Steve out from wherever he was hiding in the back yard, and we three-manned him into his crate. To make matters more interesting, Rosie decided to fall/jump/jackrussellterrier into my father’s Koi pond shortly before it was time to leave (I was not there, but tales of Andrew’s heroism rescuing her should not go unmentioned). No, I don’t know if they are actually Koi or some other kind of foreign overweight fucking goldfish, but that is not central to the story and I don’t want to argue with you pedants about it. At any rate, she was fished out (you see what I did there?) and I loaded up the CRV with a recalcitrant and overtly suspicious Maine Coon and a recently moistened Jack Russell Terrier.

Fired up the trusty Honda, turned on the AC, got on the road, and eased into some Dire Straits for the short ride to the vet. With Allah as my witness, everything was going great for the first bit, but during the opening lines of Industrial Disease when the smell hit. It was so foul I had to open the window and stick my head out for the rest of the drive. I got to the vet and left Steve in a crate outside and took Rosie in, and I explained the situation and told them they needed to bring Steve into the back and deal with that because I didn’t want to kill anyone in the waiting room with the smell.

Steve was cleaned up, all went well with the visit, and there were even some mild jokes about this being the easiest stool sample they have collected in a while. I paid up, left, got halfway home, and he shit the crate again and managed to smear it into every inch of his coat. It was then that I realized that I was going to have to bathe the cat.

This was a multi-part operation. William held the towels, Andrew provided moral support, ABC held the leash and served as photographer, and I got, well, the shit end of the stick. The following will serve as documentary for what went down on this otherwise uneventful day.. And yes, that is a dogleash serving as a lariat:

As always, no animals were hurt during this, only maybe a little damaged pride. I am pretty sure I will be bled in my sleep tonight.

Cat Brothers Rescue Bleg – Wilmington, NC

From longtime commentor EFGoldman:

My son-in-law’s mother died suddenly this week. She had two cats, which she mistreated by overfeeding them terribly (one weighs 40 lbs!!). They need to be rescued or rehomed.

Can we put out a request for possibilities in the WILMINGTON NC area, please. I will pass them on to my son in law. Sorry, got no pix.

The cats are a bonded pair of male orange tabby brothers from the same litter, approx 8-9 years old. They are large and slow, in both senses of the word, not particularly active or vivacious but generally purring lumps, amenable to petting. They have lived in the same house since kittenhood and are as yet untried with dogs or children.

If you have room in your homes and your hearts for a couple of friendly, ambulatory hassocks — or if you have recommendations about no-kill shelters in the Wilmington area — leave a comment below. Or contact me at, and I’ll forward your message to EFG.