Hank Williams, Bongo and Me

Packing boxes with flotsam
and jetsam of another job gone south
phone rings like an angry bee
"He's had another one, calling the vet"

Steel guitar, mournful cry of lonesome
Last box goes in the car,
Professional dreams slumped over
in a passenger seat of sighs

Short goodbyes, shaking hands
and compliments with such flair
the hype was easy to swallow
Smiling and sinking in tandem

Out the door under a lowering sky
the melancholy cap pulled over furrowed brow
Wondering if its possible to write a song
Anymore, that isn't a bucket of sorrow

On the highway, screaming along to the radio
Filling up on another's artificial fuel
But inside, wondering if its possible
To write a country song without whiskey


Saying goodbye to an old friend
hands on the wheel, heart in the mouth
Knowing that its deep country
When everyday is just another parting


R.I.P. Bongo, our kitty with a 'tude. 20 years was a good run. May you find that spot in the sun.

Things What Are Great*, Wee Lass Style

I attended a Father's Day Snack event at my Wee Lass's daycare today, and it was an absolute gas. They kids had decorations and gifts for all the dads, and the piece de resistance was the snack: banana splits, made with vanilla ice cream and our choice of chocolate syrup, caramel and/or rainbow sprinkles**. We had a grand time, a great way to cap off a lovely Friday afternoon, especially since I took off work early.

On the way home, we had a very interesting, and ultimately very touching conversation:

Wee Lass: Daddy...
Me: Yes, sweet pea?
WL: Daddy, I have a confession to make to you!

(scccccreeeech, sparks and smoke as my train if thought came to a crashing halt)

Me: Um...a confession, sweetie?

(Where did she learn that word?)(And please let it be something like 'I went potty and didn't wash')

WL (in her youareanidiot voice): Daddy, a confession is something you need to tell someone!
Me: Okay, well, what do you want to tell me?
WL: I wrote a poem for Bongo (Bongo is the housecat), do you want to hear it?
Me: Of course I do.
WL: Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, Sugar is Sweet And Bongo is, too!
Me: Wow, that's very nice.
WL: I wrote it so he wouldn't be sad about Tigger.

(scccccreeeech, sparks and smoke as my train if thought came to a crashing halt again)
(gulp)
(throat tigthens)
(Tigger was the other housecat. I say was, because unfortunately, he became very sick and had to be put to sleep last month. He was 20 years old, and Bongo is 19)

Me: Sad about Tigger? Why?
WL: Because he misses his brother, and I didn't want him to be sad.
Me: That's a very nice thing for you to do, sweetie.

Kids. They really do say the darndest things. And some of the nicest things.

*A tip o' the Gumbo tam to That Baldy Fella over at Nick Nack Blog Attack. I borrowed the phrase from him. I hope he doesn't mind. Stop by and tell him he's a top drawer chap, and imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I think. Or maybe I'm lazy.
**For the record, I had chocolate syrup only on my ice cream. Wee Lass went for the chocolate syrup/rainbow sprinkles combo.

Special Note: As a bonus item, I'll be posting on that other thing I do, Hot Dads, on Sunday, June 21st. A little lagniappe for y'all.

'You Are Not Worthy Of Instruction in the Immobile Arts!'

Meet Tigger and Bongo. These are my cats.

You wouldn’t know it just from looking that they are hard at work. Really, they are. They are masters of their craft. This is what you would call a ‘textbook’ example of what it is they do. These two felines are putting on a clinic. If these cats could talk smack, they would be saying “We hope you brought a backpack, ‘cause we’re takin’ you to school!”

What is it they are doing? you may ask. (Go ahead, ask. ASK, I COMMAND YOU.) Take another look at the picture. A close look. Closer. CLOSER. (Ooh, dammit, back off you don’t want to get those little grease spots on the monitor). Did you smell, er, see it?

Tigger and Bongo are my sensei. My house is our dojo. A world-class dojo in the kung fu known as “Immobile Feline Style”. This is evidence of their genius. These guys are like black belts. No, super black belts. No, double plus good super black belts. And I am but a lowly grasshopper, flitting about in the grass at their furry, litter-clumped paws.

I read somewhere that the average cat sleeps twenty hours out of every twenty-four. Ha. Pikers. Tigger and Bongo would sneer at such feeble attempts at mastering the art of catnapping. These cats have managed to push it to oh, I don’t know, twenty-two or twenty-three hours a day? Sure seems like it. They do take the occasional break to eat and excrete. Not in the same place; even with brains the size of walnuts they get the concept of ‘don’t shit where you eat’. Instead they do it the litter box. Mostly. Bongo in particular has an annoying habit of missing the box, sometimes by a long way. Like on the stairs up to the top floor of our house. Tigger gets confused sometimes, thinks his poop is chasing him, at which point he freaks out. He then rubs his booty on the floor while scooching himself along with his front paws, like an Elvis-style hip thrust/small child-has-to-go-BAD combo. Funny and gross at the same time.

But enough about fecal hijinks. As I said, Tigger and Bongo are sensei, like Pat Morita in The Karate Kid, or maybe Yoda. Brains so small, wisdom so expansive, how could I possibly learn? They have sought to teach me for years, yet I am no further up the mountain. I have proficiency in “Log Pose”, sure, but what about “Dead Shrimp on Rock” or “Hovering Buddha” or the intricate “Yin-Yang Double Nose in the Butt” pose? Please, I must know your kung fu!

Forgive me, masters. I am the shrimp caught in a battle between whales. I am the chrysanthemum petal, you are the monsoon. My weakness shall become strength.

Tomorrow, I shall not move. Hhaaaiiiii! (zzzzzz…)

(The title I got from a bit of SpongeBob Squarepants dialogue. Genius, pure genius…)