Christmas Cats

Christmas screensavers suck rocks, except for Christmas cats. Not many make the cut. I don't allow any artificial poses, cute hats, or other artifices that take away from the subject's cattitude.

Though this roundhead isn't my favorite type of cat, at least it isn't a munchkin or a Scottish fold. The contrast of the smoky tabby markings with the shiny silver and red baubles is striking. Kitty has a paw ready and is just about to strike.

Though I am not sure how they got him/her to remain still for this shot, especially with all those needles sticking into his tum, you have to admit this looks festive. Kitty seems happy, all ready for his bribe of Christmas tuna.

This one was right on the line because it isn't super-Christmassy, but the gorgeous Siamese tolerating the fuzzy (white-and-tortie?) kitten is very sweet. Now that I look at it, I see a kind of fur collar around the Siamese. At least, no bells.

Yes, this is how it should be done: a cat IN the hat, literally, snuggled up for a long winter's nap.

Sleeping cats are always good. This picture is gorgeously simple, and the lights look like the lights on my Christmas tree when I take my glasses off. Suddenly they're about a foot in diameter.

This is Kit-Kat's first Christmas, and he can't quite figure out what's going on. That ball is the size of his head. It looks like an artificial tree, so he won't be quite so enchanted with it. But just having a structure like that in the house, an outdoor-looking, climb-able thing covered with shiny balls that fairly invite a game of paw-hockey, is quite a novelty, and we can't blame Kit-Kat for jumping right into the holiday spirit.

This is just my favorite, and it might just be my screensaver until the new year. The kitten seems so relaxed, as if he's about to drop off to sleep in that kitten way. 

These shots are too small and grainy to be screensavers, because they were taken a very long time ago. Our cat Murphy loved Christmas, not just for the tuna but for the convenient sleeping/lurking place. We found Christmas ornaments under sofas and chairs long after his passing. We learned to hang less-fragile ornaments at the bottom, because it was so entertaining to see him play cat-hockey with them. His stick-handling was something to behold.

His first Christmas was quite an event, and I wish we'd had a camera ready, as people always do now. He was only about eight months old, and antsy. Back then we had real trees (this was the last year, I recall), and Murphy tail-swished every time he looked at it or smelled it. One day we heard a dreadful smash and tinkle, and ran into the family room to see a half-grown apricot tabby with all four legs wrapped around the top of the tree, which was tipped over on its side. He must have made a giant run at it. The worst was that the container of water spilled. Oh dear. 

Murphy was fat. No euphemism would do. He weighed 22 pounds in his full glory, and lived to be 17 years old. We still find his Christmas collar when we unpack holiday stuff, which was supposed to give me fond memories but instead makes me miss him so much I could cry.

Known only to his close friends as Foo-Foo (and when he was really naughty, Poo-Poo).

After a rare snowfall. He wasn't quite sure what to do, but made out.

Murphy defies gravity. A Christmas miracle!

Wait. . . I forgot this guy!

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Wendy and the Ice Monsters

Wendy and the Ice Monsters (a Grandma tale)

Chapter One: WHERE’S SANTA?

Once there was an eight-year-old girl with red hair and lots of freckles. Her name was Wendy, and she was very independent and liked to have her own way. She didn’t care what the other kids thought of her, even if they called her names like Carrot Hair or Orange Crush or Wednesday.

One night Wendy was trying to sleep. But she couldn’t sleep because it was Christmas Eve, and who can sleep on Christmas Eve?! She wanted to stay awake so she could see Santa bringing presents for everyone.

So she decided to stay awake, but Santa didn’t come, and Wendy was very ticked off. It seemed like hours were going by. “Ill bet Santa will never come,” she said.

But just then. . .
CRASH!

WENDY FELL THROUGH 

THE FLOOR!

She fell and fell. She fell and fell and fell and fell and fell!

“Help!” screamed Wendy. “I’m falling!”

Then suddenly. . .

She fell some more. She fell and fell and fell and fell and fell.

“Rats,” said Wednesday. She was getting used to falling by now, and wasn’t afraid. Well, she was a little bit afraid.

She thought she might land on a rock or go THUD on the ice. But when she finally landed, she felt light as a feather. But she didn’t land on feathers. It was frost, like you see on the tree branches and leaves in the winter.

“Yikes! This is cold on the bum!” yelled Wendy.

It was very very dark and cold.  She didn’t know where she was. Some kind of ice cave? Talk about scary! Wendy was a brave girl. Most of the time. But this time she wasn’t too sure.

“I want my Mummy,” she said, and began to cry.

POOF!

Chapter Two: Hello, Frost Man!

Something or someone appeared in front of her. He was nine feet tall and BLUE! He was all covered with blue and silver frost.

“You look cool!” said Wendy.

“Thank you, little girl. I am cool. I have to be, or I would melt. By the way, who are you?”

“Who am I?” Wendy cried. “Who am I?? I’m normal! I’m a little girl. You’re the monster, aren’t you?”

When she said this, Frost man began to cry. She had hurt his feelings. Wendy suddenly felt very bad about what she had called him.

As he cried, water ran down his face.

“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, Frost Man. You’d better stop crying, or you’ll melt,” Wendy said.

“But I’m frightened.”

“Of me?”

“No. You’re not as brave as you say you are, or you wouldn’t make fun of other people.” Wendy felt embarrassed, because he was telling the truth.

“So who are you frightened of?”

“I’m afraid of the Ice Monsters. I can see their shadows moving around in the distance.”

(Oh no, it gets worse, Wendy thought to herself.)

“Listen, Frost Man, I don’t know who or what you are, but I like you. I’ll help you beat those Ice Monsters. We’ll do it together. As a team.”

Frost Man gave her a quavery smile. He really wasn’t sure a little girl could help him with something as scary and powerful as the Ice Monsters. But he was glad to have a friend. There weren’t too many Frost People around in this strange hidden world.
Then, all of a sudden –

BLAM!!

Everything exploded into ice cubes! Wendy was amazed to see that everything around her was made of ice crystals.

“Is this Ice Land?” Wendy asked. She had heard about it in geography. It was a country that sounded very cold.

“No. It’s the Land of the Ice Monsters.”

“So where did all the other Frost People go?”

“They’re hiding. When the ice explodes like that, it means. . . THEY’RE COMING!”

“OK then!” Wendy had made her mind up. “Let’s go

deal with those monsters!”

They made their way through chunks and hunks of ice. Wendy couldn’t see any Ice Monsters. The place seemed deserted. Then. . . What was THAT??

Something was appearing in the mist. It looked like an ice cloud. Then it got bigger and bigger!

It was an ICE MONSTER!

Chapter Three: The Land of the Ice Monsters

“Aeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh,” screamed Frost Man. He started to run away. “Don’t you dare run away,” said Wendy. “You must confront your fears.”

“What does that mean?”

“You can’t run away.”

“Oh.”

The Ice Monster looked terrible. He looked worse than anything Wendy had ever seen. He had awful eyes. He had awful hair, like big splinters of ice sticking out of his head.  He looked like the Abdominal Snow Man, or Bigfoot with white fur, only a lot meaner. He looked ten feet tall!

“I know how to deal with this guy,” Wendy said.

“HOW??”

“He’s an Ice Monster, isn’t he? We can melt him.”

Frost Man looked doubtful.

“There’s no electricity down here. We don’t have any blow driers or anything like that.”

Wendy thought and thought. She had no idea how to melt the Ice Monster. But it got worse! Just then she saw another TEN Ice Monsters coming up behind him! They looked awful! They looked scary!

YUCK!!

“Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!” screamed Wendy and the Frost Man.

But then she had an idea. “It’s Christmas Eve, a magic time. Maybe that will give me magic powers!

The Frost Man looked doubtful. “Are you sure?”

“No. But do you have any other ideas?”

“Uh, no. Let’s go for the magic powers.”

She pointed her finger at the Ice Monster. “ZAP-A-DOODLE!” she screamed. A lightning bolt shot out of the end of her finger and hit the Ice Monster!

“Ow,” he said.

“He’s melting!” cried Frost Man..

“Zap!” yelled Wendy. “Zap-a-doodle-doo!”

Chapter Four: VICTORY!

Bolts of lightning were flying everywhere! All the Ice Monsters began to melt like icing on a hot day.

The Ice Monster began to turn into slush as he screamed and ran away. “He turned out to be a big coward,” Frost Man said in surprise.

“We won, we won!” said Wendy. “He’s just a puddle now.”

 “Yay,” said Frost Man.

“But wait a minute. It’s Christmas Eve! I’m supposed to be in my bed, waiting for Santa.”

Frost Man looked at her. “Remember, this is a magic night.”

“It is?” Wendy wondered if she had used up all her magic zapping the Ice Monster.

“Of course it is.”

ZAP-ZAP-ZAZZLE!

All at once, the dark ice cave vanished, and Wendy was miraculously back in her bed.

“Wow!” she said. “It’s so good to be home. Nobody’s going to believe what happened to me.” Then she thought of something. “But I miss Frost Man. He was such a good friend to me.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Even if he comes back, how am I going to be friends with a person who has to stay frozen all the time? I wonder if I can keep him in the freezer.” She was very discouraged.

Then she heard a sound outside her window. A sort of sparkly, tinkly sound like ice crystals hitting a pane of glass.

Slowly a pattern formed on her window. It was a face! A face made of frost and starlight. And not just any face, but one she knew very well.

“It’s you! I knew you’d come back.”

“Merry Christmas, Wendy.”

“Merry Christmas, Frost Man. Well, it’s not quite Christmas yet. So Merry Christmas Eve. How did you get here?”

“This is a magic night, remember? So here I am.  Every Christmas Eve, just look out your window and make a wish, and I’ll be there.”
POOF! The Frost Man disappeared, as Wendy watched in wonder.

When Wendy woke up the next day, she shook her head. “I’ve never had a dream like that before. It was a doozy.” Then she noticed a strange sort of pattern on the window.

The sun was shining through it and it was all glittering blue and silver, almost like diamonds.

“Pretty,” she said, and ran downstairs to see what Santa had brought her.

THE END

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Bob Dylan's biggest bomb

Douglas R. Gilbert/Redferns
Bob Dylan behind the Cafe at Woodstock on July 1st, 1964

BY DANIEL KREPS | November 30, 2014

The lyric sheets of two unrecorded Bob Dylan songs, typed out with handwritten annotations by Dylan himself, will hit the auction block at Christie's on December 4th. The folk legend's original four-page manuscript for "Talkin Folklore Center," published by Dylan in March 1962, is projected to sell for between $40,000 and $60,000, while the two-page "Go Away You Bomb" from 1963 expects to draw bids of $30,000 to $50,000, the auction house estimates.

According to the New York Times, Dylan gifted both sets of lyrics to Izzy Young, the founder of the Folklore Center on Macdougal Street and an influential presence as Dylan climbed the ranks in the Greenwich Village folk scene; it was Young that secured Dylan's first "important concert uptown" at New York's Carnegie Chapter Hall on November 4th, 1961.

"At first Dylan seemed like anybody else that came into the store," Young said. "But I noticed after a while there was something different about him. He would take every goddamn record I had in the store and listen to them. He was the only one that read all those scholarly communist books, as well as all the folk magazines. Anything I had in the store, he would read."

Dylan wrote the 43-line "Talkin Folklore Center" after being asked by Young to pen a song about the Folklore Center. While the song was never performed or recorded as is, some lyrics found their way into early performances of Dylan's "Talkin' New York," theNew York Times reports. Young, who relocated to Sweden in 1972, plans to use the proceeds of the lyric sheet sales to help support his current venture, the Folklore Centrum in Stockholm.

"Go Away You Bomb" was written after Young mentioned to Dylan he was compiling a book of lyrics for anti-nuclear songs. The next day, according to Young, Dylan walked into the Folklore Center with "Go Away You Bomb" in hand. However, the book of lyrics was never published. The song was written around the same time Dylan was at work on his second album The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, an LP that shares similar anxieties about the state of world affairs at the time.

"Go Away You Bomb" was previously up for sale at a 2013 rock memorabilia auction in London, but it failed to sell. A representative from Christie's tells the New York Times that the venue was likely the cause for the lack of interest, and that a manuscript auction in New York is a proper setting. The December 4th sale marks the first time "Talkin Folklore Center" has been on the auction block.


You know, it strikes me as amazing that Dylan can still get rich from cleaning out his desk.

Those two "found" songs - Talkin' Folklore Center and (wince) Go Away You Bomb - sound so out-takey that I wonder why anyone would bother with them.

But Dylan, in spite of or because of being the troubadour of our times (and, admittedly, author of some of the most astonishing lyrics ever written by anyone), keeps on finding new ways of marketing himself. It's often called "reinventing", but I wonder if it isn't the same thing. And I do sometimes wonder if he just needs the money. I've read various Dylan bios, and one thing they agree on - well, it's a couple of things. He goes through women like water, and he can't keep track of a buck. Money just sort of flows through him like the River Jordan.

It's partly our fault. OK, ALL our fault, for devouring the worst stale crumbs fallen from his table, for obsessively collecting the belly button lint of this decrepit old legend. His cigarette butts are probably being collected and used for DNA even as we speak, to spawn a whole new generation of Dylanettes.

Think about it. Lots of kids have been named Dylan for the past 20 years or so, and whyyyyyy? Not because of Dylan Thomas, the disreputable old sot (and not nearly the genius writer most people say he was - God, he wrote some abominable crap to read on the BBC, no doubt to pay his beer bill). No, it's a Bob Dylan thing, and when people name their sons after you - dear God, it all becomes downright Biblical, a reverence akin to worship.

When I was a teenager, I was slavishly devoted to Bob. I collected pictures of him. I drew knives stuck into photos of his doll-like little wife Sara Lownds. I listened to everything he did and tried to like it, but after a while it got a mite watered-down.

The bizarre, hallucinogenic power of his metaphor ("jewels and binoculars hang from the head of the mule"; "They're selling postcards of the hanging/They're painting the passports brown/The beauty parlour is filled with sailors/The circus is in town") dwindled after a while, and though songs like If Not for You and Forever Young were pretty enough, they didn't pack the gut-wallop of "money doesn't talk, it swears," "you don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows," and "he not busy being born is busy dying".

I think everyone really expected him to kick off young, to do the Lord Byron thing. Joan Baez, the biggest Dylan groupie who ever lived (Diamonds and Rust!!), once wrote in her memoir Daybreak, "Look closely after him, God. He's more fragile than most people, and besides, I love him."

Fragile, my ass! If Baez turned out to be tough as old horsehide, Dylan is the saddle. These two leathery old comrades are probably going to pull a Pete Seeger and live to be 106.  I'll give him this much, whether he was in fashion or out, he always kept on going. Kept on recording, kept trudging along on that never-ending tour, which some say is a refuge from the emotional emptiness of his life. But the Christmas album (perhaps a horrible remnant of his born-again days) somehow just didn't make it for me. 

When people meet Dylan, they always remark on how small he is. Not fragile-small, but elf-like, in this case a withered and poisonous old elf who has been living underground for a couple of hundred years. They also notice his eyes, "bluer than robin's eggs", though they've probably become a mite rheumy since his Diamonds and Rust days. He's odd, oddly apart. There's something abnormal about him. A genius? I would have thought so in his early days, when he could rip off a song like Chimes of Freedom, dedicated to "every hung-up person in the whole wide universe". 

He's strange enough, surely. His artifacts, his napkin-scribbles, his old beer glasses, the pencil he dropped at the hungry i in 1963, all are sacred objects now. For all we know, he sat down and typed out Go Away You Bomb last week on the last remaining Olivetti portable typewriter. Typed it standing up, with two fingers, while Joan Baez crammed food into his mouth as if he was a baby bird. But the truth is, he never wrote tunes for those two lyrics and never recorded them because he knew they weren't good enough.  Too bad the rest of us lack that kind of wise discernment.

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