The Delicate Butterfly

It is odd for me to think of myself as delicate or fragile, a butterfly that so easily can be squashed by a careless foot or hand. Alas, it is lately how I feel. Last week, after months of doing very well, I found myself once again rushing to see the doctor, thinking I was having a heart attack. They again did an EKG and again told me my vital signs were normal and that I am suffering from panic disorder. The only solution they have for something like that of course is pills...the kind that make you feel like you're walking underwater with a skull full of jello. I have been trying to live in the now and not imagine a vast array of tragic future scenarios that send my mind racing in circles and my heart pounding out of my chest. It is not easy for me. I think I need to be reprogrammed, taken into a room where some very congenial lady in a white coat can show me pictures of smiling people and kittens and sunshine and pumpkin patches and infuse my brain with the imagery it needs to relax and just be ok with everything.
Perhaps it's time for me to finally have that lobotamy I've been saving up for. Perhaps they can reach into my head and scoop out the parts that have me on tip toes balancing on pins and needles like a circus animal, gritting my teeth with every breath.
perhaps...

Have You Seen Etienne?

When I saw this poster for a missing hamster, my heart initially went out for the owner of said missing hamster. When I discovered that the poster was from a pole in San Francisco, other concerns came to mind. I'll let you use your imagination.




On a completely unrelated note, I am very moved by Richard Gere and his tireless efforts to free tibet from chinese tyranny.

Anyway, back to Etienne, the missing hamster. I was relieved to discover that this poster was merely a marketing material for some hamster movie. I can now sleep soundly knowing that dear etienne is not lost on the streets of San Fancisco. A huge weight has been lifted.

Diversions/Critters a.k.a. Cat Massage

What better way to end your week than
by learning a new technique.
We're never too old to learn something new.
Today's lesson is in the art of cat massage.
I can't think of a better way to spend my time
and energy. I also couldn't imagine a better teacher than this woman.

an angry toothfish is swimming in my stomach

You learn something new every day if you keep your eyes and ears open. Today for instance I learned that there is no such thing as chilean seabass. Yes, stop the presses. I know your dreams are shattered and you feel just as let down and lied to as I feel at this moment. Chilean seabass is in fact the sexy name given to the rather unfortunate looking patagonian toothfish which isn't even a bass.

I had never sampled the pleasures of patagonian toothfish until someone got my order wrong just a few minutes ago and gave me the little critter instead of salmon. I decided to just suck it up and try something new. It was nothing to write home about but didn't really upset my stomach or anything.

That is until I opened my web browser and saw this.


I now have an angry patagonian toothfish thrashing around in my tum tum.
I will try to summon my comfort animal and an artificial forcefield of zen.
If that fails there's always the backup plan of tums and a ginger tea.

A Slow Day For News

Nothing of any importance must have happened today. I clicked on CNN's Website to see if anything had exploded or if there was some new strain of goat flu perhaps. Maybe Miley Cyrus had gotten a tattoo or Paris Hilton had stopped using the word hot to describe everything. What I discovered from my brief adventure in pointing and clicking my way toward pounding a few nails in print journalism's coffin was that one of CNN's top headlines was "Dog Eats Bag of Pot, Gets High".

It's great to know that CNN is tackling the really important stories that shape all of our lives. It's thought provoking journalism like this that restores my faith in the integrity of mainstream news.

Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus

Occasionally a movie comes along that is so horribly bad that it's amazingly awesome. One of those is Coffy with Pam Grier, an absolute classic in my book.
The question is, Can Deborah (Debbie electric youth) Gibson and Lorenzo Lamas pull off the so horrible it's amazingly snakes on a plane good with their newest picture Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus. It's a challenging balancing act. You watch the trailer and decide.


btw, if this does not go straight to DVD, I am so going to the theater to see this. That is no joke. Who's with me?

Critters: Bat hitches ride to space

"A bat that was clinging to space shuttle Discovery’s external fuel tank during the countdown to launch the STS-119 mission remained with the spacecraft as it cleared the tower, analysts at NASA’s Kennedy Space Center concluded.

Based on images and video, a wildlife expert who provides support to the center said the small creature was a free tail bat that likely had a broken left wing and some problem with its right shoulder or wrist. The animal likely perished quickly during Discovery’s climb into orbit." [Nasa]

aw, this poor critter got a rather rude awakening while trying to take a nap on the side of the space shuttle discovery.

...In 5 days

the howling,
the longing and yearning,
the elaborate sometimes successful attempts at escape,
the vagina tap dance
will end

Kitten of the Day (Just because)

After wading through the piles of kittens submitted for this feature, i had a hard time choosing just one. It was a tie. A baby chicken was thrown in for good measure.

Muskrat Mucks it all Up

I previously posted a blog about the pigs that were slaughtered after swimming through flood waters to the safety of a levee.
It was feared that the pigs would compromise the integrity of the sandbags.

It looks as though the real threat here, is the muskrat, responsible for the destruction of a levee in Missouri.
Oddly, the culprit in question looks suspiciously similar to the Rant's very own entertainment and food critic, Chester Devonshire III.

You be the judge...

Exhibit A: Muskrat


Exhibit B: Chester Devonshire III.


Chester was out sick this week with a headcold. Coincidence?

In Heat

There's something I'd like to share with you.
It seems almost obscene to share this with you.
Ok. Here goes. Are you ready?
Oh, I'm not sure if I can tell you.
Ok. I'm going to just say it.

I have a black pussy.

Those are words I never expected to come out of my mouth.

No, seriously. I have a black pussy.
I've even named my pussy, I'm so fond of her.

Her name is Sheba and she is a sleek black cat with angular features.
She's the kind of cat that inspired Egyptians to carve statues.
So, I have a black cat constantly crossing my path, sitting on my lap and purring. I'm fine with this. I'm ready to break mirrors and dance under ladders inside with my open umbrella. I laugh at superstition. ha ha ha.

One evening while K and I were in the kitchen we heard a cat meowing. This was the beginning of the end for us. I previously posted how she broke into our aparment and refused to leave. We didn't so much pick her as she picked us.

All was fine in our little world with the addition of our new friend. After a while we noticed that her nipples were kind of big and pink, a feature found in cats that are around 3 weeks pregnant.

We found ourselves in a moral dilema. Do we take our lady friend to the unplanned pregnancy clinic or let her carry the litter to term? I could not handle a cat abortion. The thought of it made me ill. There are two schools of thought. We face a cat overpopulation problem with thousands of strays mating unchecked. There are cats in shelters waiting for homes and when a person brings kittens into the world, they are more desirable than adult cats, so people tend to take the kitten over Grizabella, the skanky old tabby sitting in solitary confinement at the cat clinic, waiting for the guillatine to drop.

K ended up at the local petco speaking with a crazy Brittish woman who is a volunteer for the Kitty Kind cat rescue and adoption organization. She ended up running him out of the store screaming that he was a murderer as she was convinced our cat had already given birth to kittens that were in the alley and we had taken her away from them. We are almost absolutely sure that this is not the case. For the first few days she had the ability to leave the apartment freely but stayed inside. She was also not lactating.

So, we've been anticipating the birth of kittens and even started to find homes for the unborn offspring of our super sexy kitty.

And then...

A few days ago, Sheba began to act strange, constantly meowing, the meowing getting louder and sounding more satanic. After checking her food and water and litter box, we could not figure out what she wanted. Then she began raising her ass up in the air with this longing look of painful desire. She discovered that the fridge had a vibration to it and began doing things I dare not repeat.

The other morning we woke to find that she was gone. Just as she had broken into the apartment, she broke out. I called out into the alley and heard her meowing back. She climbed over a fence and climbed back up to the window and came inside.

I dare to think of the brutality she must have faced out there in her state of unbridled arrousal. We were cooking the next day with the kitchen window open and discovered how she had escaped by shimmying her way between the window and the screen, climbing up the screen and pushing her body against the glass to pop open the top and climb free. We thwarted her attempts at running away for another night of premiscuous alley sex. Not while she's under my roof, I thought to myself.

Deprived of the alley, she entered a desperate needy state, rubbing up against anything she could, howling like the damned. A lesbian friend had suggested something involving a cuetip, but I won't go into that. I will not go there. I refuse to be part of that dirty little solution.

So, we made an appointment to "fix" her little problem. However, it isn't happening for 4 weeks. I'm crossing my fingers and praying that she didn't get knocked up the other night. As previously stated, I refuse to subject my pussy to a 2nd trimester abortion.

Who knew that having a pussy would bring such moral dilemas?

An Avid Bacon Lover Laments the slaughter of sandbag pigs

It's a well known fact that I have a rather unhealthy obsession with bacon or as I like to call it PIG CANDY. However, I also have an extreme fondness for pigs. I've never fully been able to reconcile these two opposing loves. So, when I saw a story about Iowa officials killing a group of pigs that managed to swim to the safety of a levy after being left behind in the floodwaters, I obviously had conflicted views. If the pigs were not also used to provide bacon for some homeless family in Iowa, then their deaths were indeed senseless. Ok, not senseless. The pigs were poking holes in sandbags with their hooves and rooting around, but you get the idea.

More on the pigs...

a parade, three martinis, scissors and a stray cat

Yesterday the alarm went off way too early for even strong coffee to remedy.
K and I rushed to the train to the port authority to join the dredges of society and catch a bus. We got there with no time to spare and piled on to an Adirondack Trailways beast bound for New Paltz where I was set to perform for their gay pride celebration.

I did a short set (3 songs)
1.Fishnet Sailor
2.Flapjacks
3.Walking Song

If you've never been to New Paltz, it is indeed a magical town or village as they call it. It is a town at the epicenter of the marriage equality movement in New York, a cause in which I have been very involved for the last couple years. K and I met last year on May 19th, when I was performing at the Marriage Equality March in Brooklyn. He was filming the event for the NYC LGBT center's television show. It was love at first sight, literally. I told my friend Marc that K would be my boyfriend before I had spoken to him and before he had seen me. It's funny that he is the one who approached me.

So we marched with a group of high school students, had some weird herbal alternative to coffee at a hippy dippy artist collective coffee shop. You know the place. There were white kids with dreads wearing tie-dye and drumming outside. The smell of patchouli was wafting out into the street.

I spent way too much time in the sun yesterday and being the whitest thing short of albinoism, I find myself irregularly burned today in the places where I failed to slather on the SPF 50. I need to be fitted for some sort of gauze sun condom before I'm allowed to brave the elements again. Thus is the curse of being a pigmentless creature. My ex-roomate Piia used to call me Robster the Lobster.

We got back to the city way later than planned due to some sort of traffic calamity in New Jersey. I had to cancel a rehearsal with Jeff for the Zipper show. We've been rehearsing a lot. It's interesting to have piano on top of some of my songs. I'm so used to being a lone entity that it feels like a new de-virginizing territory to explore.

We met up with Laura for a drink after the exhaustion of the day. A drink turned into 3 martini's...sheesh. For some reason I didn't really feel the effect as much as I should.

We got home and I began cutting K's hair. I've only cut his hair twice, and both times have involved booze. One would think the combination of scissors, alcohol and the close proximity to my boyfriend's face might be a bad idea, but somehow it works out. Though I haven't seen him yet today, I do believe I did a good job.

We have been seduced by a stray cat. We started feeding her out of pity and now it looks like we may be adopting her. Am I ready for the responsibility of keeping another creature alive? Is this the stepping stone towards adopting a Chinese baby?

This morning, the cat broke into the apartment by destroying the screen on the window. She wasn't looking for food but rather companionship. She curled up next to the bed and woke me up by purring.

Ugh. I hope she doesn't have some sort of flee and/or mite infestation, rabies, scabies or some other cat pestilence. She's very cute and has a sweet nature. We have been calling her Isis. she looks Egyptian. It's fitting. I'm so not ready to be a father.

A trip to the Swanson-Lowry Bed and Breakfast

We drove up to Simon and Jason's country home on Friday for Easter. It is this beautiful 200 year old house nestled between a pond and a dairy farm in upstate New York. There is a fireplace, no cellphone service and a real sense of peace and quiet about the place. It's the perfect spot to drink wine, eat num nums and sleep much too late.

On Saturday we went to the market to buy groceries, wine and pick up a salmon which Jason was preparing to poach via the kindly influences of Martha Stewart using his newly purchased fish poacher. We made a visit to the pond to look at the fish, who gather near the edge hoping for crumbs as tadpoles wiggled around in the water. We watched a woodpecker brutalzing a tree.

We returned to the house and boiled eggs for coloring. The kit came with one of those wax pens and in an adorable display of affection, Simon, Jason, K and I all wrote sweet little love notes on eggs. "I love K" "Jason and Simon 4ever" "Robert is hot" "I love Jason"...if you need a little bag to vom in, let me know. When the eggs emerged from their little plastic dye buckets our secret love notes were revealed along with an egg on which I wrote "jesus is risen" with a little cross.

In the evening we were joined by Lauren, Linda and Kyle and had a Roast with green beans, Yorkshire pudding and my famous wasabi twice baked potatoes.

After a lovely dinner, we sat by the fire until the consumption of wine and brandy turned the kitchen into a disco party. There are photos. If not too embarrassing, perhaps I will share.

On Sunday I made bloody marys and observed and occasionally helped with the preparations for an exceedingly delectable brunch centered around a highly pampered fish cooked with much love and care. I did not want to leave for the city, wishing we had one more day in the country,but alas, all good things must come to an end. With food in our bellies and the warmth of holiday cheer in our corroded hearts, we piled into a car and returned to the urban jungle.

Thank you to Simon and Jason for inviting us into your home and providing the utmost hospitality.

The Rant gives the Swanson-Lowry Bed and Breakfast 5 out of 5 stars.

Wigs for Cats, a passing craze or the wave of the future?

By all means, Discuss.

Photo by Jill Johnson. Model: Chicken

If you really want to pamper your pussy, head on over to Kitty Wigs! website.

Cocks gone wild! True Stories of barnyard manlove.

Photo by Carrie Thomas

Ok, so I made the title a little more sensationalistic than it had to be.
Last night I had a short chat with my mother who is fighting off a rather nasty sounding chest cold.

As previously posted, I visited the family farm in Kansas back in the fall and helped my father build a larger chicken coop. Recently my parents got a 2nd rooster.
Well, the juicy gossip folks (Yes, you heard it here first) is that rooster #1, aka Little Jerry is gay. Sorry Jerry for outing you. I know how hard it can be to live as a homosexual rooster in Kansas. Little Jerry has been seen "humping" the new rooster.

This news delighted me, as it gave me the chance to educate my mother on prevalance of homosexuality in animals. She was completely unaware.

btw, who knew that 1/4 or all black swans are moes?(as in ho-moes)

ah, black swan, I wonder where you are?
ah George, You save my soul.

Transmissions from Dialup

I write to you this late evening from Northeastern Kansas where I have been forced to heed my own words and "unplug".

My cellphone has been rendered inoperable due to T-mobile's lack of care for the residence of this rather unpopulated state. My usual status of constant connection to highspeed internet has been taken away.

My parents have purchased 30 chickens which are currently laying 7 eggs per day. I ate 3 of them this morning for my breakfast, the eggs not the chickens. I commented on the state of these poor chickens which have been cooped up in a rather small pen. Somehow this escalated into a protest on my part.

I ended up in the pickup truck with my father traveling to one small town where the lumber store had apparently closed. I suppose they have been outsourced to India or China, but then again I'm pesimistic. We finally found a lumber store that was open 50 miles away and picked up lumber and chicken wire.

I spent the rest of my day with my father digging holes for posts, leveling them and building the frame for an extended chicken yard, which I have proclaimed will double the egg output.

We ended our day pouring concrete round the posts and drinking beer as we basked in the glory of the beautiful frame we have built. We then discussed my father's missionary trips to Peru and Ecuador. Sometimes I wonder if I could ever be as great as this man.

I wrote a song in the truck. Here are the lyrics. They're hokie. I don't care.


The rooster's out there crowin' and struttin' with his legs
It's time to feed the chickens and gather up the eggs.
This small town's really strugglin' but it's stronger than you think.
You can see it from the highway but you'll miss it if you blink.
It's time to feed the chickens and gather up the eggs.
throw some bacon on the skillet and some boots upon your legs.
The factories move to china and the people move away
but the ones who really love this town are out there bailing hay.
there's fence that needs a mending and there's cattle needing fed
they work till they're exhausted then they fall into their beds
till the rooster starts a crowin' and struttin on his legs then
it's time to feed the chickens and gather up the eggs.

These are my roots people.

My father said something interesting which somehow became profound. The only thing you hear out here is the ringing of your own ears. He's right. It's so loud. The city traffic, the subway, all of it. It rings in my ears. I cannot find silence even here where it is silent. K is in Canada. I am in Kansas. Tomorrow I finish the frame and pull the chicken wire round the posts and feel the satisfaction of a job well done. I will gather the eggs after I've eaten eggs for breakfast. It all is in balance and yet I miss my boyfriend. I miss the noise of the city. At the same time I'm content and happy out here on the praerie, hearing the coyotes howling after sunset, sitting with my father drinking beer and smoking cigars. There is a simplicity that I miss, yet there is a complexity of noise and clatter that I need to fill my scattered head.

This is what happens when you F___ with Nature

I fear that movies such as The Fly, Jurasic Park and Species have taught us nothing. Listen people,When you F--- with nature, nature F---S back.

-Killer Bees Descend on
New Orleans-

(as if they didn't have enough to worry about)
Read the Article

-Scientists Engineer Salmon
to Give Birth To Trout-

(Associated Press article)

The christian right is so worried about gay marriage, calling it unnatural and against god. I personally think salmon giving birth to trout is much more of a crime against all that's holy than gentleman of the man-on-man persuasion tying the knot and taking it up the pooper. Who's with me?

I think Seedless Watermellon is an abomination against god and nature. I am horrified by its existence and go through a traumatic experience everytime I buy watermellon, finding it almost impossible to buy the seeded variety.


Here at the rant we're not afraid to tackle the real issues.

Biscuits,Paddleboats and 2am Riots

Photo of the Prospect Park Boathouse by Carrie Thomas

K and I decided to host a brunch on Sunday at the apartment. Actually, I guess I coerced K into being my accomplice, but he didn't seem to mind.

As a tribute to the art of procrastination, we found ourselves at the local pathmark at 2am, waiting in line. I needed this cheese grater very badly, but when we were checking out, the girl couldn't find a code for it, so she refused to sell it to us. It was extraordinarily traumatic and at that point I was seeing double. After arguing with her, we left pathmark loaded up like pack mules, mutually exhausted, and lacking the much needed cheese grater.
We dropped to sleep exhausted and woke up too late, scurrying and hurrying to make ourselves and the apartment presentable for our guests.

Our feast was prepared in record time.
As, I tend to do with such things, I went a little overboard.
There was fruit salad, miniature fritata with mushroom,spinach, tomato and Gruyere Cheese. There were home fries,biscuits,bacon and sausage.

We ran around like headless chickens getting everything ready, but we both love the domestic bliss that comes with cooking up some love in the kitchen.

We had a lovely brunch with Steve, Matt, Marc and the lovely Danielle Flores who is gracing our city with her presence at the moment. I'm sure LA is a sad place without her, but we aren't complaining.

After brunch had ended we build a mountain of dirty plates in the kitchen and admired their grandeur before flooding them in suds to soak.

We decided to head over to the park and visit the Audubon center. Whilst crossing a bridge we noticed a lovely Hispanic family riding a paddle boat. We decided that we just simply must also ride a paddle boat. Despite standing feet away from the boathouse, we had no clue as to where we might rent said paddle boat, so we ran along the shore yelling at the family, trying to find out where they got their boat.

Seeing as the family only spoke Spanish, this was a fruitless task. I learned in the process that having a last name like Flores does not mean you necessarily know Spanish. What a disappointment. We finally discovered that we could rent a paddle boat at the boathouse, an idea that was too obvious to be fact.

We got our boat after waiting for an hour and traversed the waters of Prospect park. It was great to see the swan family that K and I have been watching for months. The babies have gotten so big.

I had a very intense discussion with a Canadian goose, which decided to swim along side us quacking at me while I quacked back. At one point, it was decided that I was upsetting the goose and should refrain from talking to it. With hesitation, I bid my feathered friend adieu and focused on my paddling.

after returning the paddle boat, I discovered that my legs had turned to jello and that the only solution was to drink a margarita. I'm not sure that it was the only solution, but I'm going to keep telling myself that it was necessary after slaving in the sun, paddling ms. Flores around like a goddess. All she needed was a parasol to make it a perfect day.

We hung out with Danielle and Laura for the rest of the evening, walking home after hanging in Park Slope. Walking by the park we passed an army of hundreds of NYPD officers lined up as if they were preparing for war. It was the West Indian Parade the next day. I had been told that things get crazy, but I had no idea. We went to bed thinking nothing of it.

At 2am, the sound of a marching band and drums came pounding through our windows. We stepped outside to see hundreds and hundreds of Caribbeans running through the streets screaming and waving flags from their respective islands. It was as if every single building and opened its doors and flooded the street with people. There was something beautiful and unsettling about it. We ran back inside and hid, not exactly sure if this was supposed to be happening, not exactly sure if the police were going to start beating people. We finally fell asleep to the sound of drums. I woke at 4am to hear a similar sound to the 2am commotion, but decided to ignore it. I woke again at 10:30 and made myself a quick breakfast of toast and jam before rushing out the door to be at the studio by 12.

I was surprised to see that the streets were calm and quiet as though nothing had happened. I walked to the subway with tribal drums in my head. Upon arriving to the studio I began to record a beat by hitting my stomach layered with hand claps. Something primal from the early morning energy had found its way to my soul.

The Broken Pigeon -Critters (Part 4)-

Photo by the very brilliant
Carrie Jo Thomas

I was walking on 23rd street last evening resisting the desire to indulge my craving for movie theater popcorn when I saw something that made me sick. It was a pigeon on the ground, trying to flap its wings, falling over. It looked sick, in pain and confused. I watched as people passed the poor bird. Some of them laughed, some of them looked disgusted. Some looked helpless.

For a few moments that pigeon became a mirror to the souls of the people passing by. I stood in front of the bird not sure what to do. I was torn between two desires. One was to scoop the bird up in my hands and try to save it. The other was to swiftly and mercifully take the role of Dr Kevorkian. I don't like to play god, but I really can't stand to watch a creature suffer.

Instead of choosing either option, I decided to call the city of new york to see if I could get help. I spoke with a woman who informed me that the city will help animals in distress with the exception of pigeons and seagulls.
For some reason, this really upset me. I paced in front of the bird, unsure of what to do.

I looked at the bird and gently whispered, "I'm sorry."

I walked away.
I put the bird in the back of my mind.
I feel guilty.
I feel as though I have failed on some level.
I can see the look in that poor birds eyes, so innocent, confused and hurting.
I should have done something, but I didn't.

On a scale much grander, this is how many of us including myself deal with the suffering of the world, the unjust and unnecesary war that we are waging. We become paralyzed, guilty and numb. We turn a blind eye and wait for someone to ease the pain of the world. Unfortunately it is our responsibility on an individual level to pick up the broken birds and make the decisions. Not making a decision, walking away, seems like a way of not making a choice, but it is a rather strong choice, as strong as snapping the bird's neck. I made the weakest and most selfish of choices. I walked away. I must learn from this.
The Critters Series Archives
Critters(Part 1)
Chloe & Ferdinand-Critters(Part 2)
The Rat Race-Critters(Part 3)

New York City has an extremely diverse cast of animal characters, all part of the urban jungle. As I interact with these four-legged, feathered, and sometimes one footed friends, I write about these encounters. From cockroach to politician, we are all part of an ecosystem, an interconnected chain. We all need each other to survive.