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2006-01-19 @ 5:39 p.m.
the real way to say Van Gogh

Well, I think Guardcat, the jaded Broadway diva, “don’t hate me because I’m beautiful” cat, who shares my humble abode has finally earned her keep. I walked into the bathroom yesterday morning and there was a large, gory smear of blood going from the linen closet to the hamper. And I don’t think Guardcat cut herself while shaving, so it looks like my cat finally nailed the mouse. Sob. I didn’t see any carcasses and I really didn’t want to poke through her cat poops to see if I could see any little pink mouse toes sticking out, but I think she got Thadeus. I really didn’t want her to though. I had intended to set the humane trap up once again. Because I really don’t like to see anything suffer, with the possible exception of spiders and George Bush. Poor Thadeus. He was so cute. I don’t usually name vermin, but he just had this certain joi de vive.

RIP Thadeus (2005-2006)

But life marches on...mercilessly....onto work-related matters like meetings. Meetings that involve intensive gossip sessions. Yes indeedy. Our company, it seems, pays us big bucks to gossip. I met with my co-facilitators with my Empowerment group when a certain person walked by the door and suddenly it was like one of those scenes from the old Mutual of Omaha nature show I watched as a kid, where a pack of lions chase down a weak, helpless gazelle out on the savannahs of Africa and start ripping it apart. I hated those. I mean, its true that those lions couldn’t exactly go down to the local Krogers or Wegman's to get gazelle-burgers on a whim. But again, I hated anything about anyone getting hurt. But unfortunately the person they were talking about was somebody I didn’t like either. In fact, I actually quit a committee she was on because she was such a fucking killjoy. No matter what idea you came up with, she would either shoot it down or come up with a long, convoluted story about how exciting her life was or how much better her non-existent idea was. It just got tiresome. I hate people that take credit for things they didn’t think up. So when I eventually came up with the idea for our St@ff D@y and shot her idea down, she never talked to me again.

SCORE!! I hated talking to her anyways, but still. The thing is, I was really angry at myself for jumping into this lion shred-fest with the other girls. I’m trying to be a better person in 2006 and sitting around ripping apart somebody with gossip isn’t exactly productive. And all I could think about was Earl on “My Name is Earl” and his ideas about bad karma. Because I figure if I’m gossiping about someone here at this table, on the company’s dime, I’m sure somebody else is probably gossiping about me somewhere else. Who knows? Maybe even my co-facilitators...once I leave the room. Maybe they giggle and say things like “Oh that witty and the way she dresses with those round hippie glasses and beret. She looks like she got sucked out of an Austin Power’s movie or something.” I can just imagine. So I’m going to try hard not to gossip and maybe even say something nice to that woman if I see her, because what goes around comes around I'm learning.

My art class Wednesday should have been renamed “Cadavers-a-Go-GO”, because the only thing worse than those skinny chicks with no curves to draw, are the models who walk in with a “Do not resuscitate” tag around their necks. This girl was so zombie-like and waxy looking, all I could think of were the corpses you see on “Six Feet Under”. I mean she surely would have had a shot at playing a cadaver if the show hadn’t ended this last year. She never moved. Blinked. Breathed. Looked around. And she looked incredibly morose. And then during the break she disappeared into the bathroom for a good 15 minutes. Unfortunately we only have one bathroom and I was thinking she’s either snorting cocaine off the back of the community center toilet or she’s overdosed. She did finally re-emerge...expressionless and I had to dash in, since my kidneys can only hold Diet Coke for about 30 minutes...tops!

Here is one of my very quick sketches and actual poses of her. And in case you can’t read the text it says: “I’m a naked model and my life is so hard. I wish I would have shaved my arm pits and took a happy pill.”

Fortunately Charlemagne the Obnoxious French Guy was hosting with our little Goth intern who was wearing an orange kimono over army boots. I think I only really went last night, because I had gone to our board meeting the night before and he said he was hosting. He thanked me for my e-mail. I had sent him a note before his eye operation and he was all warm and fuzzy about that. Naturally he had to tell everyone in the class, in loud and graphic detail about how they sucked things out of his eyeball (complete with loud slurping sound effects) and injected a bubble of nitrous oxide. I said, “Isn’t that laughing gas?” And he said, “Yes, I think so.” and then started giggling madly.

I actually think some of it might have possibly escaped into his cranial lobe as well.

But he did his usual trivia questions and since I like to win and have never won, I was very excited when I finally scored my first victory. Naturally the questions are art related, but this one had to do with movies, which I'm good at and he asked to name 3 movies about artists. Piece-O-fucking-cake. “Frida”, “Pollock” (I have both) and “Lust for Life” (about Van Gogh). What did I win? 10 fat felt tip drawing pens from Japan. I looked in the box and went, “ook?” I don’t really use fat Japanese felt tip pens, but by time I got back to my seat, I told “L” the Hippie Chick my plan to become the premiere graffiti artist in The Village. Why? Because The Village doesn’t have any graffiti. Its like this pristine New England village. So I was trying to figure out something subversive I could write on the side of the new Starbucks down the hill like “Smash capitalism, drink tap water” or “Dick Cheney wears women’s underwear”.

“L” and I were doing our usual cackling over things. She was trying to teach me the proper Dutch pronunciation of Van Gogh’s name. Its more like Van Gothpshe’dsph (with a light spray of spit droplets at the end). So we were saying that back and forth to each other and laughing uproariously and then we strangely veered off into a conversation about “Cabaret” and I have finally met my match in Joel Grey trivia and expertise. She said she’s had a crush on dear little Joel since the 1950’s. I had a crush on him after seeing the Bob Fosse version of “Cabaret” at least 25 times in the 1970’s. Its embarrassing to admit you have a crush on a little short Jewish man playing a movie character of questionable sexuality with bright, garish makeup, but then again, we are talking about wittykitty, future artgeek/bipolar. I later got to meet him numerous times when he played in San Francisco in nightclubs and theatre productions and he was always very kind to me, including picking up the tab when I went to see him at the Fairmount Hotel. “L” was totally fascinated with my tales of Joel. But I have looooong since “gotten over him”.

I sorta look like Catherine Zeta Jones' short chubby sister, huh?

Fortunately the night ended with a Frenchman double cheek kissing by Charlemagne the Obnoxious Frenchman. And I actually think I stayed through that depressingly grave and solemn death-mannikin model in order to receive my somewhat now predictable moist double stamp of approval. Why? Because I’m a affection slut. I don’t get enough in real life, so I’ll drive 7 miles to an art class and draw a cadaver for 3 hours and win fat felt tip Japanese marker pens, all in a pitiful attempt to get some random smooches. I mean, how desperate sad is that?

So yes “A”, I guess you’re right. Fuck the need to be perfect, I guess I’ll just concentrate on getting me some of my own privately owned lovin’ in 2006. Yeah, baby.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty