Pit-stains in the Spotlight

We're running out of room over here on Walnut street, what with the massive love being pumped into our respective egos.

First and foremost, I have done my very first celebrity interview. By a real writer, no less, who wows the world with hard-hitting exposes of things like brain disease and hippie footwear. Excuse my while I git that dirt off my shoulder.

Secondly, The Other is, as T.O.C.C."R.B."C. dubbed him "the toast of Pittsburgh" as of press time, as a prominent theatre critic in town (married to the bestest human ever) cited his play as, essentially, kick-ass. He's currently looking into having his name officially changed to "the genius."

Thirdly, T.O.C.E. ... well, nothing much happened to her. But her buddy, The One Called Matte, recently posted two videos from her theatre days that feature her in super-ham form:

In this one, she actually LOOKS like a ham, having donned some winter fat. Its a long-ish vid for a 24-hour play festival that also featured the Other (who wrote a play for this, too, but they couldn't include footage in the vid b/c/ the lead actor refused to sign the film waiver):

And here she is as she was last summer, ho-bagging it up.
Great, Job, The One Called Matte. Anything that encourages people to laugh at T.O.C.E. and make her fall down is aces in my book.

For all you rabid Burgh theatre types, you can view all of his video shorts here .

Very Informative.

Some freelancer totally earned his paycheck with this one.

p.s.-- keep those quiz entries coming! Two of Charlene's finest human servants are neck-and-neck for the prize of admiration (or at least lessening of disgust).

Better Late Than Canine

Alles!

I meant to do this a month ago, in celebration of this Cat Blog's One Hundreth Post, but, you know, things got really busy with the whole megalomaniac thing and I don't have to frigging justify myself to any of you yahoos anyway. But here it is, for what it's worth-- a reader appreciation quiz to prove just how much you really do in fact love me, as well as how much I love you, if at all. Scores will be tallied by the good people at Ernst&Younga and the winner will be announced and heavily mocked here, in the coming future.

No cheating, duckies. Turn your test papers over....NOW!

Who's birfday is it?

Davy Crockett's? Mae West's? Belinda Carlisle's? Antwaan Randle El's? Well, yes, but they're not of whom I am speaking. I speak of Comrade Conrad, patron saint of homeless Pittsburgh ex-pats, the bi-coastal aliurophile and the Mrs. Patrick Campbell to T.O.C.E.'s George Bernard P-Shaw.

T.O.C.E. adores him because their two brains communicate like radio waves, so they're often listening to the same song at the same time in two different states. Also because she once saw him flex his buttocks muscles in a pair of man tights.

I respect him because The One Called Conrad goes out of his way to worship cats. We like him so much that sometimes, we just move in without prodding. Take his two girlfriends, Rod and Stewart, who climbed through the window of his ocean front home just because. Now that's the new world order in motion, people!

So senior, feliz cumpleanos. I didn't buy you anything, and if T.O.C.E. did, I hope its returnable.

They Always Come Back to Mama.

So sez T.O.C.E., as her wayward troupe of Iowa cohorts stumbles into town from various ports of call. She has been meeting them for drinks and conversations, which all sound pretty much like this...

T.O.C.E.: So tell me about your summer! Was it relaxing?

Grad School Colleague: Not really. I mean, I did get a chance to squeeze in a catnap in the Rekyavik airport when I was waiting to catch the ferry to Hoofrusgfegoe island (I know you've never heard of it) for a little hiking, base jumping, and just enough time to pen a novella before I went and built a hi-rise church in Burkina Faso. After that I accidentally biked the Trans-Siberian railroad line and in July, just, you know, saved a couple litters of baby meerkats from a few burning buildings. Oh! And I got laid by lots of eye-bogglingly hot men, none of whom could speak my language. Languages, I should say. Plural. I speak, five, you know.

T.O.C.E.: Oh.

G.S.C.:How 'bout you?

T.O.C.E.: Well, you know, I hung around here and stuff. It was...uh, cool. Yeah. it was totally awesome, actually. You missed alota totally awesome shiznit. Dude.

G.S.C: Par example??

T.O.C.E. Well, one day, there was this rain storm, and there was this REALLY big lightning bolt, and it made the sky light up like it was 7:00 in the MORNING, even tho it was only, like 6:30.
So there was that. And I got a bug bite.
And David farted once. That was pretty cool.

...aaaaaand SCENE!

Tragic, tragic T.O.C.E. I would comfort her if I gave a rat's ass. Even The One Called Casey has left her for the closed boutiques and Cambodian lentils of gay Paree.

Actually, if she thought a little harder, she could think of a few things to tell the masses about her summer that would make her seem a tad less lame:

1) She saw Miami Vice in Michigan City, Indiana while waiting for her overheated car to cool the f*ck down.

2) Without coaching, she predicted which contestants would be the first to be voted off So You Think You Can Dance based only on how much they annoyed her.

3) She learned how to play several songs on the musical saw, all of which end up sounding like the theme to Star Trek.

4) She learned two new phrases that a) make her laugh every time she says them and b) never make anyone else laugh. Those phrases are "sexy partouze" and "buttfight."

5) She mourned the loss of her beloved tortoise.

6) She cheated on me with two other cats, (Callie and Petey owners of The One Called Bouvier and The One Called June).

7) She broke her finger while trying to dance like an M.I.A. video she watched on The One Called Conrad's cable.

8) She read Jane Eyre 111 times or so.

9) She updated her myspace profile 1111 times or so.

10) She had a very sexy partouze of a dream where she was on a beach and enrolled in a contests that involved stacking dozens of naked bodies (including all her ex-lovers) on top of eachother, only a surfboard separating them. In the dream, she was very pleased that she was in the stack, though still clad in a bikini, and no judge saw her to disqualify her. Like all of her sexy dreams, no actual physical contact occurred.

And now that I come to think about it, even those more worldly colleagues enjoyed their share of the lame while about and abroad. Case in point: this dispatch from The One Called Cowan, underling of Smoky, who was approached in a Spanish nightclub by the three humans below. Their pickup line?

"We practise in mirror for three hours EVERYDAY so you can take our picture."

View said photo below.

Oh dear.