Sam: God gave rock and roll to you
A Bud: He did? Is it lost in the mail? I don’t think I got it yet.
Sam: He put it in the heart and soul of everyone.
A Bud: Not Jerry Falwell. He didn’t get it, either.

There are better treats than a bunny taco. For instance, Ketchup Cake, from our brothers to the North.

Honest to blog. Check out the recipe.

Entering 30 days of Project Living with The Poet. After nearly three years of solitude, and leaving beer bottles in every garbage can in the house, the presence of a like minded and fiercely independent individual–never  mind the addition of two cats–is a mighty challenge. One of the most pressing needs our union spurned was how to blend two different cat dens without bloodshed.

Cat Den One consisted of a modestly sized and well-mannered calico and an impish black American short-hair. The alpha: a calico named Abra. The beta: Mooshy. Abra valued personal space, privacy and independence. Mooshy loved chasing Abra.

Cat Den Two has been endlessly documented here before. Oedipus, the grandest and most luxurious American black short haired Zen Master in existence, and Electra, an intensely curious and skilled problem solver, a long haired fuzzy striped protege.

The conflict here was obvious. Electra stalked Abra from room to room, when she only wanted to be left alone. Mooshy wanted to play; Oedipus was the primary reciprocator. Initially the newly merged den struggeld in the absence of an alpha cat. After lots of posturing and fretting–mostly from The Poet and me–Oedipus emerged as the winner. With this shift came enormous stability. And quiet nights. Amen.

Nothing worse than a growling cat too paralyzed from fear to flea from beneath the bed at 3AM.

When skirmishes break out now, Oedipus determines the course of escalation and the victors–if any. Should other cats question Oedipus or his rulings, he knows when to let the barbs slide off his fur and when to lay down the law.

Obviously I’m happy balance emerged within the Cat Army, but it was not entirely surprising. Oedipus is fricking huge. And despite his great enormity, when he wants to move, he can tear from one end of the apartment to the other–and back–without wheezing. As it is in nature, and in the wild, so it is in the Cat Army.

There are other lessons, too.

A well-run Cat Army rests upon the satisfaction of two core internal cycles. The cravings of its stomach and the pressings of its bowels. Both natural processes are fraught with hazards and challenges.

In the pre-Poet days, there were two cat food bowls and specific eating times. Now there is one trough. Whatever happens at ground zero. . . well, it just works itself out. Cats feasts when they feel like. Some gorge and retreat. Others nibble and return throughout the day.

Obviously there’s a lot of kibble being consumed. What goes in must be processed for later elimination Comically, the greatest discovery in the last twelve years of my life has been in the field of retail cat litter products. For a multi-cat household, only one litter has what it takes to contain toxic plasmosis and nasty fumes. SWheat scoop. The only flushable, scoopable, allergen free cat litter on the market. The secret is, it’s wheat. Frankly, I don’t care what the hell is in the stuff. By the the powers of all that is holy, the product just works.

And I can flush it without blowing the toilet to bits.

After a long absence, have returned to somewhat normal operations in the fine state of . . . ahem . . . New Jersey. Had to address some old business before tackling the new. Over the past few years, experience has suggested it’s better that true friends hear important news directly, rather than via the blog. So, I took the past few weeks to get my “offline” friends up to speed with some life-changing events before breaking the news online.

First the new business: The Poet and her cats Abra and Mooshy moved in to the apartment. Obviously this is huge shift in my lifestyle. Back in September I had adjusted to the slutting it up phase of my life. Life was good; life was simple; life was comfortable; randomness worked for me. I was the proverbial kid in a candy store. Except the clerk wore a thong and never existed in the daylight.

Then I met The Poet and all that easy living went out the window. Damn frame hits me every time.

Needless to say, I fought this transition in various ways in silence, but in the end all the resistance was just internal turmoil, rather than a reflection on the situation itself. What matters is that I’m ready again for a real relationship and it’s working.

She’s amazing. Whatever I hung myself on in other situations before, somehow stopped being an issue. Weeeeeeeee.

Anyway, the past few weekends have been a lot of hauling boxes and choking on dust particles unleashed from upending an apartment filled with books and cat dander. Thus, I’ve been too tired for most activities more taxing than survival. Once again, Viktor Frankl proved Sigmund Freud wrong. There are more important things than sex.

Wow. Did I just say that? Brand me with a poker.