This story has been out all week, but I'm just catching up. It's how cats drink. Scientists and engineers did some very official experiments - one of them brought his cat in - to determine what I already knew: cats are elegant, and classy. Especially when compared to dogs, who just slurp and blow water all over the damned place.
Years ago I saw a slo-mo video of a cat drinking, and was awestruck that they curl their little tongues backwards to do so. It was very neat, and gave me even more ammunition to prove that my cats are indeed superior beings. In fact, just now I ran up the stairs and scared JoJo. She hopped in a half full laundry basket, because everyone knows that a laundry basket is T. (If you don't know what 'T' is, you must not have kids. 'T' means time out. When they're playing rude chasing games, anyone can all of a sudden yell 'couch is T' and indeed, everything skids to a halt as they honour the couch's magic powers to anyone sitting on it).
So. Cat's are tidy drinkers. Which is good, because Maggie is a piggy eater, and I'm sick of scrubbing bits of gross food off of the floor and other parts of the house. She believes she lives in Wild Kingdom or something, and surreptitiously grabs a piece of cheese or meat from my hand and runs away to devour it away from all the other feral creatures. Except of course, the only other feral creature is JoJo, who is upstairs peering out of a laundry basket.
Since I'm New York Timesing it this morning, I will pick up another section. Ah. Here is the reason that people should not be allowed to post letters on the internet. This guy writes a fairly innocuous piece about grocery shopping. It's not landmark, it's not terrible, it's not....really anything. It's just an observance of the usual crap we all face at some point or other. The section is called Complaint Box. So, you get it. But. Here's the fun part: people who have no sense of humour write in to respond. He's making an observance, folks. It's a snapshot moment of a common life. That's all. No more, no less. BUT. Read some of the notes. Oh, ferchristsakes. Why do pieces like this pull out the preachers? Why? I have this happen all the time, and I weep for those of you who live with someone who has no humour, no wit, no nuance. Then again, maybe it's been a relief for you that they have somewhere to go be all right and preachy all the time. Maybe they leave you alone. Somehow, I doubt it. Seeing their words in print usually just encourages them. Damn you, internet.
Every heard of Kryptos? The sculpture the CIA has out front? Well, good for you smartypants. I hadn't until I read this. Apparently, it was a commissioned work by the sculptor Jim Sanborn, and has messages buried in it. Not like a time capsule, like the whole thing is a series of letters and numbers and there are hidden messages. This makes me get all Encyclopedia Brown-like, and want to solve it. The first 3 have been solved, but one remains uncracked after 20 years. And Sanborn is getting pissy with people contacting him. Computer people try to crack it; normal people; crazy people. I think I might spend the rest of my Sunday cracking it. I mean, I've already done the Mega Sudoku on the Washington Post site, and if you can solve that sucker, you can do anything.
Random: totally bored with anything to do with Sarah Palin or Kanye West. Please, just shut up. The Pope has finally said male prostitutes can use condoms. Yeah. Go, Pope. I often send my sister Roz recipes from the NYT with the suggestion that she might like to make them for me. She never does, but hope springs eternal. I'm sure the Pope will come out in favour of birth control for anyone who wants it before Roz makes me a NYT recipe. But, I didn't send her this one today, because, frankly, it just looks like a bowl of poop.
I might write more later. I have to write all day, but now the cats need feeding. Again. Sigh.