Butch

I'd been expecting it for at least the past three years. Then one day last week, I walked into my living room and the site I had been dreading was there.

Butch, my cat, had tried to jump onto the couch but missed. He was hanging from his front claws, his head thrown back, eyes closed and mouth agape. He wasn't moving. I assumed the worst, that he was dead. That wasn't the worst.

When I unhooked him, he woke up. But his front legs weren't working. I hoped that they were just stiff from being stuck for God-knows-how long. That wasn't the case. Since it was a hot day, I took him into the bathroom and laid him next to the toilet. That was his favorite place to stay cool. I brought him some water and then I left for work. When I came home, he'd managed to crawl to the middle of the floor, probably because he'd dumped the water dish. I brought him to the living room and turned on the fan. Moving anything below his neck seemed to be a tremendous effort, but above the neck he was fine. He just couldn't seem to figure out why nothing worked. He meowed and looked around. I gave him water and I went out. When I came back, he was asleep. I laid next to him for about an hour, petting him. When I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer I went to bed, expecting him to be gone the next morning. He wasn't. I lay with him for a while longer and went to work.

At work, I made the call. As they had with his mother, the vet told me they'd have a room ready and that I wouldn't have to wait. They were true to their word. I was this big, hulking man carrying this fragile cat through their waiting room, sobbing while people stared at me as if I'd landed from Mars. I sobbed as they tried to sell me an urn for his ashes. I sobbed when they told me that twenty-one years is a long time for a cat. I heaved sobs as they took him away from me and into the next room for the procedure. Butch, always a vocal cat, was mewing in the next room like a weak kitten. I was incoherent. The vet walked me to a side exit, gave me a minute to catch my breath, and then let me go out into the street.

Butch was twenty one years old, and my cat all of that time. He was maddening in his vocal demands. He never shut up. He hogged the couch when I was lying on it watching television. He was always demanding food, but eating almost nothing I'd give him. He always thought he wanted mine. He was a mass of matted fur and over-grown claws. He smelled.

There were one or two times that it felt like Butch was my only friend. As they had taken him from my arms, he was purring.

And now he's gone. He was just a cat, but I can't believe how much I miss him.

The Women

In 1938 George Cukor essentially rounded up all of the actresses who failed to land the role of Scarlett O'Hara and Claire Booth Luce's script and made The Women. It's a comedy classic with flawless performances, none better than Rosalind Russell's. Russell's ability to time her rapid patter dialogue with less skilled actresses and get the laugh every time is comedic brilliance.

So, why, why, WHY? would anyone feel the need to remake this movie? I love Annette Benning, and if anyone can match Rosalind Russell, it's Benning. Still. Meg Ryan is no Norma Shearer. And does the world really need to see Debra Messing (if ever there was an appropriate name) ruin an American classic. This self-appointed Lucille Ball needs to go away.

Trailer: The Women

Saturday Photo Safari

John McCain

Seriously?

FISA

I find it more and more difficult to watch the news. Congress approved the FISA bill? Really? What the hell ever happened to "Give me liberty or give me death?" Of course, Patrick Henry said that a long time ago. He might have felt differently if he'd had a Wii.

Seriously. Freedom is not free -- to coin a not-too-original phrase. While I was horrified by the events of 9/11 and am thankful every day that I nor no one I know was a victim of that event; while I empathize and wish I could ease the suffering of those who survived; and while I applaud and revere those Americans who stood up and were counted on that and following days; I have to wonder why previous generations sacrificed anything if we are so willing to give it away because we're afraid of another 9/11.

Do we really believe that they do, truly, hate us for our freedom and so the best way to make them like us again is to give that freedom away? And our we seriously looking at a senator who voted for this bill as the next president of the United States?

But just as I cannot figure out why there are still SUV's on the road with one person in them, I cannot understand why there are not marches on Washington, why there are not aggressive recall actions, why we simply take it.

Well, actually I do know. Because it's easy. As I reach the middle of my life I notice that my peers have taken on a certain tension. People at the same point of their lives as I am are comfortable. They've achieved their own versions of the American dream, or they've accepted that they will never become the lead singer of Journey and are content with their nine-to-five routine. Just don't' disrupt their LIVES! And then they meet me, and my life has been anything but conventional.

While they start sentences with, "When we went to Tuscany on our honeymoon..." or "Our nanny runs a tight ship during the week, so..." they look at me as if I'd just landed from Mars when I start my sentences with "When I performed at the Lyric..." They buy tickets to the Lyric because that proves they've arrived. I've stood on the stage.

Now, standing on that stage has been at a price. I'm single. I have no children. I don't have a common experience, nor professional experience that I have been able to parlay into financial security. But I've sampled different lives. I've had unique experiences. I've been free. Or at least as free as anyone in this country and economic system can possibly be.

So, while I wouldn't like it, while I'm sure that in the moment I'd have second thoughts, while I do not in any way have a death wish, if I found myself trapped in an airplane that was being driven into a building by a maniac who hated me for my freedom; if that's the price I had to pay for that freedom, I'd say bring it on.

If your senator voted for this bill, write a letter. Tell him or her that the vote was a mistake. Do it now before you are no longer legally permitted to write.

Beliefs

Back in the late '80's I used to be a huge Oprah fan. I even went to a taping when the guest was Goldie Hawn. It was fun. Over the years my television-viewing habits have evolved. I don't watch Oprah anymore for two reasons. The first is that her basic message hasn't changed: "You can do anything if you simply believe in yourself." I have internalized that message and don't need to spend an hour a day reinforcing it with Oprah. The second reason is that, well, Oprah seems to take herself a little too seriously. I have an enormous respect for Oprah, and I can't say that I blame her for being impressed with herself. She has a lot of reason. Still, I liked Oprah best when she was reaching for something, improving upon her accomplishments and now that she's achieved almost all that is humanly possible, I don't feel like she's in the struggle with me. Sure, she's been more successful than any human has a right to dream of. But that success has grown to mythical proportions and I want to find inspiration with someone who is achieving success, not someone who has already achieved it.

All of that said, from time to time I check in with Oprah, just to see what's going on. At some point I heard her tell a guest, "When someone shows you who they are, believe them." I don't remember the context, but I've heard that as a message of how to critically evaluate whether to include a person into your life. I've been skeptical and resisted the message because anyone can have a bad day. Anyone is capable of doing some horrible thing or saying something terrible that is inconsistent with his or her overall character. Since I'm a master of editing people out of my life on a whim, I take such needlepoint philosophies much as I would a loaded gun. I handle them with great care.

Still, there are times when such bromides ring true. Another is that the mark of real intelligence is the ability to simultaneously entertain two conflicting concepts. This, for me, is a much more dynamic thought and allows me to accept people in their complexity a little more easily. That's not to say I don't sum people up and categorize them -- judge them, if you will -- on a moment's notice. But what it does mean is that I struggle more with categorizing people, particularly categorizing them as evil. No one, sane person believes himself to be evil, so each action of his usually comes from some place 'not evil."

Which brings me back to Oprah and another insight. "There are really only two emotions: fear and love. Everything else is some form of those two." Once you can understand that what might appear to be evil is really an action motivated from fear, it's easier to understand if not accept.

Saturday Photo Safari

Something new. Hopping on my bike and taking pictures of whatever comes up.

The Curse of Pygmalian

I find I fall deeply and intensely in love with whichever project I'm working on at any given moment. I work on it until it's perfect and then I admire it passionately. Since, of late, my projects are all computer based, this means I sit at my computer for hours. With the photographs, because I continually tweak them in Photoshop, I have to leave my computer on. I can't bear to even save them and turn the computer off. At some point, when I'm completely satisfied with myself I will reluctantly move on to the next project.

At some point during the second project I'll decide to revisit my previous creation and like Quasimodo it will leap from my computer screen and all of it's imperfections will slice at my eyeballs and leave me feeling defeated and useless. I will have to force myself away from the computer. When I finally summon the emotional strength to return to the computer, I will invariably be angry at myself for the lack of self-critical evaluation, the stupidity of not seeing the obvious flaws that could be so easily fixed. I hate the piece, be it a photo or story and I vow to never look at it again. I attack the new piece savagely, whipping into perfection and when I feel that I am finished I step back and fall in love with the new creation. And the cycle begins again.

Then, after time away, I come back to the first piece and while not all is forgiven, I learn to appreciate it for what it was. I'm thankful for the lessons learned. Sometimes I'll fix the flaws and sometimes I'll let the flaws stand as a marker to where I was as an artist at that moment.

Over time I'm able to see progress in all of my work. There are even points where I can see almost profound leaps in style and technique, but on the whole progress is achingly slow. Glaciers seem to have made greater progress in less time than I do.

But there's nothing to do but move forward. Reach and when contact is made, fall in love.

Four Days

With the holiday on Friday, I have a four-day work week. And because I'm in my first year with my new job, I tend to extend the extended holidays with an extra day or two, thereby extending my vacation time and my sanity. So, I am in a four-days-on, four-days-off, four-days-on cycle. The middle part of the cycle is what I live for.

Life in Chicago, in a word, is good. The weather is glorious and I'm riding my bike everywhere. I'm getting to point where my fat clothes are starting to fit and the extra-fat clothes can be put away. Getting up to go to the gym is still proving to be daunting. I haven't yet established a routine, but I'm getting there when I can.

I'm taking the next step in my photography. Actually the two next steps. Commercially I'm branching out into weddings. I've even booked my first one, even though I don't have a clue as to what I'm doing. So, I've been reading myself blind in preparation. And artistically I'm starting to think about composing art shots. Right now I'm just looking at photos I like and trying to recreate them, or at least reference them heavily. It's all very exciting.

The writing continues to lie fallow, but I've sworn to dedicate these four days off to polishing up the collection. The fifteenth of this month marks the one-year anniversary of the beginning of the collection and I'd love to have it finished by then. It will be a Herculean task, but it's possible. Possible, that is, if I don't pack up my camera and ride my bike all around the city.

I love Chicago in the summer.