BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I was younger than my own daughter is now. I had the same ravenous appetite for literature as she, and books were my escape from the bullying, as well as the sometimes overwhelming banality of the outside world. I had just returned from a trip to the local drug store with my mother. I had shiny quarters, nickels, and dimes in hand when we left on the excursion – my allowance earned by taking out the trash and other odd jobs around the house. Now that we returned the lion’s share of that allowance was gone, but now I held in my hand a paperback book from the spinning rack at the corner of the pharmacy. I had already devoured a chapter or two while my mother waited for her prescription to be filled and while on the ride home. This was a new kind of book. A new kind of genre. And it spoke to me.

Upon arriving home I showed my prize to my father, exclaiming with excitement that I had discovered a new type of book. One that he had surely never heard of before – Science Fiction. He looked at the paperback and scanned the back cover.

“You know, Science Fiction was around when I was a kid, too,” he told me.

I was in awe. This stuff had been out there? Why hadn’t I been informed? “Really?” I asked.

“Sure,” he replied. “H. G. Wells, Jules Verne… The list goes on and on. You know what? There’s a book I think you’d enjoy…” He rummaged around in the shelves and pulled out a copy of The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury, then told me, “This was always one of my favorites.”

…And thus was my introduction to one of the greatest SF/Fantasy authors of all time.

I was fortunate enough to have met Ray Bradbury many years ago when I was still an “aspiring author in search of a publisher,” and he was on a book tour. I not only had him sign a book for me, but one for my father as well. I will always remember that.

Mr. Bradbury died this morning at the age of 91. He will be sorely missed, but he left this world a far more interesting place by being the man who illustrated it for us with his words.

http://io9.com/5916175/rip-ray-bradbury-author-of-fahrenheit-451-and-the-martian-chronicles

One might think that I am referring to the May 5 astronomical event, in which the moon was at its closest point to earth in its egg-shaped orbit, AND was full at the same time. Full of what? Cheese, most likely. Although I suspect there is also a case to be made for Helium 3, but it’s too early to get into that right now.

However… No. I am NOT talking about that particular moon. I am talking about this morning’s moon. Odds are you missed it. The fact of the matter is, I caught it purely by chance, and it was a sight to behold.

You see, we have this cat.

Odd way to start this story, I suppose, but trust me, it’ll make sense.

Said cat is named Tiger. I personally call him Nachos el Tigre – or Nachos for short. Why? Because my daughter gets upset when I call him Almost Roadkill. Like any animal we have around the house, Nachos is a rescue. He came from the middle of the highway as a tiny kitten who was apparently washed out of his home during a flash flood (probably a storm drain) when he was on the order of 4-5 weeks old. I won’t go into the sordid details of us adopting him, suffice it to say he came to live with us, but while you can take the cat out of the feral, you can’t take the feral out of the cat. ‘Nuff said.

And so… Nachos has wreaked all manner of havoc throughout our house, up to and including ripping holes in the underside of our mattress foundation and using the resulting hollow as his “Nachos Cave.” His personal fort, so to speak. What does this have to do with the moon? Nothing. And everything. Yeah, it’s sorta like that.

You see, the redhead – yes, her worship Evil Kat – is none too pleased with his penchant for ripping up the mattress foundation. In fact, if he was… oh, I dunno… just some guy, and not a cat, he’d already be wearing one of her stilettos as a hood ornament. Then we’d have to change his name to Jimmy Choo the Unicorn. However, since he’s a cat, and not a dood, he gets a sorta free pass. Meaning, she just yells at him instead of stomping on him while she yells at him. Odd how that works. Maybe I should get myself a tail and some whiskers… But I digress.

And so, today was no different, or so I thought. Her worship was getting dressed for work when I returned from dropping off the o-spring at school. Upon entering the house I heard a ruckus, followed by the redhead screaming all manner of expletives at Nachos el Tigre. It was pretty obvious to me what was happening, or again, so I thought. The ruckus and screaming continued, so I went to investigate.

There… Below the horizon… as in down on the floor, clad in naught but her lacy undergarments, was the redhead, screaming at the dust ruffle while fishing around underneath the bed with one arm.

Let’s just say Downward Facing Dog does little justice as a description for the moon rising in the doorway. And I have to say, it was super…

Suddenly, the yelling stopped. A moment of quiet fell, then the redhead looked up. “Is this going to be a blog?” she asked.

My reply was simple. “It is now.”

Later…

Le Swerv