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Hipstercrite: October 2009

Friday, October 30, 2009

Dead Man's Party

In honor of Halloween, here are the:

Top Ten Reasons Why Not Actively Listening to Oingo Boingo is Making Your Like Inadequate

1.) Wild Sex (In the Working Class)- Ok, this has nothing to do with their music, but Danny Elfman looked mo-fo'ing hot in a wife beater and suspenders. Seriously, it hurts me to look at pictures of him circa 1985. Now he looks like he should be the title winner of Men Who Look Like Old Lesbians. I'm sorry, man. You know it's true.

2.) Related to number one, the realization that men don't always age well. Especially men with red hair. In fact, sometimes we get old and sometimes we die.

3.) Pedophilia and Midgets- Not that I'm codoning pedophilia or the mixture of pedophilia and midgets (not WITH midgets), but the fact that they have a music video with both tickles me. YES IT TICKLES ME!

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Snot Pouring Out of My Nose

I enthusiastically signed up to show creations at the Art Night Austin on November 12th totally forgetting that I am not an artist.

I've thought about doing a macaroni portrait of Pee-Wee Herman, but figured that that would take too long to create. Also, I wouldn't want to sell it to anyone. I'd want to hang it above my bed next to the Frank Zappa mask I made for my "General Religion" course in college. Our final project was to make plaster masks of our faces, put the masks under our pillows and dream on them, and then paint the dream on the mask. I dreamt that I was Frank Zappa.

A Frank Zappa mask earned me an overall A+ in a religion course.
Who said college is a waste of time?

One project that I've flirted around with is doing something with all the drunk photos I took of myself during my 22nd year of life. Now these aren't sexy drunken photos (but are they really ever?). These are bottom-of-the-barrel-crying-like-a-little-bitch-swollen-nose-drooling-lying-on-the-floor-moaning photos. This was the year I tried understanding the painful transition from child to adult, all the while being in a city where 2-3 people are murdered a day, the only person I could talk to was my $150/hour therapist, and a stressful job that made my mother cry and scream, "Who the hell have you become!?" to me every week. I felt quiet low this particular year and having only recently discovered the temporary comforting attributes of booze (yes, I didn't drink before I was 21), I indulged in a nightly love affair of numbing the fuck out of myself. You may ask why anyone in their right mind would take photos of themselves drunk alone at home. I will tell you it's mostly because of my narcissism and being an only child. As an only child, you always have to find ways to entertain yourself. I was taking photos of myself since I was 8, but instead of alcohol it was meth. The other reason why I took photos of myself drunk (and the reason I like to tell people), is to document a time in my life that I never want to forget. I understood at that time that the pain I was feeling was temporary. I knew one day I would forget the way I felt at that exact moment and maybe not understand the girl that I was. I didn't want to let that happen.

What do you think? What would your thoughts be if you saw an exhibit like this? Pretentious? Silly? Waste of time? Thought-provoking? Uncomfortable?

In the meantime, look at some completely unrelated photos that I took....

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Halloween, FlipScene-Style

Well it seems that everyone and their mother has been talking about the FlipScene Halloween Bash w/ Neiliyo, Learning Secrets, Markus with a K et al. tonight at The Mohawk. I will be there snapping shots for Chrontourage, most likely dressed as this guy:

So if you see a Chuck Bass walking around with a scotch in one hand and a Canon Rebel in the other, please say hi. I can't wait to meet some of you (only some).


Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Cat Piss on My Bed

After putting together a costume of Little Edie from Grey Gardens for Halloween, I realized something: as a child, the only thing I was sure of was that I was to have six ex-husbands, no children, and ultimately die alone.

While playing the game MASH with my peers, I secretly wished I could have all of my potential mates and we'd live in a big dilapidated mansion in Georgia. One big happy family. I never really thought about the logistics of it though. Where would Doc Brown, Crispin Glover, Elton John circa 1972, Beetlejuice, and I all sleep?

It looks like I off to a bad start with my Elizabeth Taylor ways (I think I had a boyfriend once a long time ago), but my feelings have not changed since I was the precocious little child lusting after fictional characters and/or gay men and wearing ties. The only thing that has changed is the slow realization that I will most likely become that crazy aunt.

Oops, never mind, I don't even have any siblings.

I will be that crazy surrogate aunt.

You know who I am talking about. We've all seen them or have them in our lives. I regularly catch them at my store with their long, wispy gray hair, lime green and mustard yellow striped socks, floor length skirt, and dark-rimmed circle eyeglasses. Their hips still small due to never bearing children and crystal blue eyes still vibrant clutched in the webbing of weathered skin.
They've had fun times, oh boy have they! Probably lived on the LES, took photos of street artists on a 35mm, and slept in a shoebox with Glenn O'Brien. Then moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico for a bit, trying to detox from a short heroin stint and created metal art. Bought a Volvo wagon and drove across country trying to write a thesis about the positive attributes of adaptive reuse. Dabbled in feminism, maybe dated a chick or two on the road. Tried Buddhism for a bit, didn't eat for four days in a row, got delusional, drove the wagon off into the desert, had an epiphany about something that was later forgotten. Ultimately landed in Austin opening up a dream catcher earrings business out of the back of an Airstream trailer.

Or, I'll end up as Little Edie. With four hundred cats pissing on everything and quietly judging me (I can proudly say that I don't currently own or feed any cats...maybe there is hope...).


Wednesday, October 21, 2009

The Mystery Man

I looked down on the shelf and saw Robert Blake looking back up at me.
He was dressed in a police uniform and had a very intense look on his face. The sort of stare that actors in the 60's gave to add depth to their performance. Like Zoolander.

I picked up the VHS box for "Electra Glide in Blue" and felt my heart pinch just a little.
Then a combination of guilt and disgust quickly washed it away.

"You know, I've never seen this movie," I said to Marc, tapping the empty box on my arm.

Marc works at I Luv Video in Austin. One of the largest independent movie rental houses in the country and where Quentin Tarantino will most likely be buried . Marc and I went to film school together and lost touch until we met up in L.A. He was in a band, I was in the film business. We cuddled to "Funeral" by Arcade Fire. He left the band to do some sort ecological job that I can never recall. I left the film business to stop myself from driving my car off the PCH. We lost touch and wandered around the country until we discovered that we both landed in Austin.

"Well, why don't you rent it then?"

"I don't know, man, I think it will kind of make me feel bad."


I shrugged my shoulders and walked over to the next aisle. I wasn't sure exactly why it would make me feel bad. I just knew that it would.

The Paul Morrissey video shelf. How pretentious can you get?

"You know, I called him last Christmas. It had been a year. He never called me back."

Oh God. Kenneth Unger's "Scorpion Rising". Intro to Film Aesthetics and Analysis. Patricia Zimmerman's class. 2003. Bullshit.

"It was his number still. Same voice message. "

How is this shit considered quintessential film making!?!

"It still says in a fake Texan drawl, "Robert's not here right now. Leave a message."


They don't tell you in film school how it's really going to be. They might show you a movie with a bunch of leather clad dudes fucking to Bobby Vinton and call it ground-breaking, but they don't tell you about the lost souls you'll encounter every day in Hollywood. The sort of situations you will find yourself in at 23. Those moments when you step back and go, "Shit, I finally get what David Byrne was saying when he said, "Well, how did I get here?"

How I met Robert is a long story, but one I will try to keep short. Two years ago I got a phone call at my desk. A man introduced himself as Robert Blake and asked if he could stop by the studio to drop a gift off to my boss. My boss' father and Robert were friends back in the 1950's and he had found a script that the two had worked on together. Robert's acquittal was still fresh and we were all a little nervous to have him stop by. We waited anxiously as the tiniest old man in a ten gallon hat and purple cowboy shirt appeared. I was struck by his meander and his incessant use of calling me "secretary". I pointed out that we had a mutual acquaintance (my friend Ian lived in the same apartment complex in The Valley as Robert) and we chatted for roughly a minute before he said he had to go. And that was it. I didn't hear from Robert again.

Until six months later...
Another call at my desk.

He was short and sweet. "I want back in the business and I need help."
I told him that I worked exclusively for my boss at the time but I'd be happy to meet with him and talk. We made plans for breakfast and I hung up the phone wondering what the fuck I was doing.

And I went to breakfast with Robert.

And we talked for five hours.

And I met with him again the following week.

And we drove around Los Angeles as he told me stories about dancing on the Paramount Pictures sidewalk t at three years old looking for work, getting beaten and locked in the closet by his father, performing on "The Little Rascals", doing heroin, calling Humphrey Bogart his mentor, hanging out with Truman Captoe and Dexter Gordon, going to jail, how Marlon Brando's son was the one who really killed his wife, giving away the contents of his life to complete strangers, only shopping at garage sales, and believing that the most romantic thing he ever heard was Richard Farnsforth killing himself so he wouldn't burden his wife with his cancer. As he was telling me this, he pointed to all the Los Angeles landmarks that only mean something to him, the same landmarks he had seen for the past 72 years of his life. In a town that had swallowed him up and spit him out ten times over. He spoke of going to Peoria, IL. The illusion of normalcy that only a small Mid-west American town can bring.
But Robert is to die in the muck of Los Angeles. It's his home and all that he knows.

He let me into his home. A one bedroom apartment in the Valley that was empty other than old photographs and pieces of paper with the words, "Don't give up" scrawled in child-like writing up on the wall. He told me that he would win an Oscar before he dies, dammit, and that he's still got the gift.
Bobby Blake has still got it.


Last year, I wrote a thinly disguised essay about my friendship with Blake titled, "The Night of the Acquitted B-list Actor". The biggest amendment I made to the story was the ending. I wanted to make it more romantic than it actually was.

In the fictional ending, I spoke of mixed feelings in my emotional involvement with a presumed murderer and separately my need to get out Los Angeles in order to rediscover myself. I wrote of Robert's encouragement and his "seeing something in me". He told me I had too much to offer the world. So as I watched the skyline of Los Angeles get smaller and smaller in my rear view mirror, I thought of Robert, of picking up the phone and calling him, but instead, I decided to leave it all behind me.

In real life, the dirty old bastard wanted to get in my pants! He's fucking 50 years older than me! What the hell did he think? Did he think losing $40 million civil law suit for most likely killing your wife was is a huge turn-on? Robert and to my fantasies of what it wasn't. You do deserve that Oscar.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Choose Your Own Adventure

I've discovered as of late, that my creative output is directly related to the amount of uncomfortable experiences I encounter on a weekly basis (for example, last week's run-in with my housemate who tried doing her best impression of Danny Bonaduce circa 1989) . When my life is traversing down the proverbial road, resembling a drunk driver looking for the glowing beacon of an all-night Taco Bell, my writing is at it's peak. When I work 12 hour days and fall asleep in my work clothes at 10PM next to a bottle of Don Juilo, my writing lags. So, in order for me to fulfill the promise I made to myself as I drove east from California to Texas with no plan other than to write, I'm will begin actively seeking out fish-out-of-water scenarios for myself and the sake of my writing.

Here are some examples of what I would like to experience:

-I've always wanted to drive through the bayou and "accidently" come across an old Southern Baptist church. A heavenly light will gleam through the clapboard walls and I will join the congregation in enthusiastic gospel singing and pouncing. I will momentarily forget that I don't know a lick of Biblical prayers and I will mistake my ingestion derived from fried crawfish as Jesus entering my body. I will begin speaking in tongues and will wake up three days later in the backseat of my car with no shoes and fresh stigmata marks.

-Sleep on Skid Row. I almost did this once, but my parents talked me out of it (talk me out of it=threats of coming to L.A. and physically picking me up off the cardboard mat I'd be sleeping on as I shout, "I'm not a bum! I'm a jerk!", and throwing me into the back seat of their rental car). I'm not making this one up or trying to be all hipsterostentatious (that is a recently discovered breed of dinosaur). There is a homeless shelter in downtown L.A. that will enable naive bourgeoise to do these sort of things.

-Drive to Marfa. Now this is a pretty obtainable goal. I've threatened to do it every weekend since moving to Texas over a year ago (Me: "Seriously guys, I'm driving to Marfa this weekend. Alone. Listening to Bruce Springsteen's "Nebraksa", ok? I know that Nebraska is a completely different state than Texas, but it seems fitting." Co-worker: "Lauren, you know that Marfa is an 8 hour drive from Austin, right?" Me: "Fuck me.")

-Move to a 100 year-old home out in the country-side, wear floral dresses, write in my leather bound notebook by candlelight, and stand at the kitchen window gazing out onto the plains, anticipating the return of my newly armless sweetheart from the Battle of Fredericksburg. OR, move to a shack near the ocean, grow a beard, drink tequila every day, play with a loaded gun, and write belligerent stories about misogynist men.

Now, I don't want any of you pulling a knife on me or telling me that my car just rolled down the hill and plowed through a couple of homes in order to fulfill my want of uncomfortable situations. That will lead to crapped pants, then confusion, then fury, then me jumping on you like a flying squirrel, then the police having to come and pry me off of you.

I do welcome suggestions though. As fellow writers, what sort of experiences often inspire you? (and I don't want to hear any of this "When my boyfriend broke up with me and I tried to slice my stomach open with shower squeegee while listening to "Creep" by Radiohead" crap...already heard that one).

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Writers With Boobies

funny enough, this writer has no boobies

I'm one of those assholes that has four million dude friends, and like, two friends that can confidently say they have vaginas.

Ever since I was a young'en, I naturally gravitated towards the male gender (I always fancied myself as Annie Hall talking to her psychiatrist about penis envy). I typically listen to male vocalists- David Byrne, David Bowie, Danny Elfman (I love me some men with "D" names). I read books by males- David Sedaris, Chuck Klosterman, and Bret Easton Ellis (ugh...can I get anymore disgustingly hipster?) and my favorite performers are Crispin Glover, Paul Reubens, and Gene Wilder (all whom at one point or another I had mad crushes on).

So it comes as a great and wonderful surprise that my favorite blogs are run by the most incredible people out there without penises!

If you're one of those folks that enjoys reading blogs (when you should really be working, jackass! i see you!!!), but can never figure out where to find them, well look no further! After reading these blogs, you'll never want to read another blog again.

The ladies behind these blogs are not only smart, witty, and beautiful (Polly, I don't think I've ever seen a picture of you, but I'm sure you're smokin' too!), but fearless in their writing. They are writing machines, pumping out quality work almost daily and never, EVER, afraid to throw around words like "vaginas" and "penises" (that will be the fifth time I've used either word in my post).


Ok, that's six.

Now, I'm really bad at writing summaries, synopsis, critiques, and reviews. I'm surprised I ever made it through college, really. My descriptions of objects that I enjoy ultimately turn into mono-syllabic exclamations of happiness via a 13 year-old girl, "OMG! LOVE THIS BLOG! HAVE TO READ! XOXO!" (Actually, I've never written anything like that in my life. I'd hang myself and pull a David Carradine before you ever caught me saying that). You get the point though. I'm not good at description. I like keeping my words short and simple. Therefore if I ever write a book, it will be roughly one page long.

So you're going to just have to trust me on these blogs. The best I can give you tonight are free association haiku descriptions.

My Soul is a Butterfly-

Beautiful Jewess, Dorothy Parker Reincarnated
Walks the Streets of Chelsea
With a Notebook in One Hand
And a Scotch/Cigarillo/Kolache in the other
(Fuck, I SUCK at haikus. That didn't even make any sense? I just implied that Hannah is a smoking alcoholic who stuffs pastries in her mouth while walking down the sidewalk)

The Hitch List-
Mysterious Heart
Standing On The Shorelines of Twenty-Somethingness
Spewing Words of Loveliness
I'm Pulling Shit Out Of My Ass
(I'm sorry, Polly)

Beautiful and Bold
Witty and Wise
My Inspiration That Munching Carpet
Is The Only Way to Go
(That was kind of like a real haiku, right? RIGHT?)

In The Mountains of Montana
Stands A Girl Of Enormous Wit
Actually She Stands There Every Day
And Passerbys Are Like, "Hey, Why Is That Cute, Funny Girl Standing In The Mountains All The Time?"
(I give up.)

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Single White Female (But Without the Stalking Part)

My current roommate is bat shit crazy.

Now, I know people throw the term around loosely ("Dude, my colon just went bat shit crazy after I ate that four day-old Indian food), however, my roommate is truly bat shit crazy (I just Googled the origin of "bat shit crazy" and no one seems to know where it came from. There are some very heavy duty theories involving Native Americans collecting guano in caves, the guano containing parasites, and the parasites attacking the humans therefore making the host "bat shit crazy". In my mind, "bat shit crazy" looks like someone crawling around on their hands and knees with cartoon popped-out eyes licking bat shit off the ground. Like how Christopher Lloyd looked in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit", but instead of getting rolled over by a steam roller, he licks poop off the ground).

I started writing this piece a few days ago when I thought the craziness had reached it's peak.

It was far from over.

Right now, I'm sitting in my house watching cops escort my roommate away.

Let me give you a little back story. I did not chose to live with, let's call her, Gary Busey. I live in a big communal-living style house in downtown Austin. She is a 47 year-old woman who recently moved from Virgina to study Eastern medicine in Austin (surprise!). Gary Busey was already living here when I moved in. I thought there was something different about her (like when she would stare at me for long stretches of time for no apparent reason), but brushed it off as her being interested in me (a trait I inherited from my father where I erroneously believe that everyone is sexually attracted to me). She told us that she left her daughter behind in Virgina, but we found out later that she had been taken away from her. She also has a pension for young men from the hood who may or may not be in person.

Gary Busey always seemed on the verge of ripping off her clothing in public areas and proclaiming that Jesus was inside of her, but this weekend was when she finally fell off her already weak and dilapidated rocker.

What triggered it?
She was convinced that someone stole her spoon and her figs.

On Saturday I had to talk her off of a ledge and give her aspirin so she could handle the "magnificent stress" of the situation involving her spoon and figs. On Sunday morning, I heard her screaming at the owner of the house demanding to know where her spoon and figs were. "Where are my figs, man?!" I heard her shout. Later that day I received three missed calls from Gary Busey. The third call I picked up.

Gary Busey: Hey there! I just want to let you know that I went to church and prayed and sang and now all the pain has gone away.

Me: Oh, wow, that's great, Gary Busey. I'm glad you're feeling better.

Gary Busey: I'm out walking in the neighborhood and feel at peace.

Me: Terrific.

Gary Busey: Wow, it's so beautiful here...oh, look at that squirrel.

This is where it gets fun. Yesterday, Gary Busey stood over me and another roommate as we ate dinner. Not saying a word. Later that evening, after arriving home late from my second job, I caught a silhouette sitting in the dark of my kitchen. It was Gary Busey and she was waiting for me. In the dark. Next to the front door. I thought maybe she was doing her best impression of the Mad Men logo, but silly me, she wasn't! I walked into the house and she just glared. "Looks like I have a fever!" she blurted out. I quasi-smiled and quickly walked up to my room. No more than five minutes later there was pounding on my door.

Gary Busey: I need to talk to you!

Me: Not now, Gary Busey! I'm sleeping!

She stammers and sighs and retreats back to her room.
Just as I was drifting to sleep, my door flew open! As I laid there half asleep, half naked in my bed, my bat shit scarfing roommate loomed over me ranting about how the world was against her and she wouldn't stand for it any longer. I waited for the blow of her Bible against my head that never came, sighed, mumbled a few "fml's"s, then politely told her to leave my room.

With all that being said, it didn't come as a surprise today when I was told that the police were at my house after she made allegations that her life was in jeopardy. I'm currently sitting in my room with the door locked as she packs up to leave. The police chief informed me that she had been hanging around the police station over the past week. He was getting frequent phone calls from her professing her love to him. I'm standing against the door listening to her her sigh her heavy sigh as the policeman tells her to hurry the fuck up.

The funny thing is, I wish I was exaggerating this entire story.
Or maybe it's not that funny....where the hell is that can of pepper spray again?

Sunday, October 04, 2009

Break-Dancing Pregnant Ladies and Sh*t-Flinging Hipster Chicks

Friday Oct. 2nd Day #1

8AM: Dream about Billy Ocean without really knowing what Billy Ocean looks like. Wake up slightly aroused.

8:15AM: Lay in bed listening to your 47 year-old roommate singing folk songs in the shower.

8:32AM: In the shower, notice that your razor blade is as dull as a Harrison Ford interview and decide that unshaven legs are appropriate for a day where truck loads of jobless, unshowered trust fund babies arrive into town for the Austin City Limits music festival. The #2 festival in Austin. The Frank Stallone, DeDee Pfeiffer, or Roger Clinton of South by Southwest.

8:45AM: Discover that the road from your house into town is blocked off due to the festival. Drive around for forty-five minutes, then eventually find office located only five miles away.

9:30AM: Curse the words "Austin", "City", and "Limits" and laugh maniacally when John Aielli informs radio listeners that it will rain all weekend.

9:31: Arrive at the office delirious and hungry. Office is vacant due to your co-workers shooting footage at the festival. Start a one person Michael Jackson dance party.

9:32AM: Dawns on you that you are white and dance like David Byrne. A wave of sadness washes over you.

9:55AM: Boss unexpectedly arrives at the office and you quickly put your pants back on.

9:56AM: Boss presents you with ACL tickets.

9:57AM: Deeply seated hatred for ACL suddenly turns into a vast and generous love.

10:32AM-12:40PM: Try to figure out who the hell is playing the festival.

12:41PM-7:00PM- Spend the entire afternoon doing work, trying to desperately make the Phoenix show at 5:30PM, which you do not.

7:01PM- Arrive at ACL, take this picture, sit in the Dell VIP tent and marvel at all the free beverages and trailer potties (realize three days later that this may have been the highlight of the festival).

7:22PM Watch Andrew Bird from onstage. Unknowingly stand next to Britt Daniel. Glad you passed on the burrito with beans earlier that day.

7:50 PM Tell all your friends at the festival that you'll be over to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs concert shortly, but secretly plant yourself in front of the Kings of Leon stage.

8:05PM Heartbreakingly realize that Caleb Followill's face looks highly disproportionate in certain angles and lose your hypothetical boner.

8:45: Text reply back to your friends that you're deep into the Yeah Yeah Yeah's show and that they will never find you, all the while sitting in front of the Kings of Leon stage trying desperately to bring the boner back.

9:05AM: Finally admit that every Kings of Leon song sounds the same and leave.

9:10PM: Leave the grounds while watching the Yeah Yeah Yeahs stage. See Karen O. wearing some sort of metallic ski mask and discover you could potentially get your boner back.

Over the course of the rest of the evening I watch a pregnant woman break dance and beautiful hipster girls nearly through feces at each other in the Beauty Bar. When 3AM roles around, I watch the eyes of the city shut it's lids for only a few hours and play on the stereo, "This Must Be the Place..."


Thursday, October 01, 2009

What I Learned While On Vacation with My Mother in New York

1. ) I erroneously figured that of all people on this wonderful and diverse planet, my 82 year-old Jewish Grandmother would share the same amount enthusiasm for the lamé fanny pack as I. Imagine my genuine surprise when she did not. In fact, when I showed her the image of the fanny pack online, and with high inflection said, "You want one of those?", she wrinkled up her nose and gave me a look that said, "Do I look like a huge asshole?". A wave of heartbreak overcame me. Of all people! The woman who wears heels to the gym!
I momentarily had forgotten that she was the sovereign of fashion in the family and she immediately washed away my forlorn with the offer of her laced trimmed black leggings (In this photo, she is wearing my nonprescription American Apparel glasses. She is being ironic).

2.) Pilots that misjudge how much fuel the airplane has and then break the door to the craft, are asked not to fly your plane any longer. In fact, the airline will ask an off-duty pilot sitting in seat 1A to fly the plane instead.

3.) No amount of alcohol drunk from tiny bottles will make you feel better about #2.
Or #1 for that matter.

4.) Since leaving my home state of New York, it appears that a bunch of *Superstars!* have taken over the place. They get their own parking spots too. They also carry around books that say, "To Serve Man" (a single piece of Slim Jim mailed to the person who can guess that reference).

5.) Apparently people stopped wearing shirts in my hometown too. So Central NY is filled with *Shirtless Superstars!* (imagine that being said very enthusiastically by someone like Nathan Lane. Or Andy Dick.)

6.) Sometimes people that you graduated high school with still live in your hometown. Sometimes they work dead-end jobs. Sometimes they look like they've aged twenty years. Sometimes the highlight of their week is going to the local bar.
Sometimes you really envy them for all these things.

7.) Sometimes you sound like a elitist snob.

8.) I've seen heaven. And it looks like a giant cheese factory off the Pacific Coast. But hanging out with this dog is a close second. Her name is Lucy and I once caught her spooning me. I'm not kidding. I woke up next to her lovingly gazing into my eyes with a single paw outstretched across my stomach.
I also didn't recall the events of the previous evening.
While glancing towards the nightstand, I noticed a small smudge of residue on the rim of my water glass...