Why is it that when I wake up in the middle of the night (which usually corresponds with when Dennis decides he wants to go out), all of my hundred bug bites start itching simultaneously? Furthermore, why is it that I have so many bug bites, and why do they swell up to the size of a baseball then recede into festering welts that last for weeks on end? These are rhetorical questions, mind you. No answers expected nor available.
They say you can’t teach an old cat new tricks. Oh wait, that’s dogs. You can’t teach cats any tricks. They teach themselves. Henry has recently figured out how to get my attention when he is inside and I am outside on the back deck, as long as the kitchen window is open. He jumps up on the counter beside the sink and yells out the window screen. This is usually after he has been on the other side of the counter, knocking the lid off the butter dish and molesting the butter. You may prefer to eat your toast dry, should you come to visit.
The only entertainment here, aside from the rationed internet, is DVDs. Last summer we acquired a milk crate full of them, including the entire collection of James Bond movies to date. When a James Bond movie is viewed at an appropriate interval, every two years or so, they are kind of fun. There’s the “cold open” scene that either involves skiing down a mountain while being shot, dangling off the rungs of a helicopter while being shot at, or driving a sports car along the Amalfi coast at autobahn speed while being shot at. Then there’s the introduction of Bond girls du jour (one evil, one maybe not evil, both owners of skimpy wardrobes), followed by the arrival of the villain, who spends most of the movie explaining to Bond how he will kill him, while making sure to allow ample opportunity for Bond to escape. I’m waiting for the call right now. I’ve already proven I could write the next screen play.
The thing I find most fascinating, though, is the theme songs. More specifically, who sings the theme songs. Shirley Bassey had a long and distinguished run, of course, but alas no more. In the latter decades of the 20th century and continuing to today, there has been a different performer (or performers) every time. My analysis shows that the main criteria for becoming a James Bond vocalist is being somewhat past your prime popularity. I give you: Paul McCartney (1973), (Rita Coolidge (1983), A-ha (1990), Sheryl Crow (1997), Garbage (1999), Madonna (2002), and Bono (2006). I cannot wait until either Drake or Justin Bieber contributes the next Bond song because that will be irrefutable proof they are entering the last fifteen minutes of their fame.
In the meantime, I will busy myself scraping cat drool off the butter, feeding my sourdough starter, ignoring the dust bunnies under the dining table, and trying not to think about the fact the days are already starting to get shorter.