The Strawberry Blog

July 27th, 2005

For those of us enamored of our own good luck (or good sense) to reside in a particularly rich city; for those of us who live for the often fleeting moments of serious urban goodness; for those of us who do not so much as walk through our cities but stroll and stride to our flâneur’s content—I salute you.

Whenever I get off the plane at Louis Armstrong (barely) International Airport, I can feel the city (though the airport is actually suburban Kenner) in my bones, in my heart, but perhaps most obviously, on my skin. Especially in summer. I have tried to no avail to describe to the growing population of wilting California Film People that humidity is good—not something to fear, dread, complain about. While it is not particularly good for things like hair, underarms, and generally looking well put together, it benefits other, arguably more important areas: your senses for example. Summer forces you to put the hectic pace of your springtime step, for all its verdant chirpy-ness, in check and slow the hell down. And that legato relief implores us to be more neighborly to strangers at the bus stop, the streetcar, the corner where you lock your bike—to ensure that we say hello because we have more time when passing each other (don’t we? I’m no physicist but I think this makes sense).

It doesn’t matter that the city of New Orleans, the City that Euterpe Remembered (and how, hallelujah!) no longer boasts discernible swamps (Algiers used to be, in the 1870s, fine hunting country), we are still hot, still wet, still slowing to a crawl as though moving through jello. You can never really get rid of a swamp entirely. Every city that was ever built on one from here to Washington, D.C. is reminded of its watery history once May or June appears. It rears its stink from the depths of pavement and cobblestone, signaling to all that summer has arrived; the mighty forces of nature are about to rock and Lord Almighty, you better listen to their presage or suffer their indignance.

Welcome July. Say good day to everyone you do not know.

July 7th, 2005

This week would have been an excellent time for another dispatch from Living in The Free World of Hummers—after all, it’s the G-8 Summit and with it the Big Reunion of Bono, Madonna, Geldolf, et al. It is a great week for feeling like, at least in Europe and in civilized knitting circles of this great nation, the world is with us; they agree that Hummers are wasteful and stupid.

But I couldn’t do it. And it is not for lack of material.

It’s not that I don’t want to jump on the bandwagon—it’s just that, the day before our Big National Hoilday, I volunteered at the animal shelter again and after three hours of cleaning litterboxes and trimming nails, of socializing orphaned kittens and feeding the hungry masses…I met Twitch.

I’d actually met him briefly the week before. He and his sister were sequestered so I asked what was wrong with them (Twitch cowered in a corner when my hand approached him). “Oh,” the staffperson replied, “they’re not used to us yet. They need socializing.”

I’ll say. The following week I got to know them. Twitch seemed slightly less nervous—though he was still very skinny—and it was then that I saw the full consequences of his abuse: his entire left side is…off. Unlike most kittens, whose agility and resilience are legend among mammals, Twitch favors, stumbles—hesitates. But he gets to where he needs to be most of the time. He’s just discovering a world outside a cage, just now acclimating to kind human touch. And when it came to his fist manicure, to trim the talons that curled and threatened, he was the most well behaved kitten on the entire floor. Not a peep. Not one whimpering meow.

He is shy. He needs cajoling, prompting, aiding, encouragement. Despite this, of his own accord he crawled into my lap (mine!) after I’d trimmed his nails. Talk about progress. And when his curiosity got the better of him, he vacated my lap to explore a row of chairs. We watched him skim the periphery of the room, eventually trotting to the corner…where he cowered. I scooped him up, deciding that he needed more love, more encouragement, more cuddling.

At which point he decided that I should’ve left well enough alone—he’s a big boy and knows what he wants: to pee, thank you.

Now.

All over me.

(And for a split second I wondered illogically, Hey Twitch, do you drive a Hummer, too?).

I don’t know if anyone will ever adopt him (though I am heartened by the kindnesses I witness there). He is brain damaged, doesn’t cover his mess in his box, and might not be able to control all bodily functions. But he is infinitely charming, adores his sister, and might just have stolen my heart while wetting my shirt.

Apart from that, he is excellent relief from the mindnumbing indignity of living in a world of monstrous vehicles. Long live Twitch!