Kitty Porn

It's not every day that one comes home to a cat sleeping on a potato.

But a little back story...meet Monkeyface, with whom I have a short but spotted past. I generally detest cats' smugness, the way their every elegant, perfect, grace-filled gesture seems to accuse of your imperfection and fallibility. At first when I moved in, Monkey seemed generally mistrustful of me, taking every spare opportunity to look me up and down with a disdainful eye. I had been warned of Monkey's rough upbringing, and so I chose to persevere, blaming the early baggage for her standoffishness. Ultimately we were able to cultivate a friendship of sorts (in which Monkeyface calls all of the shots, and I do not pet unless approached). Now, when I watch her kneading my comforter with her razor-sharp talons and customary overeager fervor, or trying to distract me by urgently battering into whatever reading material I may be holding at the time, I wonder if Monkey and I have more in common than I originally thought.

Why, you may ask, is there a potato sitting atop my bureau? Well, so, the other night I went to this performance called "One Million Forgotten Moments," which was essentially an old storefront turned theater, where some really snazzy street theater was staged.

Among one of the sketches was a group of folks jumping up and down, preaching the relative benefits of giving potatoes to loved ones as an alternative to giving flowers. "But why give someone you love flowers when they're just going to die?!?!? Why not give them something that will keep growing, something that isn't ephemeral? And think of all of the wonderful things that can be done with potatoes! You can even make a battery out of a potato!" And so forth and so on.

After which, the folks in the sketch dispersed among the audience, bestowing their potatoes with utter generosity on several chosen onlookers, of which I was one.

Monkeyface understands, I think.

But I still don't sleep on potatoes.