Floof-sandwich (catfinition): A person caught between two (or more) cats engaged in an activity. The cats can be sleeping, pinning the person down, or fighting, with the person trying to separate them, or sitting on either side of the person, watching them, and trying to will them to feed the cats now.
Rising out of nineteen eighty-three came a mocking, damning tirade on behalf of the common person just coping with their chains of fucking moments. Called “Synchronicity II,” created, performed, and released by The Police, the song has a hard-edge beat to buttress bitter lyrics. Take these lines:
and every single meeting with his so-called superior
Is a humiliating kick in the crotch.
Few are the people of whatever gender, race, country, and vocation that haven’t sat in a meeting and thought, “These people are my superiors? My superior what? All they are is a superior pain in the ass.”
Can’t identify? How about,
Daddy grips the wheel and stares alone into the distance,
He knows that something somewhere has to break.
That’s how it feels: something somewhere has to break. If you listen, you can hear the deep groans of the wrenching cracks in the world. They’re just not yet visible. Or maybe I hear them in my head.
I dreamed I was watching the old “Seinfeld” television show, but I was on Mars, in my ship. Awakening from watching the show, I experienced a panic attack, because I wasn’t in my Mars ship. My airlock and cockpit, which should have been to my left, were missing. I freaked. Where the hell were they? Where am I? Then, it was like someone had removed a camera lens filter. The light changed; the room darkened. I recognized that I was in my office recliner, on Earth. I’d fallen asleep watching “Seinfeld,” and dreamed I was watching it on Mars.
Which made me chuckle. It was the same episode on Mars as the one that I was watching when I awakened, “The Parking Garage,” from the second season, I think. This episode is where Kramer bought an air-conditioning unit, George is supposed to be taking his parents to a play for their anniversary, and Elaine has goldfish in a bag. Nobody knows where they’ve parked their car, so they’re wandering around, searching. I guess as they wandered, I took off for Mars.
I’m not watching “19-2.” Season four is over. It remains a beautifully written, produced, directed, and acted television series. I look forward to it, and then must ration myself to make it last. It’s always worth the time. Episode one, season two, about the school shooting, remains one of the most gripping pieces of electronic fiction I’ve enjoyed, vividly drawn and executed.
I’m not watching “Rake,” either. I’m not referencing the American version, but the Australian original. Sorry, but Richard Roxburgh is Cleaver Green, that rake. After the shocks of last season – hell, every episode on every season offers a shock – I’m looking forward to the next one.
Naturally, I’m not watching “Game of Thrones.” I’m not watching “Code.” Code is over. I didn’t find year two as interesting as year one, but then, year one was hellagood. No, I’m not watching “Red Rocks” out of Ireland, restlessly awaiting its continuation, or another Australian show, “Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries.” I’m not watching “The IT Crowd” – the original U.K. series, with Chris O’Dowd, Matt Berry, Catherine Parkinson, and Richard Ayoade, or “Misfits,” nor the mischievous, cheeky “Raised By Wolves.” And of course, I’m not watching “Gavin and Stacy,” “The Killing,” “Happy Valley,” “The Vikings,” or that crazy, silly show, “Red Dwarf,” either, or “Prime Suspect,” “Cracker,” or any Wallender or Case History shows.
No, they’re all done, or on hiatus, leaving me to wait to see what the world comes up with next. The world is pretty good at surprising me.