Welcome to Evany Thomas! I live and word in the Bay Area, can play a drinking straw like a penny whistle, and once walked around with a detonated appendix for 5 long, strange days. I'm also a sleeping pose expert.

And that's not all!

high school

Saturday, mar. 15, 2008   |   0 comments

This is me in high school. As you can see, I was very well-adjusted.

hypocritic oaths

Saturday, mar. 15, 2008   |   0 comments

The following early formed high-horse ideals have made a hypocrite of me:

Dying your hair is a really stupid idea. Once you do it, you can never stop -- roots are a monkey on your back. Thus I will never dye my hair. (I bleached my hair for the first time in 1995, and I've been feeding that monkey ever since -- probably one of the contributing factors that lead to all my hair falling out.)

Tattoos are idiotic. No matter how much you think you like that Celtic design/flaming dice/cake'n'milk icon, there is no way you'll still be into it when you're 80. Thus I will never get a tattoo. No way. (Surprise! I did indeed get a tattoo.)

Buying stamps at the ATM is a rip-off. If you count how many stamps you get, there are TWO LESS than the amount you pay should give you. Thus I will always buy my stamps at the post office, where you get exactly what you pay for. (I broke this commandment this morning.)

Joining a gym is a total waste of money because you always, always, always stop going, yet, out of misguided optimism about how you're "going to start going next week," you never cancel your membership. Thus I will never join a gym. (Also a lie: I joined a gym on New Year's fucking Day, the ultimate cliched time of year to do so, stopped going three months later, and only just managed to cancel the $30 a month membership 1.5 years after I stopped going. And I wonder why I don't have money for coffee today.)

Therapy is for people who a) don't have friends, and/or b) have money to burn. (Seven weeks ago, I started going to a brain doctor. It's real great! I'm developing the tools I need to build a better, happier, healthier life! Soon all the vitriol will be burned from my life, and I'll be able to stop writing words like these.)

Cellphones are pretentious, give you head cancer, and are totally invasive (did I tell you about the time I went and say Schindler's List and the woman sitting behind me made a call to someone, probably her therapist, and was heard saying "This is SO SAD!" over and over). (I haven't acquired a cellphone yet, but my beau has one I use it all the time, which is almost worse: owning your own cellphone is bad, but borrowing cellphones is double-bad, just like non-smokers who "bum" smokes when they're drunk, playing pool, or both.)

Bonus -- my favorite punny headlines:

First, there's the hair salon "Curl Up and Dye" (this is one of my favorite genres: puns that work, kind of, but have totally negative connotations that no store owner in their right mind would ever want associated with their services or products, like "Doggy Styles," the dog grooming salon in Mill Valley).

In the category of "jokes that might appear in Margaret Cho's explosive vehicle 'All-American Girl'": the frame store "Framing Dragon" (similar, but not as good because it almost makes sense: "Up in Frames") and the bar, "Brew Moon." Speaking of which, Margaret Cho has become something of a leitmotif these days. Not only did Cintra Wilson just interview her in her Salon column (is it me, or did Cintra's column disappear, sans explanation, for over a year?), but Andrew of in-flux sites benicetobears.com and bn2b.com (and the new DiaryLand) fame name-dropped her in today's EGGPOST mailing! And, when I did a search on her (to find out the name of her ill-fated TV show, frankly), I found three whole sites dedicated to her! Isn't the Web amazing.

And then there's the one I saw this very morning in the window of a coffee shop: "Chai me!" I think this is a word-play exploration of "try me" or maybe even "buy me," but alls I thought when I first saw it was just "blow me."

cat show!

Saturday, mar. 15, 2008   |   0 comments
I shell out my $6 and get my in/out privileges, via rubber stamped paw print, and enter another dimension. Immediately I am urged, with a very heavy hand, to buy a program (only $3!) and if I do so, I'll get a really super deal ($1 off the cover price!) on a subscription to Cat Fancy magazine. Articles such as "How to Put Your Cat in Your Will," "Feline Blood: Unleashing its Mysteries," "Bengal Mania" and "Heart Worm--Cause for Concern?" call out to me. A woman who has been thumbing this month's issue chimes in with a heart-felt recommendation--she's been reading it for years and benefits immensely from its many useful tips.

I move on, subscriptionless, to the main arena, where the cats and owners wait to be called for their turn in the sun. Row upon row of cages are set up, each cage its own kitty-sized fantasy: throw pillows, lamé drapes, and to-scale furniture. Varieties of the "your affection may spread infection" sign appear in each cage--you, the unwashed masses, must never touch the royalty. And by each cage sits a guardian, almost always a woman. There is a faint male presence--the husband-in-the-background or the occasional competitor with the look and cadence of Mr. Rogers--but it's invisible in the company of Female Cat Lovers. Jersey-pantsuited, gold-sneakered, high-haired ladies perch near their baby and receive their public. Some sketch or knit. Some gobble wedge fries and Stauffer's gourmet pizzas. But most talk cat. They exchange advice and anecdotes, negotiate stud fees, and sell kittens at $400 a head.

Immediately I am pulled into a "conversation." Two other civilians are already hostages; we exchange fearful, knowing glances as a feline-fevered lass launches a description of the Christmas-themed living quarters she designed for her two Balinese champions, Fric and Frac:

...my husband built the roof and he put in a real chimney and i got this real cute santa and put him in it and i cut all these icicles out of white felt and made it look like it was snowing out and i sewed these two stockings and put their names on it and hung them in the fireplace and they never even teared them down or anything and i made red and green sheets for their bed and i was going to put in this sweet little tree but...

When she carts out the photo album, I wander out of earshot, tempted away by the puffy-painted kitty on sweatshirt and cute key chain booth.

Moments later I succumb to the orbital pull of another fanatic. This woman lives for her cats. She has quit her job so she can spend every waking moment with them. She rises at dawn, eager for her day of brushing her cats' teeth and combing their hair to begin. (Never, ever use human paste on cats. It upsets their stomach.) The idea of brushing my cat's teeth without howling, squirming, blood loss...well. But she advises me to present the cleaning to my cat as something fun to do. Sort of talk it up. And while I massage his gums, I must maintain the running pep talk. Soon, she promises, my cat will look forward to these daily moments of intimacy almost as much as I will.

Still unsure, I move on.

A hop-skip-jump away I find yet another proud owner pontificating. She gives her reason for living, an Oriental longhair named "Booger," intense spiffing before each show. This involves three shampoo sessions, each time using a different and very special feline-only shampoo. That is followed by a blow-dry, then a careful trimming around the eyes (allowing the breed's saucer-eyed look of perpetual accusation to truly shine). She never allows them to groom themselves. When asked about the accuracy of rumors that shampoos and blow-drying are harmful for cats, especially since they have their own god-given (I had learned to speak their language on previous ethnographic outings) system for maintaining freshness, she reasoned "how would you feel without your regular shampoo and styling?" Apparently she was too wrapped up in the competition to take in my greasy split ends and 2-inch roots. My off-color "why-do-cats- lick-their-balls-because-they- can-maybe-you're-robbing-your-pet-of-some-fun" comment was left unanswered as the team's number was called and all amiable chit-chat ceased immediately. A few brisk, finishing-touch brush strokes and they were off to ring number five for the longhaired kitten competition, the crowd parting for their importance.

I ride her wake, slipping into the last available seat just as the games begin. One by one, the kitties are brought forward. Baywatch. Rocket's red glare. Miss Cleo Catra. Izzy Furreal. Rock-of-Ages "Pyromania." Mr. Moon of Aqua Stars. San Xavier of Inheritance. Booger. Stretch Limo. Andromeda. All are stroked, stretched, and examined closely by the judge, who is looking for the traits their breeds are known for: certain proportions, correctly placed ears, eye position, coat quality, and over-all health and alertness (tested by a tease from a tinsel-tipped wand).

Sadly, Booger's grooming regimen met with a disappointing 5th Best Kitty ribbon. Mama Booger's friends, clustered around her, assured her that she had been robbed. I could tell by her speechless, crestfallen expression that she agreed. Perhaps these competitive ladies had overlooked the "I am Your Cat" statement showcased on page 4 of this year's program:

Do not think of me as an object to bring you fame in the show ring, my most prized trophy is a gentle touch from you. Do not expect from me a new family of babies every four months. I love my little ones and want them with me so I may teach and play with them for many months as a good mother should. Do not keep me confined in a cage, I am a free spirit, let me live with you in your home. Do not think of me as an unknowing, uncaring or an independent being, for I need you. Accept me as I am, care for me, love me and be my friend, and I will give you in return: a soft touch of my paw on your cheek when you are troubled; a companion when you are lonely; a clown when you are depressed; a trusting loving purring being, content to share your happiness and sorrow.

Let me be with you in our small part of this world, for HE has created you and me. Do not think of me as a simple creature, for I can see angels you can not see. I can feel the vibrations and wonders of the universe you can not feel. I can communicate with you, if you will learn my language, I understand yours.

And when the time comes when I will have to leave you, remember, I will always be with you, for our Spirits are one.

Love me. Cherish me. Care for me. I am your cat.

Terrifying, isn't it. Truly alternative. (Very much more so than the shocking hair color, drug experimentation, dark poetry, ragged clothing and surface irony of yesteryear.) The guard has changed. Now a handful of cat-luvin' fools are the riders of the cresting wave; they are the very definition of cutting edge.

the sound of one hand clapping

Saturday, mar. 15, 2008   |   0 comments
I used to fantasize about living alone. Finally surrounded by all my stuff, organized just so, I'd become one of those humming, motivated people who leap out of bed at six and trot to yoga or pilates or whatever (the laundry done, the house spotless, my sleek halterbra and exer-leggings would be clean and cat-hair free). After stretching, toning, and elevating that heart rate, I'd return for a well-balanced breakfast of fruit, yogurt, bran products, and perfect-person coffee. My evenings would be spent whipping up dinner parties or garreting myself away for hours of prolific writing/sketching/organizing receipts for next year's taxes. Christmas cards would be made by hand and sent out before the holidays. My posture would be excellent, my clothing flattering.

That, or I'd spend every waking hour watching TV. Certainly that's exactly what I did with my one and only bout of adult unemployment. Presented with the tremendous gift of endless free time, I simply supined away the hours, eating pudding and gazing at the magic, glowing happy box. Granted, that was the summer of '96 and the Olympics were raging. But even my long-standing love of floor routines and tight, perfect-entry (!) dives wasn't strong enough to explain away the dawn-to-dawn couchiness, the hand frozen into a remote-shaped claw.

So yeah, I was a little worried about what I'd actually end up doing with my new-found freedom. Without roommates and loved ones around to guilt and embarrass away my bad eating habits, slovenly work style, and dirty ways, do I flourish or go to seed?

As it turns out, I don't really do either. Solo Evany is disturbingly similar to the old Evany, with only a few quirks to tell us apart. For one, I'm clean to the extreme: Either it's Martha Stewart living -- carpets vacuumed, pillows fluffed, towels aligned, CDs cornered, dishes stacked, bathtub squeaked clean -- or the apartment is just crazy-disgusting, with coffee cups rotting in the sink, kitty litter speckling the floor, towels swamping on the bathroom tiles, bills laying around unpaid and covered with Teena bites and tears, underwear, pants, and socks telescoped into little fireman piles all over the house. The change is never gradual -- things just go from just-so to total-life-vomit in a matter of hours.

Other than Sunday TV night, when Jill, Liz, Richard, Amy, and Leah come over with ice cream, pies, pizza, and ginger ale for a night of squealing through Ed, The Practice, and tapes (I don't have cable!) of Sex and the City, I hardly watch any television at all. The only thing: Infomercials, without someone around to mock them with me, have become impossible to deny. That acne one, with the lady (not Tony Danza) from Who's the Boss? Now I don't have a huge acne problem per se, but surely any breakout whatsoever on someone who's thirty-fuck years old is a disaster, right? And don't I deserve to be happy like all those amazingly thrilled "after" people? Yes I surely do, especially at two am, post a night of drinking and a half-hour of their tropical sets, chirping birds, and scientific proof. I actually went so far as to call their 800 number, but the lady couldn't find the answers to my questions ("You guarantee 100% satisfaction ... could you define 'satisfied' for me? Because I don't think I've truly experienced that sensation before.") in the scant binder they'd given her. And they still haven't answered any of my email.

Another thing I'm experiencing is a teen-age level of tolerance for repetition. My CD player is permanently set on "repeat," and I can happily listen to the same album ten, fifteen times. Right now, it's Cheap Trick -- this is the eighth time tonight that I've heard Robin Zander tell me and the Budokanians, "I want YOU to want ME!" And god, it still sounds so good. Again, again, again! And when I'm not eating the same thing for dinner -- pasta and tomato sauce (garlic, olive oil, chili flakes, one can chopped tomatoes, salt, pepper) -- I'm eating a bowl of Raisin Bran. Post Raisin Bran. Two bowls. (On a recent audio tour of Graceland, Pricilla told me that Elvis once spent six months eating nothing but meatloaf. Does this mean I'm headed for a life of fireworks, shiny cars, and roaring crowds? Or a shitty shitty death death on the toilet? Maybe both!) Also like a teenager, I can spend entire evenings trying on clothes. Dancing in front of mirrors, too.

Oh and I spend a lot of time wandering around the house naked. Not for the usual burningmanly reasons, but because I now keep the heat up to one million degrees, because I can! Tonight, however, I caught myself nude, on all fours, playing "you go left, I go left, you go right, I go right!" hideandseek with Teena around the circular layout of my apartment, saying things like "your tail! so puffy!" and I realized it was maybe time to turn down the heat, put on some jammies. Which is what I'm doing now.

jolly ol' st. nick

Saturday, mar. 15, 2008   |   0 comments
Adam Rich. As a boy, his thick bangs and belly won him the part of Nicholas on "Eight is Enough" (to fill our lives with luv). Later, he bloomed into a heroin addict (surprising no one) and made the papers by throwing himself down a flight of stairs in rehab, hoping for painkiller-requiring injuries. I spotted him, all grown up, at Starbucks. He appeared sober, rosy-cheeked with 12-step wisdom, nursing a cigarette and coffee. And looking ready for a reunion episode.