If you hold out a pointy finger at cat nose-height chances are about 88% that the cat will come "touch noses" with your finger.

This is even more fun when you've shuffled your feet across a synthetic carpet before hand.

This is even more fun when you've shuffled your feet across a synthetic carpet before hand.

Heh.

::imagines staticky Persian::

This is even more fun when you've shuffled your feet across a synthetic carpet before hand.

Winter. Cat and I both yelp (she sniffs my nose.) If she's on top of the tv, the picture blerps.

do not call the American Embassy and ask to have them "taken into custody."

That's almost as silly as the lady who called 911 from the Burger King drive-thru to demand that a police officer be sent to make them get her order right.

::imagines staticky Persian::

One of the cats I had back in Colorado was a long-haired tortoiseshell who actually liked it when you helped discharge her static build-up. She liked long strokes from nape to tail-tip, and you could feel the crackle following your hand. With the lights out, you could see it, too. Amazing.

This, on a very long-haired Himalayan. He's much smaller than he was.

Pictures! Not that I want to laugh at your poor kitty or anything...

My old Persian looked cute in her lion cut, imo. My brother felt like you, though.

Timelies all. Anyone know what time fireworks are at tomorrow at baltimore inner harbor?

Thanks for all the birthday wishes! Teacup Guy is being so good to me. If the Red Sox can somehow manage to win this game, it'll be a perfect day.

I have no comments on cat-nose touching, electrically charged or otherwise.

In completely random news, I just got back from church, where I saw possibly the geeky-coolest couple in the entire universe.

He was shortish but clearly beautifully built, a classic inverted-triangle broad-shouldered swashbuckler of a fellow who had embraced his inner pirate. Long, dark, curly hair. Neatly trimmed, rakish Van Dyck. Long, long, long leather jacket, deep black pants that might have been velvet, tucked into knee-high black leather boots, and a Spikesque blood-red silk shirt. He also had a deep, rich, dryly snarkful, faintly English Errol Flynnish profoundly lickable voice.

All of which ought to have been incredibly pretentious and irritating, but he wore it all as lightly and easily as Jilli wears her Jilliness; clearly this was just who he was and had been since forever, and the only way he could appear freakish and stiff and out of place would be if he were to cut his hair and dress all the way down to normal.

His wife was -- Nilly, only taller. Slightly paler complexion, but the same build, the same dark shining hair and dark shining eyes behind the same glasses, with the same kind, eager smile. She was dressed much like Nilly: clean and pretty and mostly unadorned, nothing flashy or dressy-uppy or actorly about her.

She looked in no way like the sort of person you could imagine hooked up with the man beside her, yet there they both were, quiet and happy and every now and then communicating worlds with a small look or a touch to the elbow or a word in one another's ears.

And now I really want someone to write this story: Nilly and the Pirate.