I can't even think about Mr. Rogers for too long or I get all teary at how thoroughly, down to the bone decent he was, and how that decency was a kind of genius. The haters clearly have not seen or read anything of him in ages and are just working their hate off of fuzzy memories and a general pall of get-offa-my-lawn grumpitude. They make me want to say words that would make Mr. Rogers very disappointed in me so I won't say them, but it's hard not to.

He wouldn't be disappointed in you, JZ, just in your behavior.

Mr. Rogers died three weeks to the day after my father died. I didn't think my heart could take it. I don't know when I ever felt so alone. The two were already very connected in my mind. My father used to watch Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood with me. Sometimes he'd pretend he was King Friday. And I believe he enjoyed Lady Elaine Fairchild as much as he enjoyed Jonathan Winters and Peter Sellers.

He has an arc welder in his living room.

And my first response was, "Uh, yeah? So? I've got a reciprocating saw." I'm a junk enabler.

I've been trying to pin down my Mr. Rogers quibble, and I think it comes from what everyone is so charmed by, the sweet smile, the slow kindly voice--he seemed, well, (white fonted for the Mr. Rogers lovers) impaired, either mentally or socially, in a "if you're left alone with this person, bad things will happen" sort of way. I don't know if this is the key to something utterly blocked by me and both my sisters, but we've all agreed that no one that kind and sweet and obsessed with kid things could possibly be up to anything good.

Sorry. My issues.

He has an arc welder in his living room.

And my first response was, "Uh, yeah? So? I've got a reciprocating saw." I'm a junk enabler.

Heh. The other night, there was a new pile of metal in the living room, and I said, "If I'm going to move in, we are going to have to have a written contract about bringing scrap metal home."

His response? "No problem. [pause] There WILL be a section in the contract about....YOUR BOOKS, won't there???"

Dude. Busted!

Possible yuck alert: I was just outside taking pictures of Winchester, and will post them as soon as Stephen uploads them, but I wanted to ask if anyone knows what kind of cost might be associated with getting his tail fixed.

It was ... I don't know, run over, maybe? It's about a third of the length it should be, and about two thirds of what's left is bald but oozing and pink, clearly not healed, so that blades of grass and other stuff sticks to it. Ick. The last inch, nearest his butt, is still furry and fine.

And *he* looks amazingly healthy. His coat is soft and smooth and shiny, and he doesn't even seem to have fleas. But the tail ... poor guy. Also, shudder. Anyone have a clue what it might cost to have it clipped and cauterized, I guess, properly?

Amy is there a Humane Society or something similar, near you? You might want to call, tell them he's a stray, and that you'd adopt, but that you don't have the dosh to fix his tail up, right now. Poor kitty.

we are going to have to have a written contract about bringing scrap metal home

Put in a clause about using the kitchen stove for annealing steel. Hubby's been pissed that we've only had electric stoves since we moved because he liked using the gas flame for annealing and paint removal and melting lead and . . .

Heh. The other night, there was a new pile of metal in the living room, and I said, "If I'm going to move in, we are going to have to have a written contract about bringing scrap metal home."

His response? "No problem. [pause] There WILL be a section in the contract about....YOUR BOOKS, won't there???"

If he gets a scrap metal shelf and puts it all on there, sure.

*snuggles into the Mr. Rogers love*

but I really loved those minatures.

So. Awesome. I still to this day remember the one where he showed how they made crayons.

Plus, music nerd, so...

Sorry that he creeps you out, connie.

Amy, a tail is nothing. TC had a foot missing, and the bone was visible. But yeah, the sooner the better. A vet should do that for you for very little, and let you make payments, if necessary. Check with local shelters, rather than the state humane society. Local shelters often have good relationships with local vets, and can steer you to a soft-hearted sap who'll give a rescuer (Winchester says you are one) a break on fees. Good luck to both of you.

I am not even addressing menfolk who acquire clutter. I walked into the kitchen the other day, and was just so very tempted to pull a pan or two out of the cabinets and fill up the remaining two feet of counter space. In our house, any horizontal surface is a target for whatever H has in his hands. Case in point. I found three kitchen knives on the counter. "I'm going to sharpen those," he explained. So I left them there. For three days. The knife rack is a mere half-turn away, you don't even have to take a step. But the knives needed to be on the counter so he could sharpen them. After three days I put them back in the rack. "They're there when you get around to sharpening them." "Okay." Canned groceries on the kitchen floor by the stove--"I'm going to make soup." Okay, but couldn't you, I don't know, walk five steps to the pantry and get the cans when you're ready to make soup? Something in him can't bear the sight of a clear horizontal surface.

Beverly. So, very THIS! I've always wondered if they looped very single line because of the prosthetics, but I don't think so. It seems that his innate talent, plus somebody's tech genius, made that makeup almost organic.

No, actually, when they did the Of Love and Hope cd, he read through the poems several times, but could never get the sound right. He finally went to makeup and got the toofs in, and I think some of the lower facial appliances, so he could get Vincent's voice right.

I always felt the make-up did Ron a favor. With all due respect! Even as Hellboy, he gets a chance to be super sexy without the impediment of 'hm. that Neanderthal forehead is distracting!"

I get that. In fact I felt that way for a while, but he's sort of aged into it. It's a treat to see his whole face now, in things like Enemy at the Gates and the Magnificent Seven series. Of course he was perfectly adorable in Ice Pirates, a bajillion years ago.

He's had an incredible body of work--I still remember being broken by him in The Name of the Rose. Despite his character's base repulsiveness, he managed to give him some humanity.

I would have loved to see you in Ghost Sonata.

So sweet. I was unrecognizable, with no lines. Onstage in my little window for most of the play, swathed in yards (and yards) of aged (with spray paint) pink organza and a grotesque full-face mask, shaking with visible-from-the-cheap-seats palsy. Fun times! For that role I gave up one of the sisters in Bernarda Alba. But I liked the Strindberg director--Riofrancos (Alba's director) scared me. And I was doing tech on Camino and Alba, so no lines was sort of the way to go.

Also, that chair and ottoman would *totally* go with my sofa!

I'm sorry, no amount of bashing will ever impact my Mr. Rogers love (You have a neighbor named Mr. Rogers? Well, not any more. Sorry SPN-twitch). Aside from bringing my two rampaging savages down to a calm, human level for a half-hour every weekday, for which his name and memory be praised, I saw him interview David, Keith, and Robert Carradine around the time The Long Riders came out. Talk about your cognitive dissonance. I have no idea who thought that would be a good idea, but it was fascinating. These boozing, drugging, womanizing, Hollywood lifestyle type men raised by different women in disparate households, their only point of contact their paternal BC, sitting down to discuss family issues with...Mr. Rogers. Dude.

The interesting thing was that he cut right to the humanity in each of them. None of them was interested in showing up how unhip he was. They had a nice quiet, I'm sure to any fans of theirs, (continued...)

( continues...) completely boring conversation. And they seemed to enjoy it.