Bagless

One of the lighter moments at that funeral the other day occurred when the first man to speak, a fellow metalworker and boilermaker who'd known the artist since art school, reached behind some bushes and lugged out an enormous canvas dufflebag. "I wanna show you all something," he said.

I was expecting him to maybe pull out some old tools they'd used together, or an early piece of art, or something like that. Instead, he reached in with both hands and then his whole body somehow fell all the way into the bag. There was a struggle ... and then he finally emerged holding a huge cardboard sign, covered in leopard print fake fur, in the shape of three letters: C - A - T.

"The cat's out of the bag now, man," he said.

Meaning, I suppose, that now our friend who died knows the answer to the question of what really happens after this life. It was a very 60's kind of moment, combining free expression of heartfelt feelings, philosophy, theater ... I loved the big gray mustache and wire-rimmed granny glasses of the guy who performed it.

Anyway. I'm bringing it up because today I let the cat at least peek its nose out of the bag of this blog, and told my brother it exists. Hi, Beans!

That's it for now. Gotta get back to work, and then home to the dogs. They've been freaking out a little since the boyfriend's been away. To compensate, I'm doping up their dog food with steak juice and little tiny slices of bacon, and giving them extra Milkbones.