01 April 2007
6 sexual mozart
the vieve is an only cat. she came from the vet with the proviso that she must be an only cat. i was so excited to have any cat that i didn't really care. it saddens me, but i try not to hold it against her. in a way, it's part of her allure. the vieve has to be unspeakably awesome because she is all there can be.
and so, because i am not yet ready for the unspeakably awesome collie that is in my future, i've had to find an alternative means of populating my household. apparently, simply by sheer default, my household will be populated by busts of legendary men.
brutus joined us last fall- more out of irony than attraction. he's cool and all but his gold lacquer is mottled in a way suggestive of an acned past and he is, admittedly, a bit of a queer. still, i thought brutus would suffice. i thought his male head would be enough for my household. and then suddenly, there was wolfie.
a few months ago, lindear passed along a photograph of wolfgang mozart gazing lustily upon a mutton chop. it was immediately dubbed "sexual mozart." and, after watching amadeus a few too many times since, i began to develop a rather unhealthy fondness for the man. but i didn't know that we were meant to be together until croftie and i skipped the gym to hit the maxx, and in the midst of some tacky washington and jefferson replicas and Buddha heads, there he was. sexual mozart in alabaster.
i passed him up and did little but dream of him for two days. finally, i realized he was destined to be the guardian of the ukrainian versailles that is The Other Room, and i could bear it no longer. i raced to pick him up- fearful that there might have been a run on sexual mozarts and he would be gone. but there he was, patiently awaiting me.
he looked so melancholy and proud- grandly putting the tacky washington and jefferson and the Buddha heads to shame. they cowered back in the shadows of the shelving, surrendering the limelight to wolfie. a child superstar. a genius buried in an unmarked grave. an everlasting reminder that tom hulce was robbed.
i gently wrapped him in a pink scarf and tucked him into the messenger bag. he rode the whole way home with his sexy head peeking out the top, taking in the bright lights of the big city. many a passerby did a double-take. i simply smiled knowingly, smugly. yep, it's sexual mozart. and he's all mine.