Everything about you was wrong.

You were black and white.  Skinny.  Not yet two, aggressively affectionate with dainty paws.  I adopted you on a Saturday (code name: CATURDAY), left you at the shelter to be neutered, and, that Monday, succumbed to a terrible bout of stomach flu that left me too weak to lift my head, let alone go to work, let alone pick you up from your surgery.  When I did bring you home, I promptly shut your tail in my bedroom door.  You promptly shrieked and hid under my dresser.  I promptly cried on the phone with my aunt because I felt awful that the first thing you felt in your new home was afraid.

And I cried because the gravity of what I’d just done—taken full responsibility for another living creature—had smacked me upside the head.  Your life was in my hands.  And you were nothing like I imagined; you weren’t anywhere close to my planned dream cat.  After you crept out from beneath my dresser, God, you wanted to rub on me ALL THE TIME.  Like ALL. THE. TIME.  You would not leave me alone, and only had two settings: sleeping, and PURRING ALL OVER MY FACE.  You were the feline version of the world’s neediest boyfriend, and I hadn’t dumped your ass and fled for my life, I had asked you to move in.  What had I done, and could it be UNdone?  I’d like to think that my CAN’T. DEAL. overreaction wouldn’t have been so violent if I’d been in perfect health, but the facts were these: I hadn’t adopted you lightly, I grew up with cats and thought I knew what it would mean to have one in my immediate space, and still I found myself wondering whether the MSPCA had a return loophole.

Thank you, Gomez, for not leaving me alone.  For effectively calling me on my psycho freakout bullshit.  For taking a booster dose of post-shelter medication like a total champ several days later, and fixing me with a gaze that clearly said, “Have you ever known a cat who took meds this easily?  Right?  I’m awesome.  Recognize.”You are awesome, Gomez.  You pushed me and I love you all the more because of it (because, let’s face it—if adopting a cat gets me bent out of shape, I might have some control issues I need to address).  Now I think it’s strange when other cats don’t purr constantly, or fall asleep on the couch with their heads propped on my arm.  Sure, you’ve eaten three separate sets of ear buds (WHYYYYY) and chewed on all my shoelaces and leave litter tracks in the wet bathtub; there’s the occasional very thoughtful hairball left where I can’t help but almost step on it, and you still put your butt on my pillows.  But sometimes I wake up and your head is on the pillow.  And you never seem to care when I throw you over my shoulder and force you to dance to old records.  In fact, I think you like it.  (How could you not; Ziggy Stardust is a freaking classic.)

Since the day I brought you home—one year ago this Thursday, January 19—your coat has gotten shinier and fluffier.  You’ve gained some weight, the kind that lets me know you’re happy.  (Me too.)  I haven’t shut your tail in any doors and you haven’t hidden under any furniture.  We watch movies together.  You keep me company while I read.  You fall asleep flat on your back.  And you’re just so damned handsome.

And I remember why I chose you, on that fateful CATURDAY, out of the many deserving cats at the (amazing) MSPCA Angell shelter, even though everything about you was wrong.  Your crate was up high.  You looked me in the eye and then you charged at me, forehead first and you bonked me, forehead to forehead.  You kept on bonking me, and purring like it was going out of style, and even though I freaked from the raging torrent of affection when you first moved in, it’s only because, of the two of us, I am the cat.  I like my solidarity.  I like my space.  Now I can’t imagine my space and my life without your furry butt in it, even if it is on my pillows.

Happy first Racculia birthday, cara mia.  You were never the cat I thought I wanted.  But you were always the cat for me.

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THANK YOU.  You made a Muppet movie.  A real Muppet movie, or, more accurately, a real next generation Muppet movie—reverential without being slavishly so, cheerfully anarchic, gleefully absurd, true to the tone of the original Muppets while still being something new.  Something sweet and hilarious, smart and simple and the most genuine fun I had at the movies this year.  I wasn’t sure it could be done, but if anyone could do it, it was a man who cried when he met Kermit.  (This, coincidentally, is the same helpless reaction I would have if I ever met the frog.)

Now, we’ve never met, and the odds are super long we ever will (though if you’re ever in Boston, the least I can do is buy you a beer).  But I nonetheless feel confident saying we share an essential likeness—you, me, and everyone else who’s a member of the Muppet Generation.  We were born in the late ’70s and early ’80s into a popular culture bursting with Henson creations of every stripe, in every medium—TV, movies, cartoons, toys, and comics.  We took it all in, and thirty years later we’re still drawn to bright colors and bad puns.  We can’t pass by store displays of hand puppets without playing with them.  We see anthropomorphic possibilities in every inanimate object, and occasionally make said objects belt show tunes.  We’re starry-eyed wishers and, deep down, we believe in some pretty un-ironic big-ticket items, like: it’s important to be kind.  Dreams are worth chasing.  Chickens just want to sing.

I was ten when Jim Henson died—it bears mentioning, at the criminally early age of 53—and I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news: in the car with my parents (who, appropriately enough, I went to see The Muppets with this past weekend).  I also remember, just as clearly, feeling a wave of horrible, not-fair sadness for the loss of everything I was already looking forward to.  As I grew up and the Muppet characters bounced from the Henson family to various holding interests to Disney, anything new with Muppets increasingly felt like “The Muppets” ™Disney.  They looked like my old friends but they were missing a critical, essential element.

Speaking of un-ironic, big-ticket items?  Yeah, what they were missing was love.

A new, true Muppet movie couldn’t have been born from a desire to revitalize the brand.  It couldn’t have come purely from professional respect or familiarity.  It had to come from love, the kind of love a kid feels—the kind that gets hard-coded into a kid the first time she sees a frog playing a banjo, the first time that frog tells her life’s like a movie, and she should write her own ending.  Now is the perfect time for a Muppet renaissance, precisely because enough time has passed for the kids of Generation Muppet to have reached the age where they are the ones leading the charge to bring their first comedy heroes back to the world.  That’s Jim Henson’s legacy—that we, the members of Generation Muppet, so loved what he gave us that we want nothing more than to give it to others.

So here’s to you, Jason Segel—and Nick Stoller, James Bobin, Amy Adams, the incredible Muppeteers and everyone else who made The Muppets happen.  And to Kermit, Fozzie, Miss Piggy, Gonzo, Rowlf, Scooter and all the rest—great googly moogly, I missed you.  And I’m thrilled that you’re back in a form that can and should be shared with the next Muppet generation, even as it reminds us what it means to be a member of the first.

No matter how ridiculous we are, how strange or fuzzy or furry we may be; no matter how terrible our jokes or how often we like to be shot out of cannons, we are all Muppets.  We’re from the same tribe.  We’re lovers and dreamers.  And chickens.

WELL PLAYED, SIR.

Kate

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You’re the best month of the year—the month I bring my snuggly clothes and my tights out of exile, lobotomize pumpkins, and eat an entire apple pie all by myself.  And the month I watch so many horror movies, I’m sure Netflix has me on some kind of emotional stability watchlist.

This year, I’m trying a new thing (Ed. note: in addition to blogging) where I experience something spooky every day.  Can be a movie, a TV show, a book, a song, anything.  I love to be freaked right the hell out.  I haven’t always loved horror movies—in fact, when I was wee I was pretty terrified of violence and manaics, of axes and knives and blood.   Terrified but always curious, and I think it’s fair to say I’ve always loved monsters.  [Notable exceptions: the Gmork in The NeverEnding Story and the Wicked Witch of the West, especially when she threatens the Scarecrow.]  The infamous masquerading-as-kid-friendly monsters of the 80s—the Dark Crystal‘s Skeksises (Skeksii?), Falcor the Luck Dragon, the Wheelers, Mombi and her wardrobe of heads, the Gnome King (okay, like EVERYTHING) in Return to Oz—may have permanently scarred many of my contemporaries, but they were my kind.  They didn’t frighten so much as fascinate, and feed my imagination.

Now I’ve developed a taste for crazy stuff beyond the fantastic; now I crave ghost stories, haunted hotels and poltergeist, serial killers and murderers, vampires and werewolves.  The Sunday nights I spent watching Murder, She Wrote segued into reading Mary Higgins Clark.  Michael Crichton led in a direct line, do not pass go, to the humongous back catalog of Stephen King.  My modern love of horror movies—straight-up, never meant to be anything but scary movies—started with a VHS tape of Scream.  Scream is a very, very funny movie, which I think initially distracted me from how horrifying it is; because it’s pretty sick, but it’s a hell of a lot of fun.  Then came Rosemary’s Baby, George Romero’s original Dawn of the Dead, Shaun of the Dead, Cemetery Man, all great examples of the irresistible alchemy of funny and human and sick.  They were gateways to the harder stuff, stuff like The Exorcist, The Shining, Alien, The Thing.  The more I watched, the more I loved them, the more I watched them again.

Horror movies are my cinematic comfort food.  I’m not sure what this says about me.  I’m fairly certain most people would say that I’m a pretty happy, well-adjusted, non-homicidal-tendency harboring type, which I am; really, I am.  I just love that dark mirror.  Horror can explore the extremes of human nature and emotion, madness and violence, and there’s a kind of sublime freedom in experiencing the really awful parts of ourselves through stories.  In watching our own nightmares on a television or a movie screen, and not having to close our eyes to survive.

Two brief recommendations from this October’s horror-a-thon!

The House of the Devil / Awesome retro-80s horror movie about a desperate babysitter (tagline: Talk on the Phone.  Finish your homework.  Watch TV.  DIE!) that’s ultimately less satisfying at the finish line.  But the build-up is RADICAL.

Let the Right One In / Um, wow.  Many people recommended this one to me, so I expected great and it totally delivered.  A lonely boy has the good misfortune to fall in love for the first time with a vampire—who’s been twelve for a very long time.

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I’ve never had a problem with birthdays, probably because I’ve been waiting my whole life to achieve Awesome Old Lady status (wherein I write mystery novels, know everyone in my small town, solve the odd murder and have lengthy philosophical discussions with my cat while drinking peppermint tea—and if that list seems oddly specific, it’s because 80% of it is already my life).  Birthdays were never so much about marking time as they were about taking the opportunity to recall the events of the previous year, to see and hear from friends and family, and to eat so much cake I passed out.

So on this first book-birthday, one year later, I’m sitting here with a huge grin on my face, warm and fuzzy and still stupefied with gratitude that my book went out in the world and was so warmly welcomed.  That readers from New York to California to Hawaii to Italy picked up a copy, enjoyed it and took the time to send along their kind words and wishes.  That I’ve had the privilege and joy of sharing my story with communities in both my homes, in Boston and in Syracuse, and especially in Canastota, New York, where my grandmother spent her own teenage years.  Through the book I’ve met incredible people, in person and through the wonders of the Internets, that I might never have known otherwise.

If you’ll allow a little birthday-inspired love-festing: THANK YOU to the readers!  THANK YOU to the reviewers and bloggers and booksellers and librarians!  THANK YOU to my publisher and editor and agent, and to my dear, dear friends and family!  I can never, ever thank every single one of you enough for making this last year one of the best.  Ever.

I’m leaving something out, you say?  Birthdays aren’t birthdays without presents, you say?  WELL GUESS WHAT, WORLD.  Get ready for your early birthday present: it’s THIS MUST BE THE PLACE 2: THE RECKONING, AND BY THAT I MEAN THE PAPERBACK.  As of Tuesday July 5, This Must Be the Place is out in stores with a spiffy new cover and some new material (an essay, book recommendations, a reader’s guide), in a 100% more paperback package than Original Recipe.

“It’s the perfect summer read!” says literary cat-about-Somerville Gomez.

Gomez is a paid spokescat.  He is only endorsing this book because a) I have placed it beneath his head, b) he is addicted to rubbing against the corners of books, cereal boxes, envelopes, jewel cases, and anything else remotely rectangular, and c) he eats paper.

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(10:12:04 PM) friendofdave05: ok here’s my story
(10:12:27 PM) friendofdave05: i went to the library and got a book out. from the lib on campus in their smallish leisure reading section
(10:12:45 PM) friendofdave05: start reading it and they mention boston, somerville and harvard sq
(10:12:49 PM) friendofdave05: im like whoooa i know those places
(10:12:59 PM) friendofdave05: so i check out where the author is from and think they gotta be from boston
(10:13:19 PM) friendofdave05: sure enough they are. MFA from emerson
(10:13:54 PM) friendofdave05: then something in my head clicks—YOU have an author friend and i rememebr you posted a pic on facebook a while ago from the porter sq book store–some book signing
(10:14:18 PM) friendofdave05: and i only remember this because it was right when i moved to ct and i remember seeing the pic of the book store and was like “aww i loved that store i’ll miss it”
(10:14:37 PM) friendofdave05: so long story short im reading your friends book and loving it
(10:14:40 PM) friendofdave05: but what are the odds
(10:15:01 PM) friendofdave05: kate racculia
(10:15:43 PM) friendofdave05: the end.

The hilarious thing—well, the hilarious-er thing—is that this is the second time this month I’ve heard through a friend of a friend about a remote third or fourth party reading my book.  The first story came to me from my best friend, as told to her by a mutual college friend, hereafter abbreviated as MCF.  While discussing the glories of In-n-Out Burger with MCF’s fiance and soon-to-be in-laws, one of his in-laws mentions reading about the secret In-n-Out menu in a book.  Which was…This Must Be the Place.

The moral of the story?  SUDDENLY I AM EVERYWHERE.  Or, more likely: In-n-Out Burger and bookstores are what unite us all, and in any case, this is SO COOL.

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I adore libraries.  Even though I love both my current gigs—writer-lady by night and non-profit prospect researcher by day—I can’t help but wonder why I didn’t pursue the library sciences when I was starting out.  Something about being surrounded by books and all the lovely information they contain, and being in turn surrounded by the kind of people who love books and reading and information…perfection on a stick.  Being a librarian was my ideal career and I missed it, at least on the first go-round.  I blame my guidance counselor, who once told me, based on the outcome of a career interest survey, that my interests were so diverse I was suited for no career at all.  True story.

Beth took me on a tour of her beloved library, a gorgeous and lovingly maintained Carnegie, and made a point of showing me the archive because she knew I’d love how it smelled.  (She was so right.  I tend to perfume myself mainly with soap/shampoo, but that’s only because no one has produced a commercial fragrance that smells like old books.)

Even more exciting was seeing how active the library is, and how much a part of the local community.  Libraries are built to be used, and the CPL is—used, and loved.  My grandmother, Marion Ruth Cardner VanSkiver, went to high school in Canastota and graduated in the class of 1936.  Beth, bless her, found the class of 1936 yearbook, aka The Toot, which my grandma helped edit, a fact unbeknowst to my entire family before now.

I can imagine my grandma in that building, however the library (and she) might have looked seventy and eighty-odd years ago. And I know she must have loved it too.

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The lovely folks of the Canastota Public Library—a stone’s throw from Oneida Lake, New York—graciously invited me to visit their library for an author talk and writing workshop, starting tomorrow (Thursday) night.  If you’re in the area, stop on by!

Author Talk

Thursday, April 14 2011 / 7:00 pm

I’ll be sharing the stories, artists and local inspirations behind This Must Be the Place.  There will be slides (behold my mighty Power Point skills!) and possibly a really embarrassing childhood picture of yours truly.  It will be epic.

Writing Workshop

Saturday, April 16 2011 / 1:00-3:00 pm

All ages and experience welcome—just come prepared with pen and paper or laptop!  We’ll spend the afternoon brainstorming and writing, talking about creating scenes from memory and finding inspiration in the little things.  Please give Beth Totten at the library a call if you’re interested in signing up, at 315-697-7030.

Both events will be held at the Canastota Public Library

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2) If you’re going to be in Central New York in mid-April, pop on over to the Canastota Public Library—where I’ll be giving an author talk/reading and a writing workshop on Thursday (talk) and Saturday (workshop), April 14 and 16.  Details to come soon!

3) I got a cat.  His name is Gomez.  He answers to Mr. Mez, Gomez, Mezcal, Sweet Baboo and HEY Don’t Eat That.  He is the furry light of my life, the parents’ first grandcat, and for a while he annoyed the hell out of me by insisting that he sleep *on* my head, but now we are bonded as only a young woman making her way in the big city and her feline sidekick can be.  He still does obnoxious things like hang from the screens by his claws and put his butt directly in my face, but all things considered, we are a match made in MSPCA heaven.

He would very much like to say HELLO, LOVERS (yes, that’s how he talks in my head), while leaning into his best J Crew casual pose.  Don’t let it fool you.  He’s nuts.

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And thus the confluence of my three aforementioned loves.  This isn’t going to be a review of the miniseries, except in capsule (to wit: AWESOME.  SO BRITISH.  SO NERDY.  LOVE.), but rather, a philosophical rumination.  The new series is set in modern London—and gloriously filmed at night; add travel- to the different kinds of porn this show provides, along with whodunnit- and adorably hyperactive/skinny English dude-.  Sherlock Holmes (Benedict Cumberbatch, whom Dickens rose from the grave to name) is a “consulting detective” and self-described high-functioning sociopath, nicotine patch addict, and technology obsessive.  His right hand man and flatmate Dr. John Watson is a former military physician with a touch of PTSD from Afghanistan (played by Martin Freeman/Tim from The Office, squish!); the pair solves byzantine crimes using a combination of Watson’s level-headed humanity and Sherlock’s hyper-awareness and impulse control problems.  The chemistry between the leads is phenomenal, and, not surprisingly, modern Londoners frequently assume Sherlock and Watson are a romantic couple.

The modern twists like that are fun—playing with the nature of their relationship, as grown men who live and solve crimes together, and adding smart phones and the internet to Holmes’ naturally impressive detecting arsenal—but what struck me as I watched was realizing that the world co-creators Steven Moffat (Coupling and Who dude) and Mark Gatiss (The League of Gentlemen) imagined is essentially an alternate reality: it is a world that does not already know Sherlock Holmes.  Sure, all television/movies/fiction represent alternate realities in that they either have never happened or are suppositions built around historical figures, facts, or places.  But the figure of Sherlock Holmes, the idea of what he is, has so completely informed our popular conception of what a detective is, that if you live in a world where Arthur Conan Doyle never introduced the concept that obsessive and/or wily peculiarity is the precise temperament necessary to solve crimes—what’s on your TV?  Do you have CSI, with its nit-picky hypernerdy forensics?  Do you have Murder She Wrote, with Jessica Fletcher’s keen writerly powers of observation?  Hell, do you even have monsieur fussypants himself, Hercule “Order and Method” Poirot, or deerstalker-clad Nate the Great?  A world without Nate=DO NOT WANT.

When we think of detectives—which I’m doing with some frequency, because a) it’s fun and b) I’m creating a detective-obsessed amateur sleuth for my next book—we think: loner.  Strange and/or imbued with a certain clarity of observation mere mortals lack.  And yet not without weakness: self-destructive antisocial tendencies (okay, maybe J.B. Fletcher is the exception, unless she really did kill all those poor bastards) seem to come with the territory, as though hyperawareness is both a gift and a curse that requires the occasional chemical escape.

And that’s Sherlock Holmes: brilliant, alone, destroying himself.  Does all detective fiction come from him, either as homage or conscious opposite—or did he come from some Jungian archetype buried deep within our (and Conan Doyle’s) subconscious?  Because Sherlock Holmes is THE detective, and where would be we without him?

…other than writing letters to the BBC to film more episodes.  STAT.

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