Bagheera, ever the lady, looks askance at Huck's antics.

Huckleberry is the only cat we've ever owned who can be both crazed <I>and</I> stationary. It's a gift.

I don't know about you, but I can't resist an essay that begins: "San Francisco is a city without graves. In 1900, the board of supervisors passed an ordinance prohibiting burials within the city limits. In 1912, the board announced its further intention to eliminate the city’s previously existing cemeteries, and in 1914 removal notices were sent to all burial sites, declaring them 'a public nuisance and a menace and detriment to the health and welfare of city dwellers.'"

If Keith Jarrett weren’t such a magnificent pianist, it would be intolerable to watch him in concert. His screechy humming and moaning, his lizard leering and preening—in three decades of seeing him play, I’ve never managed, despite some effort, to find the charm in his theatrics. And yet, he usually has me from his first chord—so warm, rich, and intriguingly edgy—especially the past few years, as he’s tightened his rhapsodic tendencies while enriching his lyrical core.

"Seen the extra-long trailer for <I>Ratatouille</I>?" I asked Paul DiComo.