The Grey Fuzz

As the grumpy writer of this blog, I do not believe I need to give a good reason to explain why I’ve been so absent recently, but I actually have a fantastic reason for it. If you have an easy gag reflex to insanely cute, you may want to scroll down quickly.

Thank you, I knew you’d understand that a teeny tiny grey kitten is more important than writing, NO, even breathing! He’s so fuzzy, and is very sweet in that he actually likes me touching him (ahem, looking at you Brekkie and Clementine). He is fearless, and I’m pretty sure there is a kernel of evil in all that cuteness. I just know he’s going to break every last thing in this place with his manic running and climbing and chewing.

He’s also a terror on my fancy all-wood Catan board that Frijole and Fink-Nottle gave me for my birthday. They are two of the best people I know, and I would have said that even if they hadn’t given me a special-edition WOOD Catan box of wonderful.

He’s also an aggressive toe biter. I realize he looks very sweet and innocent, but he’s not. I just want to warn you that he will eat your toes, too, when you come to meet him. Please come meet him. We’ll eat some hot dogs, drink some beer, and play some soccer with The Grey Fuzz (he’s English, and thus demands the Anglicized spelling).

Goodbye, Chocodile, My Love

The bad: I had to put Bear down a week ago today. He was the grumpiest, handsomest cat with beautiful thick white whisker and little white toes. It hurts.

Here’s a picture of him plotting something evil. Like murdering baby bunnies by throwing them off of highway bridges. That shit is evil, but he would look so dashing doing it.

I’m pretty sure he’s belting out a pretty ballad about the bloody stool he’d like to squeeze out on my mosaic. He was punk rock like that.

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The good: Seeing Jeff Mangum Sunday night at ACL’s Moody Theater. Sure, I literally cried through almost the whole thing (except a Daniel Johnston cover song—I felt no emotion for that), and sang those well-loved Neutral Milk Hotel songs through some serious blubbering. It was a bit of much needed magic in my life.

I don’t have any pictures to share, because I got in trouble just using my phone to check the time. Since almost everyone there was so in love with Jeff Mangum, everyone obeyed the no-photos edict. We wouldn’t dare disappoint our beloved recluse.

Instead, here’s the first of two sangrias I had before the show (which forced me to pee during Naomi, but thankfully I made it through Ghost first—I would have gladly peed myself to avoid missing that song).