A Tale of Two Kitties

Cats be crazy sometimes.

Case in point: The Siamese Kitten.

This here.

She's sleeping in this photo, which she does a lot these days, because she is an elderly kitty - 16 on her last birthday. She has good days and bad days, like most of us. Some days are sleepy days, some days are zoomie days. Again, like most of us.

Definitely not shown here: Me,
getting ready to run.

The Siamese Kitten also has less of an appetite than she used to. She's never been a ravenous girl. She doesn't like most human food, doesn't care all that much about cat treats. But for a little while, just before the holidays, she kind of lost interest in eating much at all. 

Of course I was worried. I tried tempting her with wet food and Lickables and her favorite tuna water, but the Siamese Kitten was mostly apathetic. The next step was the vet, but before I took that step, I thought I'd try changing her regular dry kibble. Maybe she was just off her food. Cats do that sometimes, the little creeps.

Just...ugh.

(And if you're wondering why I didn't immediately take her to the vet, it's because I'm a coward. If the vet found something seriously wrong, like cancer or kidney disease, I would be forced to make the terrifying decision of whether to spend hundreds, even thousands of dollars on medical care for an elderly cat that might only prolong her life by a few months. I want to stress that she didn't seem to be suffering or in pain, and she was still drinking water and using her litter box, so I thought I'd try an easy, inexpensive remedy first.)

Anyway, I bought a random brand of food - nothing fancy, just different from her usual kind. I gave her some...and lo and behold, she began eating it. Her appetite still fluctuated from day to day, but overall she seemed much more inclined to eat the new food.

Now, this whole time I was continuing to feed the junior tuxedo cat, the Chongers, the old food, which he had no problem with. With which he had no problem. He was happy, the Siamese was happy, I was cautiously optimistic.

Then, this past Sunday, as I was feeding both cats, I noticed the Siamese Kitten rubbing up against the container that held the Chongers' food. Like, enthusiastically. I shrugged and went back to bed (hey, it was early and I had a warm friend there).

Even cuter than this guy.

A few minutes later I heard a crash and went back to the kitchen to investigate. The Siamese Kitten had knocked over the (rather large) container of the old kibble and liberated it all over the floor and was happily nibbling away.

Being a sensitive and perceptive observer of feline behavior, I decided this was A Clue.

So this morning, before I left for work I poured her two bowls of food, the old kibble and the replacement kibble. 

Long story short (too late?), guess who's back to loving the chow she rejected a month ago?

As I said, cats be crazy.

Anyone need a 1/3-full bag of Fancy Feast, have a carton of canned kitty pate, and a large bag of crunchy treats?

Never mind, the Chongers says he'll take them all.

I'm a Pepper Prepper

The Great Pepper Grow of 2020 is on. Part 1 of the saga is here, if you want the background.

Hot-cha-cha.

Last weekend, I began the process of sprouting my peck of pepper seeds so I can eventually plant them in pots on my porch.

OK, it's a balcony. But that's not alliterative.

I could have said veranda, but I said porch.

As an aside, it turns out the best time to shop for outdoor planters may not be just after you discover you're getting a healthy tax refund this year. I had practically an entire commercial nursery in my Amazon cart before common sense prevailed. Instead I've ordered two cute resin planters that will fit snugly on one end of the balcony. I understand that Amazon may end up prioritizing other people's orders for things like medical supplies and food over my pepper pots. But I'm hopeful that they'll arrive before my seeds are ready to plant.

Hope is just about all we have, now that assholes have taken all the toilet paper.

But more on that in another post.

So, per the internet, the best way to sprout pepper seeds is to fold them up in a damp paper towel and seal them up in a plastic bag. All righty then, I thought. I've done baby-sitting, not that much different.

NO! Bad Chuck. Drunkards: Do NOT fold babies or children into damp paper towels and seal them up in a plastic bag. Not even if they sass. People on Nextdoor will talk badly about you. But pepper seeds? Perfectly OK. And that's just what I did.

Seeds, water, Bounty...we good.

My packet of Burpee seeds contained five different pepper varieties. I was hopeful that I'd be able to sort them by type so I could eventually plant my little container garden in neat groups of anchos, jalapenos, etc. Alas, that was not to be.

Shown here: Homogeny, pepper edition.

It's entirely possible that there are pepperologists out there who can spot the subtle differences among various types of pepper seeds. I'm not one. Oh, well. Maybe the sprouts will have distinctive appearances? Who knows?

Anyway, onto the damp paper towel they went, one big happy capsaicin-containing bunch. And then I folded the towel in half:

And in half again:

And slid the whole thing into a zipper bag, which I sealed to hold in the life-giving damp.

Et voila.

That's French for "ignore my man hands."

This evening I took a peek at how my pepper boys are doing. I removed and carefully unfolded the paper towel (which is still as damp as it was five days ago - impressive!). Guys...I have a few tiny sprouts! They're small and verrrry pale, so I didn't attempt to photograph them. But my seeds are definitely beginning to come to life. Honestly, I was afraid that after five days I'd find nothing but a bunch of waterlogged, rotten husks, so I'm thrilled.

I guess I'll check on my proto-peppers in another five days to see how they're making out. In the meantime, I'll prepare my balcony for its new residents. It's been rainy here in Texas, and I hope that will condition the soil I'll be putting out. I also hope that the Spring rains don't turn into the Summer drought the day I plant my peppers.

Peppers, you guys. They're coming.

Spicy.

So and So

Check it out, Drunkards: I got my 30-day chip.

I mean, my  30-day chip.

No, no, no. My 30-day CHIP.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, as of yesterday I'm 30 days sober.

So yay, me.

And in a completely unplanned coincidence, yesterday was also the 30th anniversary of my first date with my ex-spouse. And in a holy-shit-you-couldn't-plan-this-if-you-tried twist, my ex and I had a sort-of date last night.

Totally not a date: Precocious Daughter is playing in the orchestra for her school's musical, and last night her dad and I saw the show. PDaughter had my car, and I had the tickets, so it worked out logistically that the ex picked me up at my place and we sat together in the auditorium.

So not a date.

The show was "The Little Mermaid," by the way. And it was fantastic. In particular, the young man who played Sebastian the Crab basically stole the show and also happens to totally not be PDaughter's boyfriend. I know this because I ask her every time they spend hours texting, and she always says he's not her boyfriend. Also, I asked her after the show when she introduced me to him and I took a picture of them smiling like loons together. And she said he's not her boyfriend.

So there's that.

I feel really, really good, you guys. And for the record, despite my references to 30-day chips, I am NOT, in the parlance, "going to meetings" or "working the 12 steps" or being "a friend of Bill W." Alcoholics Anonymous (probably) has helped a lot of people. And I'm a huge fan of people doing what works for them. But for me, personally, AA has three strikes against it:

1. I'm not down with the whole "giving up control to a higher power" thing. I've spent the last few years - not to mention the last 30 days - seizing control of myself, for myself. No offense to the God of my understanding, but I don't need another in a long line of father figures to chart to my course for me.

2. I don't want to sit in a room and talk to people. If you know anything about me, no further explanation is needed.

3. I'm not an alcoholic.

Don't go tripping all over yourselves to say that only an alcoholic would insist she's not an alcoholic. I'm a stupid person who stupidly developed a drinking problem. I have within me the capacity to return to said stupid behavior at any time. But I don't want to, for now. I'm enjoying being sober, I love the fact that I'm losing vodka-weight, I dig not having to sift through my brain cells every morning to figure out what I need to be embarrassed/ashamed/apologetic about from the night before.

Alcoholism is a thing. It's not my thing.

This is also not my thing, but it is extremely funny. Each to his own.

So where does that leave me?

Getting there, mainly. Getting healthy. Getting happy. Getting back to doing the things I enjoy. Getting to be part of PDaughter's senior year.

I couldn't do this without her, and Drummer Boy. And my dad, who loudly, lovingly shamed me into putting down the bottle (thank you, Daddy).

And you guys. Turns out I was lying to myself when I thought I was a better writer drunk. Maybe Hemingway actually was, but I'm not Hemingway. If you haven't figured that out.

So stick around.

When and if I make it to 60 days, I'll let you know. You'll probably know if I don't.

So.

Just a Bit of Good News

My mom was released from the hospital tonight.

Regular readers know that she's been in the hospital twice since Precocious Daughter and I visited my parents the week of Thanksgiving.

And it's been hard, you guys. Really fucking hard.

But tonight, Mom is home. Reunited with my dad and their precious elder cat Tiger. Everybody seems happy and optimistic.

It's been a difficult fucking couple of weeks.

I don't like confronting the fact that my parents are old and increasingly frail. That sucks, you know? Some of you know, some of you will know eventually. As we age, our parents age even further. And death awaits us all.

Yeah, Merry Christmas and whatnot.

I just want my parents to be OK.

Vacation 2016

I'm back in Texas, you guys.

Precocious Daughter and I flew into D/FW on Wednesday night. Because it was Turkey Day Eve, I was deathly afraid we were going to encounter traffic, long lines, security nightmares, flight delays...Nope. The trip went about as smoothly and as easily as you could wish.

Kind of like the entire vacation.

I had the best time in Milwaukee. I needed this trip. It's not just that I needed a vacation (which I really, really did), but I needed specifically this vacation. I needed time with PDaughter, time with my family, time in my hometown. Because I'm not the same person I was the last time I lived there, and I felt I had to find out just who I had become since then.

I'm pleased and relieved to report that I did, and I'm happy with that person.

First things first: Yes, I got my picture with the Bronze Fonz.

Unfortunately, Henry Winkler was not in attendance,
but it was still coolamundo.

Shout-out to the parking lot attendant with the beautiful Irish brogue who collected our $2.00 so we could roam the Milwaukee Riverwalk and pose with the statue. Also, I'd like to take this opportunity to state that every single person we encountered on our trip was friendly and nice. Well, except for maybe the hostess at Tenuta's Italian restaurant on Clement Ave., who is probably the only person on Earth to return PDaughter's big, bright smile with a sneer. Maybe she was on the rag, I don't know.

Anyway, I was able to show my girl a lot of my city. I'm proud to say I still mostly knew my way around after all these years, and when I needed help, PDaughter was right there to help me navigate via cell phone. We make a good team.

We went to the Mitchell Park Domes, you guys.

Again, bucket list. You won't regret it.

The Domes are a county park/horticultural conservatory housed in three giant geodesic domes built between 1959 and 1967. They consist of a Tropical Dome, a Desert Dome, and a Show Dome that houses exhibitions throughout the year. When we went, the Christmas display was up, and it was beautiful. PDaughter loved it, as I knew she would. Everybody loves the Domes.

Her father and I lived just three blocks from Mitchell Park when we were newlyweds. We used to throw Frisbees on the big green lawn just outside the Domes, taking care to avoid the 3,568 Canada geese that seemed to occupy the space at all times. Of course, I showed PDaughter where we lived, in the first-floor flat of a house built in 1909. The neighborhood didn't look much different from the way it did from 1989-1991. I don't know if that's good or bad. I don't know if 48-year-old me could be as comfortable there as 21-year-old me was. Probably not. But I'm glad 21-year-old me lived there. It was awesome.

I also drove PDaughter past the house I grew up in, the schools I attended, the corner stores where I spent my allowance, the movie theatres I went to (many of which closed, decayed, and then were restored and reopened since I was I kid), and the streets I roamed. Bless her heart, she feigned interest in all of it. Still, I know she genuinely enjoyed the Domes, and the Milwaukee Art Museum, and my friend South Side Shelly's very eclectic home on the edge of Bay View.

The Milwaukee Art Museum is a must-see. A treasure inside and out.

I got to spend time with my brother and his wife (who was a childhood friend). That was really nice. PDaughter thought my bro was funny and cool, which made me happy. We've had very different lives, but we still fell into our old sibling banter as if we hadn't spent the last 20 years apart. Because family.

My parents seem to be doing well now that they've moved from the woods of northern Wisconsin to the relative civility of Oak Creek. They're old now...that's a bit of a thing for me. They're healthy, and independent, and certainly as mentally sharp as they've always been (thank goodness for parents who have challenged me intellectually my whole life), but still, they're in their 70s. I love them, as I've always loved them, for raising me and worrying about me and helping me out when I've needed help. I hope that when PDaughter is grown, she sees me half as favorably as I see my mom and dad.

Yet...they've been married for 52 years, and they act like it. They act like the old married couple of which I will never be a part. They bicker, they argue, they purse their lips and furrow their brows and give each other the silent treatment when the only other alternative is to shout, apparently.

It makes my heart hurt a little. Because I don't think they're happy. Yet I don't think they could live without each other. And I feel a bit guilty that I terminated my own marriage before I could get to the same state. And I'm so much happier for that.

But...we're all adults. And we make our choices.

And among my choices is that I spent five days in Milwaukee with my Precocious Daughter. And I'm so glad I did.

This Thanksgiving, I'm truly thankful for what I have. And for what I've lost.

By the way, we had a non-traditional Thanksgiving. There was chicken, pork, beef, meat loaf...but no turkey. That seems appropriate.

Still, I'm happy. And I feel so strong, you guys. I feel I owe some of that to you.

So thanks.

I hope you're all thankful, too.

Let me know, yes?

Because if nothing else, gratitude is the reason for the season.

Hello, Milwaukee

DRUNKARDS. I'm in Milwaukee. I'm. In. Milwaukee.

And if you don't understand why that makes me so very happy, then you don't come here very often.

Where my heart is.

You guys, I haven't been in my hometown in 25 years. And Precocious Daughter has never seen her ancestral home. But for the next few days, we're here. And we're having the most fabulous time.

We arrived yesterday, and it was 34 degrees with a 25 mph north wind. Yeah, it was freaking cold. I honestly thought PDaughter might perish - not from the cold, but from her anxiety about the cold. Texas born and raised, she is. But I admit, while I tried to laugh off her cold-bloodedness and face the raw day with bravado...it's been 25 years, and I thought it was damn freaking cold. And it's only November; in January this will seem totally balmy.

Put on an extra pair of socks and 30 pounds of blubber,
it'll be fine.

It's been so nice to see my parents, and my brother and his wife. And tomorrow...you guys, tomorrow I'm having dinner with Southside Shelly, who is one of my best friends on Earth, and I can't wait.

I'm pretty happy right now.

Today, PDaughter and I went to the Milwaukee Art Museum, which is an absolutely amazingly gorgeous building designed by renowned architect Santiago Calatrava. It sits right on Lake Michigan, on the edge of downtown Milwaukee, just north of the Summerfest grounds.

Summerfest is the granddaddy of music festivals,
and it happens every damn year.

I wanted PDaughter to see the art museum in any case, but it just so happens that it currently is hosting an exhibition on German Expressionist film. You may recall that PDaughter and I are fans. So we were psyched to see it.

IT WAS AMAZING.

Special effects were on fleek in 1924, you guys.

We had a great time touring the museum collections, and the museum itself is awe-inspiring.

After the museum, I drove PDaughter through downtown Milwaukee to Marquette University, where her dad went to grad school, and then through the South Side via 16th Street with views of the Mitchell Park Domes, Miller Park, and Wilson Park, all of which I plan to revisit in greater detail over the next few days.

I'm so happy to be home with my lovely daughter.

I'm so happy to be on vacation for the first time in too many moons.

I'm happy to see my parents, who have become elderly without my consent and therefore all the more precious to me.

I'll be here for a few more days, so if you're in the Milwaukee area and want to say hello, drop me a note. I'm more than available.

And very, very happy.

Mother's Little Helper

Today's life lesson: Never try to wean yourself off Prozac.

Such a harmless-looking little fella, right?

I've been taking Prozac since 2003 or so, when I noticed that my monthly PMS was lasting weeks instead of days. Every month I experienced long periods of anger, fear, sadness, anxiety, and hopelessness. Then I discovered there's an actual thing called PMDD (pre-menstrual dysmorphic disorder), which is basically PMS with a really bad attitude.

I talked to my doctor, and he wrote me a prescription for Sarafem, which is simply fluoxetine aka Prozac with a manufacturer-approved alter ego.. After I changed doctors (because my insurance changed), I dropped the PMDD pretense and just asked for generic Prozac, please. My doc approved, and I've been taking it ever since.

I started out with a 10 mg daily dose, which later increased to 20 mg and now stands at 40 mg.

Because Prozac does not cure crazy but only controls it. And over time it takes a larger dose even to control it.

And it works.

I know this, because I've tried several times to wean myself off it. None of these attempts has ended well.

The latest attempt happened over the past two weeks.

I've been taking my Prozac once every other day. I thought...hey, if I feel OK on this dosage I can probably quit altogether. I can be free of pharmaceutical support. I can be myself without any drugs.

Yeah, right.

Guess what, you guys? It turns out I need to take Prozac every fucking day.

It turns out I become hopeless and suicidal without it.

It turns out that taking a 40 mg dose every other day does not shield me from depression or suicidal thoughts.

On the one hand, yay Prozac.

On the other hand, I'm completely dependent on pharmaceutical intervention to keep me from slashing my wrists with a cheap pair of scissors.

Not so yay.

Without a reliable 40 mg of Prozac in my system, I can't cope. I can't stop crying. I can't push aside the negative thoughts that my loved ones would be better off without me.

So I'm done with that nonsense.

I'll be making an appointment with my doctor to renew my Prozac prescription.

Because I'm hooked.

Part of me thinks that sucks.

Part of me is grateful for the little capsule that keeps me sane.

I'm torn.

I feel weak. I feel grateful. I feel sad. I feel well.

I don't know how to feel. At least not without Mother's Little Helper.

What do you think, Drunkards?

I really want to know.

Here We Are Now, Blanch and Drain Us (A Post About Beans)

I have one word for you today.

BEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNSSSSS!

You guys, I have beanie babies!

Beans.

OMG OMG.  I had mostly given up on my four plants producing any beans this year, although I continued to water, prune, and generally love on them. After a mild, wet start to summer, July and the first part of August were super-hot and dry. I was able to keep Eenie, Minie, Moe, and Larry (RIP, Meenie) alive...just. But they weren't producing much in the way of blossoms, and when they did, they quickly withered under the Texas sun.

I grimly soldiered on, as one does with a child when you've decided they're a hopeless case but you're still their mom, so...

Even bad seeds deserve a chance, amiright?

By the way, that simile has nothing to do with my Precocious Daughter or my mothering skills. If anything, she's much more successful at being my kid than I am at being her mom. But, uh, some parents have that problem.

If "Children of the Corn" took place in Manhattan.

Where was I? Oh, yes, beans.

So Mother Nature gifted us with cooler, wetter weather over the last few weeks. And I noticed my bean plants were blossoming once more.

And then, one day...a miracle.

As I said earlier, BEEEEAAAANNNNSSSS!

I have beans. I have more beans each day, and the plants continue to produce blossoms. The largest beans are not quite an inch long, and most are smaller than that, but still.

I have so many beans.

Also, every time I think that, I start to sing David Bowie's "Time" in my head ("I had so many dreams, I had so many breakthroughs...") and it gets stuck there all day. Wherever he is, I'd like to think he's OK with that.

Now that we're at the back door of summer, I'm hopeful that I'll have a decent crop of beans to harvest in a few weeks. I'm going to cook them with lemon butter and slivered almonds and maybe a hint of ginger. Nothing but the best for my babies. Whom I will then devour.

The Circle of Bean.

I'm so happy, Drunkards. Because beans.

Click on "Beans" under "Mostly What I'm Ranting About" if you've missed any of the saga. Then let me what's made you happy this summer.

I like happy stories.

And beans.

Friday, As It Is

A few thoughts on a Friday night:

I skipped the last five-day bean post. There's nothing to report. I'm on day 68 of a 65-day growing season, and there's nary a sign of a bean on my four remaining plants. They're healthy, strong, growing, but show no inclination to ever bear fruit. At this point they're a metaphor for my life, nothing more.

I'm just a Metapod, all defense and no evolution.

Jon Stewart appeared on "The Late Show with Stephen Colbert" last night. He's a smart, funny, astute commentator on our culture. Why the fuck do I hate him so much? I mean, other than the smirk. The goddamn smirk. I think what it is, is that every time I watch Jon Stewart, I think, "I can do that, what he's doing there on the TV." And I could. Except I don't, and he does, and I resent the crap out of that. And him. Two words, Stewart: Grecian Formula. Two more: Stop with the friggin' smirk. That possibly is more than two words.

Precocious Daughter is seeing the new Star Trek movie tonight. With her father. Because he made sure to invite her to see it before I did. And now I probably won't see the new Star Trek movie at all, as I don't know anyone else who would want to see it with me. I guess I'll buy it on Blu-Ray when it comes out several months from now. Divorce in a nutshell: See movies alone or wait for them to come out on video. I'm OK with that. Really.

Trump. I can't even. I honestly would rather see him be elected President than Hillary. Yes, really. I know what it's like to have a crazy elitist white male Republican President. A female former First Lady-Senator-Secretary of State-entitled career politician who thinks she's above the law? Not so much.

Have I mentioned that I love being single? Because I do. Life is not all peaches and cream, but it's all on me, and I own every good and bad moment. My family and friends are my entire life. The rest is just noise. I'm happy.

Have an amazing weekend, Drunkards. I love you.

Bean Growing (See What I Did There?)

Real post coming later, you guys.

But I thought you might like an update on MY BEANS.

I have five bean plants growing in a pot on my balcony.

On Saturday they looked like this:

Four days later, they look like this:

My bean plants are kicking ass! At this rate, I figure they'll be about eight feet tall by Independence Day. Give or take.

I'm so thrilled to have not killed my little sproutlings - even Meenie, my special-needs bean, is thriving.

I reckon I'll have enough beans to feed the entire Internet. Assuming this episode of remarkable (and uncharacteristic) green thumbery continues. Does anyone know who the patron saint of beans is? I might to say a novena or something.

More pictures coming as my babies grow.

Awesome Day, Birthday Edition

Snapshot of my birthday:

I slept in, and got up around 9:30 when I heard Precocious Daughter moving about.

PDaughter made me coffee.  Damn, she makes good coffee. I wish I could talk her into making my coffee every weekend.

Damn.

I had a lovely conversation with my parents. My crappy cell phone only cut us off twice. I really need a new phone, yo.

PDaughter and I made brunch together.

I colored my hair. Honestly, I wanted to make it lavender, but I asked PDaughter how she felt about that, and she wasn't comfortable with it. So instead I went with a very pretty (and gray-free) shade of blonde, and I'm really happy with how it turned out.

I would have rocked this. But I still rock Golden Blonde 8.0.

We went shopping! We took advantage of a "Buy Three Get Three" sale at Bath & Body Works, and I also bought a secret surprise gift for Drummer Boy (shhhhh...). I'm addicted to A Thousand Wishes, you guys. Just saying.

We went to Ross. PDaughter got two tops and an extremely cute pair of jeans. I bought a piece of decor for the apartment that I simply love, except for the fact that the Siamese Kitten apparently wants to eat it.

Then we picked up linner at KFC - Famous Bowls, which we collectively cannot exist without.

Judge if you like, this shit is delicious.

And now? We're chilling. We're happy. I love my low-stress, low-pressure birthday. And I'm in total awe at the number of friends who have given me love on Facebook. Thank you, my friends.

It's been an awesome day.

Train Kept A-Rollin'

I just heard a train whistle.

It's a beautiful sound.

I've seen people on social media complain bitterly about the "noise" and "disruption" of trains rolling through their communities. To which I say: Have you no idea of the importance and romance of trains in American history? Do you honestly feel your quality of life is diminished by the sound of a train whistle? Are you an asshole in other ways, or only in this one particular area?

Just asking in case your mom was traumatized by a clown making choo-choo noises when she was pregnant with you. In that event, sorry your upbringing has made you  an asshole.

Otherwise, WTF is wrong with you? Train whistles are everything that is right with America.

Along with clipart of iconic moments in our history. Like confetti
that looks vaguely like the Russian alphabet. Just sayin.

When I was younger, I often would stay overnight in my grandparents' spare bedroom. And I would hear trains going by on the tracks that were just a couple of blocks away from their house. I loved that sound. It made me feel and safe and secure, somehow.

Later, when I bought my first house, I would hear trains on the tracks that were a few hundred yards away. Loved it.

My next house was a quarter-mile (or less) from frequently-traveled railroad tracks. The sound was familiar and soothing. Now, there were houses in my neighborhood that literally backed up to those tracks. I have to admit, having trains rattle by just on the other side of my backyard fence would be a little close for comfort. But being just near enough to faintly hear/feel the sound of steel wheels on the rails? That's the sound of home.

And now, I literally reside next to the historical rail switchyard of my little community. My town's original train depot is across the street. At least three sets of tracks criss-cross the intersection where I live. They're not simply vestiges of history. Trains go by regularly. I hear them crying in the night, and during the day they occasionally prevent me from getting where I'm going as I drive.

Artist's rendering of my adopted home town.

In addition to those hardy old railroad tracks, an elevated light rail line runs directly past my apartments. In fact, there's a station just next to that old railroad depot. It will whisk me to downtown Dallas at any time. The sound of those trains is different: a whoosh instead of a rumble, but still the sound of motion and progress. Music to these ears.

My point is, I believe the proximity of train sounds enhances the aesthetic of my neighborhood. To me they represent the comfort of home combined with the romance of travel. I guess some people want to live in a vacuum of silence, or to hear nothing but electronic rain sounds generated by their white-noise machine. Or freaking Rachmaninoff or whatever while they drift into an Ambien-induced sleep.

I'll take the sweet sound of American locomotion, thank you. It's the only sedative I need to feel safe, warm, and sleepy.

Do you like trains, Drunkards?

Move Toward the Light, Chuck

Today was a little dark, Drunkards.

Possibly not quite this dark. But dark, OK?

You know, like when you remember the famous Bette Davis line from All About Eve: "Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy night," except you suspect that Bette Davis would have crapped her pants if she knew just how bumpy a day or night could get?

I apologize for making you think about Bette Davis
crapping her pants. It's been that kind of day.

But you know, if you look hard enough, you can find bright spots in just about any day. Just about. I myself have had some completely pitch-black days. But today I was able to find some pinpricks of joy in the inky fabric of the shit the universe felt like throwing at me.

I call that a win.

For example:

I submitted two articles to a startup online magazine, and I got a one word response from the editor, to wit: "Fanfuckingtastic." That made me smile.

Also, I've been waiting two weeks for my Siamese kitten to discover that our new place has very high ceilings and, therefore, an entire level above the kitchen cabinets that she's never known before. Today she discovered it.

So, the color scheme of my apartment is "Siamese kitten."
Tastefully neutral, with claws, I guess?

Finally, Drummer Boy is coming over. Apparently he is bringing me chairs? I don't really have chairs right now. I'm not sure how Drummer Boy can walk into my apartment, see that I'm living on a shoestring and have no furniture, and still say he loves me. Yet that's the sitch.

I'm broke, Drunkards. Flat broke.

Yet I'm so rich I can't comprehend it.

Each of you is part of my wealth. So thank you.

Let's hope tomorrow is lighter for all of us, OK?