October 25th, 2005.

Heather and I hit up Dave Morreale's open mic at Ryan's Daughter in Baltimore, MD. This is Heather and Dave singing George Michael's "Father Figure". Small crowd, but a beautiful bar. We had a good night and Dave invited me to come open for him at the New Deal Cafe in Greenbelt, MD, which was a little surreal. I think it was the first time I've played solo in, quite possibly years... I was tense, frightened, and slightly freaked out. — Heather and I hit up Dave Morreale’s open mic at Ryan’s Daughter in Baltimore, MD. This is Heather and Dave singing George Michael’s “Father Figure”. Small crowd, but a beautiful bar. We had a good night and Dave invited me to come open for him at the New Deal Cafe in Greenbelt, MD, which was a little surreal. I think it was the first time I’ve played solo in, quite possibly years… I was tense, frightened, and slightly freaked out.

I just finished “The Watchmen”, lent to me by my friend Chris, in a fit of “knowing exactly what’s fucking AWESOME in the universe”. It makes me curious about the shelves and crevices in his apartment. I am wary as well, however – he claims to own a cat, and though I don’t actually disbelieve him, it occurs to me I’ve never asked as to its status.

Perhaps the beast is dead, lying stiff somewhere, propping a door or window open. Perhaps an older dead cat, conveniently bloated, used as a bath toy… or perhaps one older still, and having gone a bit runny, the pussy is used as a lubricant in some horrible mutant version of this sentence. There have been things SAID that make me fear the truth.

We could go into other possibilities – be they zombie cats, invisible cats, or even the horrifically mundane SHY cats. Cats do often have a certain sense about me, and realize that although I enjoy SOME creatures, I can also be inexcusably cruel to others. Especially if I have a rubber band or masking tape or a spare couple of minutes.

I’ll have to tell you sometime about what happens to a cat that swallows a rubber band and then only poops out half of it… that’s a tale for another time.

I dunno. There wasn’t any vomit. This, to me at least, is a pretty tell-tale sign of a cat’s presence. Wholesale piles of vomit = cat to me. Some may say “oh, that’s just a hairball” – but if it came OUT of that end, it’s bloody well vomit and I’m not really interested in specifics or semantics.

My mom’s cat has been busily vomiting all over some hidden crevice in her house. And though the vomit itself (so far) goes unfound, the beast’s noises are omnipresent and providing a violent counterpoint to James Taylor. James would probably cry if he knew.

What’s my point? It’s 3.44am and all I can think about is the Watchmen (good) and cat vomit (bad). Autumnal rains outside. Leaves and the first lit fires are smouldering in fireplaces. It’s wet and smells of cold walks and held hands. California, PA has snow. I’m very, very jealous. If the air was a little bit colder and not holding the wet so well, it would smell like snow here. I’m hungry for that. At least then you have an excuse for feeling cold.