Hello, and welcome

Hello, friends, Romans, c(o)untrymen (so original), and others who may have followed me here from Facebook a/k/a Facefuck a/k/a Ugh I Hate That Company But I Also Can’t Quit It, Kinda Like Brokeback Mountain But Not Really!

I have been keeping this “blog” since 2002, when blogs were in their heyday and we all had Blogrolls and it was its own sort of charming circle jerk, and some became more popular than others and some of us wondered why because the shit we were reading on those popular blogs wasn’t nearly as rip-roarin’ hilarious as ours was. Back then, I posted photos of my lunches, and dogs, and people thought I was nuts, and now I’m pissed that I didn’t take advantage of that foresight and do what The Dogist did. Whatever.

Many of my posts here had images associated with them, but those have gone the way of the dodo thanks to some sort of glitch with my old hosting service which I won’t name, so I’m plenty pissed about that and of course sad as well. However, the “photo album” or “gallery” or whatever it’s called that housed the dog photos is still there although the names of the dogs and any other identifying information no longer exists as well, and that of course saddens me too, just as the realization does that all of those dogs have probably gone to the so-called Rainbow Bridge that I don’t believe in but wish with all my might did because dogs deserve nothing but the best and to live forever.

Anyway, please hang out with me here. Comment if you want. It won’t be Facebook, and that’s fine. Here I’m free to say what I want without worrying that I’ll start receiving endless ads for something I mentioned once in passing. I will still be there, but here is where my “home” is, and I welcome you here. I’d offer you a TaB, but that, like the aforementioned photos, has gone the sad, sad way of the dodo. Oy.

Hello, anyway.


Three things to be grateful for, in advance of Thanksgiving, because, spoiler alert, you don’t have to save it for the allotted day:

Dogs on walks, looking over their shoulders to say “hello” when they don’t even know me.

Meeting a dog, after asking their person if it’s okay, and having that dog confirm they made the right choice in looking over their adorable fuzzy shoulder.

Coffee.  Caffeinated.  Spare me the tale of how you quit the stuff and feel so much better and now drink powdered mushrooms or something.  I’m glad you do, but I still enjoy the stuff.


Bitches, please.  We all know you have at least a tiny crease between your eyebrows because most other people are absolute fucking imbeciles and your marvelous face can’t help but express your impatience and disgust, especially if you’ve been a good citizen and covered its bottom half with a mask for the past year and a half and have had to use your eyes to pick up the bulk of the facial expression.  So please, knock it off with the endless photo filters already.   You’re not kidding anyone.  And trust me, the tread of tiny crow’s feet is utterly enchanting.


I’m cruisin’ the Fairway soda aisle for a two-liter bottle of carbonated kicks (N.B.: Can it if you want to tell me soda is unhealthy, and/or you never drink it because you only do stuff that’s 300% natural like dew, and not the Mountain kind), and a stupid song is playing.

An older man, who’s also been cruisin’, sidles up to me.

“What does ‘jamify’ mean? What is that?”

I tell him I have no idea, have no clue what anyone is saying anymore, and he walks away muttering, “Jamify.  Jamify!”

I’m delighted that I appeal to the curmudgeon set!

Local flavor

I just cancelled a delivery order from Whole Foods. The guy who blasts off into space like a jackass doesn’t need/deserve my money as much as Zingone Brothers, the little store on Columbus that’s been there since 1929, where there’s a cat who lolls on the old blue and white checkered linoleum floor and the tiny older gentleman whose last name is on the store rings items up on something not much more sophisticated than a 1980s adding machine.

I still use Amazon, but I’m going to go “to market” in little shops more often like it’s still 1974, dressed accordingly.

Meet cute?!!

The other day, while running along the river, I saw the guy who juggles while he runs again, the first time in a while and the second time ever. The other time, I’d grimaced and said to myself, “Oh god, please,” but this time, I grinned at him like a lunatic as he passed, he grinned at me, and we both said “Hi.” I need to see him a third time so I can ask him if anyone has ever called him “The Joggler”, hope he doesn’t say, “No, because I RUN, not JOG,” and we can FALL IN LOVE.

The Meownsters!

You haven’t lived until you have somehow managed to witness/hear the shower running in my apartment (with me availing myself of its utility), and hearing, over the cascade of water, me semi-sorta “vocalizing” what maaaay sound a bit like the “Munsters” theme, which eventually takes a bit of shape, after several restarts, so that you’re 91% sure that’s what I’m doing, and then being delighted and/or horrified and/or chagrined when, without warning, every syllable is uttered as a “meow”, but this time more loudly and with more gusto as I’m more confident that I’ve got the tune down juuust right.


Listen, AARP, don’t tell me not to bend! If I’m old enough for you to be sending me shit, I should be *encouraged* to bend to keep my ancient joints limber ‘n’ shit. LOL! (Am I allowed to say “LOL” if I’m decrepit?)

Snow way

I have nowhere to go, nothing to do beyond the boundaries of home, and this would be the case even if not for COVID.  Still, I’m thrilled when I see the first signs of snow, followed rather quickly by a dumping of the stuff, inhibiting me from going out “even if I wanted to”, which I don’t.  I guess it’s the notion of a snow day, of being let off the hook of pretending that I want to leave the house and go out and do something that, upon my return home, I’d say, “Eh, I could’ve done without that.”

Paw Collection

There is a reason my cat’s nickname (well, one of the countless) is Paw Collection. Here’s one. Or four. Or five. Or something.

One of these may or may not (as lawyers like to say) be a tail. Some of these may or may not be actual cotton balls attached to black sticks, as a certain cat likes to whisper in my ear. Some of these may be figments of someone’s imagination, including, but not limited to (as lawyers also like to say), yours, mine, my cat’s, and/or Kermit T. Frog’s or yo mamma (what?).

In any event (yeah, as lawyers …), this nickname sprouted out of nowhere or thin air, spontaneously, on the fly, on the cuff, and maybe on the couch/sofa (I’m more of a “sofa” type m’self, but YMMV, as the kidz are probably not saying anymore if indeed they ever did), and every time my cat finds herself curled into any number of adorable configurations, often on my lap, as seen here — yes, you’re seeing a fragment of my pajamas — I grin with delight over the jangle of paws and the tail mixed in and never want to move from that spot lest I disturb the arrangement.

I want to document them all, but that would be ridiculous, even though if you know anything about my Instagram account, you’ll know that it is home to more than 200 photos of this same cat lounging in a bathroom sink, so be careful what you wish for or what I wish for or what I probably didn’t even wish for but just mentioned here. Whatever.

Anyway, Paw Collection thrills me to no end, both the actual paws and the actual cat.

Enjoy your, of course, Caturday. Meow.