Earflaps, the Black Death, and A Missing Fluffy

For about three hours yesterday, the neighbor lost his kitten. We walked all up and down the block yelling FLUFFY but to no avail. No Fluffy. On our fifth and final pass through the neighborhood, the kitten let herself in the back door like she hadn't done anything! The tramp. Isn't that just like a kitten?

After a hearty dinner at Fat Burger -- and a delicious, artery-hardening cheeseburger with egg -- I gathered at my Borders temple to worship. And what did I see? Tucked away in the back -- the product of a cheeky monkey -- someone had displayed Camus' The Plague next to T.C. Boyle's After the Plague. In my head I think someone must say "Oh, hey, there's a sequel! Why can't Hollywood leave well enough alone!" Or maybe I just stumbled on the plague table. You know, for all your Black Death needs.

That's essential Christy humor right there.

I have a confession. Or maybe I've already confessed it, I can't remember. I'm obsessed with Dance Dance Revolution, a game I've never played. In my reinvention tour, DDR will figure prominently. And bagpipes, definitely bagpipes. Oh all right, Galaga, you can come too. But you gotta sleep in the van with the roadies.

And lastly, you should know. I'm wearing my writing outfit. It involves white capris, a t-shirt (not specified), and a ski hat which may or may not have earflaps. I desperately want to be a half-assed Ignatius J. Reilly.

And if for some reason you looked at that last sentence and said, hmm, is Ignatius J. Reilly somebody I should know? I swear, you better get thee to the Amazon.com and/or the library and read THIS. Best. Book. Ever. Only, the ear flaps make my head itch.