(caption: max did so much coke at the vice halloween party that he got into a two hour conversation about old sega games and completely missed bad brains.)
(caption: after studying the panda bear album, kafka has suddenly gotten really into tropicália. his friends haven’t the heart to tell him he’s mispronouncing caetano veloso’s name.)
Though of course I must ask: where is Hipster Kittens?
A typical day for him (or her) involves ingesting Arabica coffee beans, and then pooping them out whole. Then these beans get sold to coffee companies and eventually make their way to Florida coffee shops where they are made into coffee that sells for $20 a cup.
Apparently, there are special enzymes in the stomach of the civet that enhance the flavor of the coffee. And yet if I’m paying $20 to ingest something, I’d prefer if it had never been mixed with anyone’s poop, thanks.
Neil Gaiman has written very eloquently and beautifully about the death of his cat, Zoe.
I had been avoiding reading about Zoe, even though several people had mentioned it to me (people have also been all over mentioning the catorialist to me lately, too). I knew it would make me cry, and of course it did. There’s a cat-shaped hole in my heart right now, and even with various other sad things going on, in the end any crying jag goes back to Jack and how much I miss him.
Eight years ago, a boy cat and a girl cat shacked up in a one bedroom new york city apartment. Fast forward to today, when those two cats have led to 37–and their owner finally realized she had a problem and called the ASPCA.
(the little gray one grabbing the bars of its cage is KILLING me.)
Having seen countless stories of cat hoarding (and one traumatic episode of HOARDERS), I have to commend these cats’ owner for finally realizing that 37 cats in a one bedroom apartment is a problem. Yes, it was out of control, but it could have been so much worse! (seriously, that episode of HOARDERS haunts me.)