I’m gone for a couple of days, and this blog is a mess. . .

Spam has piled up on the front porch, the gas tank is empty, and somebody drank all the wine.

We have no idea why Marlo often fell asleep in a pile of shoes

When our almost 20-year-old cat died, of old age, my wife an I felt like hiding from the world. That meant extra sleep, too much TV, and finding something to read. None of that really works because Marlo had more than her share of personality, stubborness, and all the other qualities that makes cats so catlike.

So, when all that disappears, things feel empty because they are empty. When you have cats, and we’ve had quite a few, you know you’ll lose all of them sooner or later

I can escape missing Marlo for short periods of time with an old book. This one by Ruta Sepetys, Out of the Easy, is pretty good even though it’s not in the same league as Salt to the Sea. You can tell by the title and the cover art that this one’s set in New Orleans where a teenager is earning college money (or, perhaps, her “escape money” by working as a parttime maid at a whore house mainly because her mother works there as one of the girls.

I actually like New Orleans quite a lot. A family vacation there when I was in high school got me hooked. One can become fat just making the rounds of the famous restaurants–which we did. Fortunately, I’m a fan of Cajun food and find that Popeye’s restaurants don’t quite give me an Antoine’s or Galatoire’s kind of experience.

And then there’s the catastropic Ukraine mess which me must more or less watch helplessly since Putin has threatened nuclear war if we intervene. He’s finding conquering Ukraine more difficult than he expected. Naturally, all the nearby countries are wondering if they’re going to be next. I think the world is rather caught in the headlights to have a Hitler-like madman show up right after two bad years of pandemic the aftermath of which continues to wreck our economy while (apparently) contributing to more unrest on city streets.

So, this post is rather a downer, but–for the most part–writers are human, too, and have the same kinds of reactions to bad news and sad times as everyone else.

Malcolm