Supersuck.

It may be possible to be more underwhelmed by the upcoming spectre of !SUPER BOWL SUNDAY!, say, if I were a member of some long-forgotten tribe that communicated only in clicks and grunts. I say it may, because presumably such a tribe would've know enough to muster up the same feelings of dread and apathy. Hell, I don't even know who's playing.

At this point I think I ought to be able to derive a sense of accomplishment from the fact that for over a quarter of a century, I have stubbornly refused to find the merit in sports spectatorship. I went to a football game just once in high school, despite the endlessly lauded abilities of our coach & team. I admit this was because the whole scene was too "establishment" for me.. I was far more likely to be found on a beach somewhere, tripping my face off or reading Kerouac or Vonnegut. I did go to a couple baseball games last season, however, I'm sure I spent more time contemplating which beer to have next than I did actually observing anything going on below.

See, though I highly doubt any enjoyment will be derived from my following the game or any some such nonsense (I pretend that I could, if forced), imbibing enough alcohol enables one to fake enjoyment or even ignore that a major sporting event is taking place. So despite these misgivings, I will be at a friend's house later, celebrating.. just not the superbowl.

Fucking savages.

Last night (presumably while I was off eating naughtily shaped rice and other hibachi goodness) my car was sitting in my driveway, unsuspecting, when someone threw a brick through the back window on the driver's side of my car.

The brick is still there, along with copious quantities of glass shards, along with everything else that was in my car prior to what can only be considered a terrorist attack... look, it's causing "terror," okay, or at least "heavy irritation," so, technically.. under the Patriot Act pt. 12, sec. B..

I wasn't expect a ticker tape parade when I moved downtown, but this grim reception has admittedly made me slightly cranky... plus it's rainy, and cold, and all the cars driving by blasting hideous music has made Mojo unusually anxious.

Luckily, the motive behind said "attack" was obviously not theft as nothing was missing, or appeared rifled through, even my glovebox in which was my iPod.. one of my most cherished and apparently oft threatened possessions - you may remember the story about the brat who stole it and stashed it in a paper towel dispenser in a Delta plane lavatory. But anyway. I'm going to start going around with the thing strapped to my body - do they make iPod garter belt holsters? Hell, I'm sure they do, they make everything else.

He'll be a pillow one day.

My interest in blogging was re-invigorated today when I received some correspondence from Cat Bloggers asking me to join their little endeavor to spread charming feline stories to the remotest corners of the world through the miracle of the internet.

"Of course!" I thought. "I have many fascinating and amusing stories about my cat."

I realize, however, that pet stories are inordinately dull to everyone but the owner of that particular animal. Looking at, say, one or two pictures of said pet is tolerable, but then? Unless they do something that is wildly out of character for a dog, or cat, or sugar glider, I don't effing care - unless of course, it's Mojo, Silver Prince of Apartment B.

But I'll resist the urge to expound on the unique frustrations of investing in an electric litterbox, the brand new light blue collar and silver rabies tag he's sporting after having "misplaced" his last set, his emotional status after having moved to a new apartment, and his basic and inspiring wherewithal in the face of what must be a severe disruption of his little feline world.

If he were just human he'd be the perfect man - soft. pliable. not prone to grudges. intimidated by me. warm and cuddly. doesn't produce laundry. rather dim-witted and sleepy.