Pack Cat Cat Pack

I am starting to worry that I won't finish packing in time.
The more I worry, the less I pack.

Questions:
1.) How does that make any sense?
2.) Do you have any idea how much I hated this cat?

Asheville

smells like hippies and the critters that grow on the bottom of boats.

Analog is Dead

Cliche Sunset, But Let Me Wax Sentimental

My last night in New York City. As I continue to put off packing until the last possible second and begin to part ways with my fleeting Brooklyn home, I find myself surprisingly content. I just finished sucking the marrow dry from this city, and I'm ready for the next big thing. If I'd left yesterday, it would have been too soon, and tomorrow afternoon would be too late... you can call me the Goldilocks of Bushwick.

Waiting for the Subway

Nostalgic for an Era I Never Knew

I handwashed three loads of laundry with a washboard and a big metal basin. The whole loft smelled like a steaming vat of synthetic mountainside springtime. I felt so bohemian, stringing clotheslines across my bedroom in my painted-up button-down, some Jimmy Hendrix album sc-sc-scratching on a record player in the background. It felt like a throwback to another era, nearly an idyllic moment, but I was wrenched from bliss by the resounding chorus in my head: should have been twenty forty years ago. That's when things were happening, man.

Peace, love, protest, drugs, rights... It's like we've got to find something to bring us together. A generation organized in twos and threes and tens and twenties will never revolutionize, and a cult of underfed Williamsburg suburbanites living off their parents' trust funds can hardly qualify as a counterculture.

...Annnnnd, We're Back.

To make a long story short: you can expect posts on a fairly regular basis once again, and this is the view from our back porch.