I had to put my cat to sleep last week. It really wasn't easy, but they had found cancer. The vet said the best they could do was put her on chemo and get, at most, another six months.

She was not a young cat by any means. She was twelve years old and was well loved (and utterly spoiled) her entire life.

We got her from my sister to replace my mother's cat who had passed the previous year. When she arrived, her name was Butterscotch. My mother and I share a similar belief when it comes to naming your pets: don't name them somethng you wouldn't name your children. As she was supposed to be my mother's cat, she got the honor of renaming. She chose Maggie Mae, after the Rod Stewart song.

We intended her to be my mother's cat, but she apparently had other ideas. She was the family pet. Even my dad liked her, and he hated cats.

She was affectionate towards all members of the family, but she made no illusions: I was number one in her book. If she were in somebody else's lap, and I walked in, she would jump down and into mine. When i would come home from work, i would see her in the window, only to be greeted by her at the door. She would be sitting there with that aloof yet affectionate look on her face that only a cat can do. As if to say "Welcome home. Now pet me."

When I would be at my desk getting my nightly MMO fix, she would be laying on the floor beside my chair. When I would be in my room painting minis, she would be laying on the corner of my bed. She always made it a point to be within arm's reach. I'd reach over and just idly scratch behind her ears or under her chin, and she would feign indignance at me for having the temerity to DARE interrupt her nap, only to start purring loudly (seriously, you could hear her purr in the next room sometimes) and move her head around to get my scratching exactly where SHE wanted it. It would continue like this for a few minutes, then I would go back to whatever it is I was doing, and she would lay back down to doze.

She would never play with any toys i bought her, but would entertain herself for hours with any kind of box left unattended for more than thirty seconds. And catnip. Dear god, she loved catnip. I'd be at my desk and she would be underfoot, staring expectantly at the vial of catnip I kept there. I'd give her a toot, and she'd roll around in it happily. Then when finished, she'd do what most stoners do: snacks and a nap. I'd find her sprawled out on the floor somewhere, snoring away contently.

She would always be there when i needed her. She provided solace for me when my father passed away, was a friendly ear when I was at my worst depressive moods, and was generally a more loyal friend and companion than half the people I've known in my life.

Rest in peace, Maggie Mae. You're greatly missed.

Conversation of the damned, Mass Effect edition.

Oh, commander sheppard!

its so big!

I..

I think i'm...

i'm gonna...

I'm...

ASSUMING DIRECT CONTROL

Top Five Unappreciated Horror Movie Franchises

In no particular order:

1. Maniac Cop
2. Critters
3. Puppet Master
4. Basket Case
5. Phantasm

Horable Mentions: Warlock, Scanners, It's Alive.

Discuss

Hats. For bats.

I've come to realize i'm not really an IT worker anymore. I'm more of an exorcist or a medicine man. Because most of the machines within the library system are hitting the ten year mark, and it takes nothing short of miracles and voodoo to keep them running.

You can hear it in their voices when they call the IT office, that request for help hinted with overtones of desperation and a sort of fearful reverence. As if the fear of asking our assistance for something too mundane would see them smote by the IT gods for their temerity. The more humble among the supplicants insist it "isn't anything too important" and we "Put it on the bottom of the list"

Tangent: The List. The users all seem to think that somewhere, in the darkest depths of Mordor the IT Office, beyond the twisted warrens created by the husks of dead client machines, there lay some kind of obsidian monolith, upon which the IT department scribes its goals for the time being.

The truth is, "the list" is little more than haphazardly placed post-its stuck to any surface able to hold place, from walls to monitors to empty Mountain Dew cans.

End tangent.

And when an IT person walks into another building or office, it's like that scene in The Exorcist where Father Merrin arrives. Enter; the IT person, much to the relief of the distraught co-worker who thanks us for taking the time to come. In reply, we ask where the troublesome machine is. I think I should start wearing a fedora to work for improved dramatic effect.

And when all is done, they tend to leave offerings of cookies and Mountain Dew in our office. They know what appeases our gods.

Thank you jobu. Pass the yams.

Tuesday's Grey, and Wednesday Too.

With the annual celebration of Pax Scorpiana nearing, I have a simple decree: Fuck wednesdays.

I really do hate them. They come so late in the week, that any post-weekend optimism you may have had has already long since been bludgeoned out of you, yet they are so near the beginning of the week that glorious Friday Afternoon seems so very far away.

People call Wednesdays "Hump Day". The title is rather misleading. There no humping involved. Instead, there is a metaphorical hump - a mid point of the week - where you're halfway through, and everything is going to be cake from here out, and you'll be farting unicorns and double rainbows for the next two days.

The Hump Day is a lie.

Wednesday is like the rebound girlfriend who is generally indifferent to your troubles, but it's better than being alone. Wednesday is a cock tease, the stripper who doesn't make eye contact during a lap dance. Wednesday is the radio DJ who's inane rambling cuts into the first couple seconds of your favorite song, only to butt in and interrupt during the last few as well.

Fuck you, Wednesday.

Breaking radio silence to bring you this important announcement:

Fuck Michigan.

Yes, it's been two whole months since my last update. For that, I do apologize since there are apparently people who enjoy reading my rambling.

With my recent birthday, it's dawned on me i've been a musician for fifteen years. Half my life, plus one. Granted, the term "musician" is used in only the most academic sense when it comes to me. Musicians generally get paid.

To date, I've made roughly sixty dollars, gotten one free shot of jagermeister, two free beers (both PBR, unfortunately) and two free lapdances. The one lapdance was especially memorable, due to the fact the stripper was a Troma fan and we talked about Toxic Avenger whilst she waved her hoo-hoo in my face. Good times.

But back to the point I was originally aiming for.

When I tell people i've been a musician for so long, they always say something to the effect of "You must have a lot of crazy stories!". Without fail, my mind goes blank when they ask me to tell one.

Good thing I have you all here for those times I do remember.

Like the time we played a show, and afterwards this black guy who looked scared to death walks up to me, shakes my hand and says "I really like you guys."

I ask him if he's okay, because he really does look like he's afraid of something.

"I, uh..I just wanna know something. Your, uh..I wanna shake your bass player's hand, but I gotta know if he's gonna kick my ass because i'm black"

I can see where the dude was coming from. Our bass player was a big guy, both in terms of height and build. He had long hair and wore a black trenchcoat everywhere. However, he was in reality one of the most mellow guys i've ever known.