Now is not the winter of our discontent. Now is not yet the triumphal procession towards spring. Now is the holy roll of ordinary time at Tabby’s Place.
There is much we could debate about Christmas carols. We could debate whether or not Bing Crosby + David Bowie = pa-rum-pa-pum-pum-perfection. We could debate whether playing Simply Having A Wonderful Christmastime in public should be considered a war crime. But most of all, we could debate where the comma belongs in God Rest Ye […]
In the immortal words of Tom Petty, “some days are diamonds; some days are rocks.” And some months are ossified turds.* September, you thieving, grieving month, we’re looking at you.
People say that Labor Day marks the end of summer. People say that white shoes are not okay after said day. People say a lot of things. But if you’ve had the kind of August our cats have had, you’re still sloshing white espadrilles through the endless summer stew.