of kittens and displaced pants

the boys
The boys have arrived. They are roly-poly and playful and curious and affectionate and fabulous and lovely, and they are beginning the long slow process of killing off the moths who keep destroying all my nice wool and cashmere things. Bless their kitteny little hearts. They are called Rufus and Titus (Rufus Aloysius and Titus Nelson to be exact).

And that’s all I’m going to say about them right now.

Over the past few days, I keep seeing random articles of clothing strewn in the road wherever I go. Is this one of the less-publicized rites of spring that I missed out on during my time in the states? Or is it the season of intensely acrimonious breakups, where people keep throwing one another’s clothes out of windows? I know I should be photographing this, but yesterday (woman’s slinky little nightie/ underthing, child’s striped long sleeve top) I was on my way to pick up the kittens and today (one pair black socks, some sort of looks-like-denim-but-isn’t trousers with too many pockets) I wasn’t fully awake yet, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. What I’m wondering is, is anyone else seeing more clothing in the roads than usual, or is it just me?

I’ve also been reading the new(ish) David Foster Wallace collection, Consider the Lobster. I can’t quite seem to push myself through all 1088 pages of Infinite Jest, but I devour his essays like delicious brain candy. The thing about Wallace is that he’s not just clever (though he is really quite incredibly clever) and funny and vicious in a just-on-the-outside-edge-of-playful way, but he somehow manages to be all of these things without being a condescending bastard, which I find truly remarkable. So when I read his stuff and I’m thinking, jesus, why haven’t I been reading more about this, why haven’t I been doing those little etymological explorations I used to do, why haven’t I been writing more, I’m not getting the sinking horrible guilty feeling I sometimes get when reading more pedantic smart people. Wallace makes you (or at least me) want to call him up and go down to the pub and have a nice long drunken argument and then go home and write until you pass out. I love that. Go get you some of that. Me, I’m going to curl up on the sofa with the boys and watch me some Simpsons.