I finally got to see the Hogs play in person, and I had a blast.

WARNING: THIS IS REALLY LONG, AND POSSIBLY BORING, BUT VERY THOROUGH.

Here’s the rundown:

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We follow each others’ footsteps mindlessly through cold tunnels. Our words no more than senselessly uttered curses. We don’t care where our feet fall because every step is treacherous.

Dogs, children, and anyone under four feet tall have been abandoned and disregarded, probably dead. Those who own cars think back to that fateful day in the showroom when they made a decision that now has ruined their lives.

Time has no meaning. We don’t know which day of the week is today. There is no “late.” There is no “meeting.” There is no “phone.” There is nothing but blank and white and sheets and cold and pain and suffering and torture and depression.

There is only snow.

You want to know what my “status” is? I’m currently buried in snow and have been for a month and it doesn’t look like it will end any time soon.

My status? I’m clearly going insane.

This is why I rarely work with animals. Introducing Kimba in her short independent film debut.

Antique Rivet, a new jeans company, sent out requests for stories involving their jeans. The winner gets a free pair. This is what I sent:

I once met a young lady in Prague on a grey afternoon when the wind forced her to duck into an alcove to retrieve her errant umbrella. I was hiding there – in the very same alcove – desperate to avoid a rather menacing pursuer.

Feeling I had no choice, I quickly put my hand over her mouth, pulling her further inside. Her eyes went wide. I knew she wanted to scream. I pleaded through my own eyes, silently. My intent was to reveal that any noise would most certainly mean a grisly end to both of us.

Standing there, close enough to feel the other’s heartbeat, we had a quiet introduction that brought us closer than any conversation. It ended as quickly as it began, for I knew my enemy had moved on. I slowly released her and began scaling the wire fence at our backs.

At the top, I looked back, expecting her to be gone, or to cry out for help. Instead, she was looking toward me, her hand outstretched. I reached out to touch the tips of her fingers, just for a brief moment, and then made my leave.

Later that night, while recounting my story to a confidant, I was asked why I trusted her, and why she trusted me.

I set down my rocks glass, looked him in the eye, and told him.

“We were both wearing Antique Rivet jeans.”

I used to write elaborate testimonials for people on Friendster. For example:

(Pinky is a cat, FYI.)

Marines are always the first to arrive and the last to leave and ‘Nam was no exception. I met Pinkerton just before we were dropped out of a chopper right into the middle of Danang.

On the way down, I took a shot to my parachute. While I was struggling with my back-up, (Sargent) Pinky grabbed me with his rear legs and floated me to safety.

That was only the first of many times he would save my life during the hell that was Vietnam. He had a thousand-yard stare and sometimes he could be tough, but he was a good soldier and a good cat. He always meowed about his girl back home, and how he couldn’t wait to get back.

While patrolling, we were both captured by the Viet Kong and I never saw what happened to Sarge, but If anycat was tough enough to make it out of that Hanoi Hilton, Pinky was.