Author Archives: Johnny Goodtimes

Pics of November 5th-7th Winners

Quizzo Returns to O’Neals on Tuesday!

Good news, gang. We’re gonna give it another shot at O’Neals, but with a new host. The Legendary WID is going to start hosting quizzo on Tuesdays at O’Neals! One of Philly’s most beloved comics will be there Tuesday at 8 pm…asking JGT questions. Starts on November 19th. Hope you can make it. Should be fun!

Wentz vs Foles: Did The Eagles Get It Wrong?

Wentz isn’t the first 6’5″ 235 pound QB who wore #11 to go early in the NFL Draft. There was another stud QB by the name Drew Bledsoe, and after being taken first in the 1993 draft he helped lead the Patriots back from irrelevance to perennial contender. When he got injured in 2001, the Patriots were forced to turn to an unheralded backup by the name of Tom Brady. That backup would of course lead them to the franchise’s first ever Super Bowl victory. After that win the Patriots decided to roll with the unheralded youngster, despite the fact that Bledsoe was a three time Pro Bowler and had been signed to a ten year, $105 million contract earlier in the year.


Even though Brady led them to a Super Bowl, there were some that still thought he was a nobody who had been surrounded by a good team. In fact, consensus was that he was kept and Bledsoe shipped entirely due to money (the eventual GOAT was being paid a comical $300k at the time, while Bledsoe had just signed that “franchise QB” contract).

In hindsight, there is of course no doubt that the Patriots made the right move. Brady has become, well, Brady. But at the time there were plenty who thought they should have stayed with the prototypical QB, not the guy who just won the Super Bowl. As Bob Halloran wrote right before that Super Bowl win, “I liken Brady to a sneeze guard at the salad bar. It’s functional, it serves a purpose, and seems like a great idea, but is it really necessary?”

The analogy isn’t perfect (Bledsoe was older than Wentz, and Foles is quite a bit older than Brady was at the time). But the Eagles did find themselves at a similar crossroads. Do you stick with the QB prototype, the guy you took with your early first round pick (Bledsoe was a #1 overall pick, Wentz #2)? Or do you ride with the castoff who had been doubted by everybody, who didn’t have the tools of the larger QB but who had won you a freaking Super Bowl? The Patriots surprised many when they stuck with Brady, who despite one good year did not seemed to be destined for greatness. By trading Bledsoe, they received a first round pick (they would pick Ty Warren, a starter on two more Super Bowl winners).

And so the Eagles were faced a similar decision: go with the stud they spent a bunch of draft capital on (Wentz) or the plucky journeyman WHO OH BY THE WAY WON THEM THEIR FIRST SUPER BOWL. The return for trading a guy like Wentz would have been huge. They got nothing in return for Foles. They did the safe thing. They did the thing that common sense told them to do. And in fact, the Philadelphia fan base for the most part went along with the decision. After all, until he got hurt in 2017, Wentz seemed well on his way to an MVP. He was also younger than Foles.

Wentz came back in 2018 and looked shaky, seemed a bit off his game, but the fan base attributed it to rust. Once he went down for the year and Foles came in again, the team seemed to come to life, and if not for an Alshon Jeffery drop, may have returned to the Super Bowl. Perhaps thankfully for the Eagles front office (can you imagine if Nick had led them to a second Super Bowl and then they let him walk?) Jeffery dropped that ball. It closed the door on the Nick Foles era. To add an exclamation point, the Eagles signed Wentz for $103 million (interestingly, just $2 million less than the Patriots showered on Bledsoe before dropping him) this past offseason. It was decided. It made sense.

And here we are, with a 5-5 team that can best be described as “mediocre”, with holes all over the place. That’s not all Wentz’s fault, of course. Until a few weeks ago the defense was awful, and the loss of DeSean Jackson has been devastating, as the team has zero speed at WR. Foles, meanwhile, went down to Jacksonville and somewhat ironically has now found himself as the incumbent with fans calling for the plucky upstart. So it goes in the NFL.

As that last Eagles drive fizzled out last night, thanks in part to some awful Wentz passes, I started to think about how much he reminded me of Bledsoe; same size, same contract, same top draft pick loaded with physical tools, same bittersweet feeling of holding a clipboard due to injury while a less physically gifted QB led the team to their first Super Bowl. The Patriots took the cheaper route, the road less travelled, and their return was a clutch guy with fewer physical tools but who found a way to win. The Eagles stuck with the big money guy. The Patriots made one of the best decisions in sports history. The verdict is still out on the Eagles decision, and it’s totally unfair and premature to judge it too harshly after 10 games. (And let’s be honest, there was no chance that Foles was ever going to turn into Tom Brady.)

But as I watch this team flounder on offense week after week, as leaks continue to come out saying that Eagles players liked Foles better, as I think about what the return for Wentz in a trade would have gotten us while still leaving a damn good QB behind center, as I think about how Foles seemed to play his best late in close games, I can’t help but wonder if they made the right choice.

The Friday Five for November 15th

So Long Sal.

Where I’m eating: Decided to try Middle Child this week. Got the So Long Sal. It’s an Italian hoagie, basically, and a few bucks more than your typical hoagie spot ($11.75 plus tax). But man oh man is it terrific! One of the best hoagies I’ve had in some time. Highly recommend.

What I’m Watching: Did you watch The Devil Next Door yet? If not, drop everything and watch it now! But set aside a few hours…once you start you’re not going to want to stop this one, and it’s a 5-part series. It’s about John Demyanyuk, a rather common diesel engine mechanic in Cleveland who oh by the way just might have been Ivan the Terrible, one of the most horrific Nazi monsters to ever live. The twists and turns start early, and by the end you’re like, “You couldn’t write fiction like this, because it would be too unbelievable.”

Where I’m Grabbing Coffee: The Italian Market is quite possibly my favorite “wander aimlessly” spot in the city. Sometimes I buy stuff in the market, sometimes I don’t, but there are few better places in the city to people watch. And both Gleaners and Anthony’s are perfect for people watching. Just great big windows to look out on the people who make the Italian Market such a magical place.

What I’m listening to: Marty Smith, who is a bigwig at ESPN these days, is sort of my Sam Wainwright. We were the two hotshots of sports journalism at Radford University in the late 90s, and he’s on ESPN every day while I’d like to remind you that beers are a buck off during quizzo. (Not complaining, my life is great and I’m really happy for Marty, who’s a solid dude, but I suspect most of us have a Sam Wainwright.)

Anyways, Marty hosts a regular podcast called Marty Smith’s America, and this past week he had an incredible guest on the show. Charles Csuri was an all-American at Ohio State who went off to WW2 right after graduating college. He earned the Bronze Star in the Battle of the Bulge. When he returned home, he went to work on computers, which were in their infancy. He became a game changer in that field, and is now known as the Father of Computer animation. The interview is terrific…he talks about playing football in the 40s, the horrors of war, and his work with computers. But what grabs you is that this guy, who has had such a remarkable life, is so incredibly humble. In an age of bombasity, it’s really refreshing that one of the few people who’s really DONE IT, JACK, is so refreshingly humble. Great interview.

Where I’m Drinking: On the rare occasions I’m upstairs at Tattooed Mom’s, I think, “How am I not here more often?” It’s basically everything you want when you wanna grab a drink in the city. Hip, urbane, but not pretentious. The walls are covered in graffiti, but not because it’s the “look”…it happened organically, and it changes constantly. They host art shows, raise money for charity, have great beers on tap. What’s not to love?

Until next week, be sure to follow me on twitter and Instagram. And be sure to check out our podcast, the Philly Blunt.

The Friday Five

Where I’m drinking: Pub and Kitchen. The lighting is perfect, the drinks are solid, and Donnie is one of my favorite bartenders in the city. Last night he turnd me on to Last Call, a terrific book that just came out and features several Philly cocktail bars. We interviewed former P&K chef Jonny Mac a couple of months ago on the Blunt, which you should check out.

What I’m reading: this excellent article about Robert E. Lee and how the school Washington and Lee is grappling with his legacy in the wake of Charlottesville. This is a really smart piece. Beautifully done. I’ve got my own opinions about Robert E. Lee, but I’ll have to save them for a longer piece. (Short story: not a fan).

Who I Became a Big Fan of This Week: A local photog named Shawn X. This dude has two Philly based instagram accounts and they’re both awesome. One is called Mediumsizedports, and is essentially headshots of various Philadelphians, most of them in black and white. It’s just beautiful. His other page, Mediumsizeddeal, is mostly cityscapes. Much more colorful than the other page, and just some really terrific shots.

Pic of the Ben Franklin taken by me last weekend behind Sugarhouse.

Where I hiked with my kid this week: Believe it or not, down by Sugarhouse…well I guess they’re calling it Rivers or whatever now. A really pretty walk by the river.

What I’m watching: I watch educational stuff with my kid each morning before school and unfortunately he’s obsessed with spiders, which I hate. This week we watched some nut job open black widow egg sacks. This shit is horrifying. You shouldn’t watch it.

New Quizzo Starts Tonight!

Excited to enter a new era of JGT Quizzo, as we kick off our inaugural quiz at Dock Street South (2112 Washington Avenue). Action starts tonight at 8 pm. Hope to see you there! This week’s schedule is below:

TUESDAY

  • Dock Street South 8 pm

WEDNESDAY

  • Locust Rendezvous 6:15 pm
  • Founding Fathers 8:30 pm

THURSDAY

  • Birra 8 pm
  • Bards 9:15 pm

New Quizzo Starts Tuesday!

We are kicking off a new quiz on Tuesday night, as I’ll be hosting quizzo at the new Dock Street South on 2112 Washington Avenue! Really excited about the venue. If you haven’t been there yet, it’s awesome. We’ll have drink specials, prizes, and Grand Opening Fun on Tuesday at 8 pm. Hope to see ya there!

The Friday Five

Not as much locally to talk about this week, as I spent a long weekend in Richmond, but still some fun stuff to talk about:

What I’m Watching: Just watched Dolemite Is My Name on Netflix, and it was a hell of a lot of fun. Highly recommend. Love movies about people who aren’t the most talented or most gifted, but simply the most determined, and if there was any one word that described Rudy Ray Moore, it was “determined”. Reminded me of another Rudy. And the acting is terrific. Eddie Murphy is at his best, and Wesley Snipes is just terrific.

What I Learned This Week: That Ballad of a Thin Man by Bob Dylan was one of the main theme songs of the Black Panthers. From an article on Red Bull Music Academy: The song’s lyrics, which describe a man who enjoys watching circus geek shows, struck a chord with (Huey P.) Newton. He saw the titular character, Mr. Jones, as an upper class white man who indulged in exploring the black ghetto on Sunday afternoons to check out the prostitutes and inhabitants of the decaying community. The fictional Mr. Jones was a voyeur of sorts, and got off on watching what Newton called a freak show...According to Newton, the circus freaks mentioned in the song, including the sword swallower and the one-eye midget, represent the disadvantaged ghetto residents who aren’t interested in serving as entertainment for Mr. Jones. They instead demand payment for a trick or some food or drink. Otherwise, they’d like Mr. Jones to shove off and go home.

What I’m Reading: Great 1985 Esquire piece on Dr J. Interesting dude, and a great article. Can’t imagine too many elite athletes today discussing the tenets of religion with a reporter.

But it wasn’t until our discussion in his office, during a laborious spiel of mine concerning the duty of the seeker to examine the varieties of religious experience, that Julius began to get pissed.

“I just can’t agree,” he said, “because even if you do manage to synthesize all these systems, what good is it going to do you? Even if you’re the smartest man on earth, even if you’re Albert Einstein, you’ll still only have a thimbleful of all the knowledge in the world. Where does that lead you? Digging and grinding on this unbelievable quest? Is there happiness in that? So it comes down to making concessions … down to knowing you’re not the wisest or the smartest, not the ultimate of anything, but knowing too that you have this powerful need to grasp something meaningful, something purposeful … you want a way, a way that makes sense for you, that you can embrace.”

The guy who wrote it, Marc Jacobson, would 15 years later do a piece on Franck Lucas that would be the inspiration for American Gangster. Also worth a read.

The lychee martini at Xiandu.

Where I’m eating and drinking: Xiandu Thai. I’ve really come to love this place over the past few months. My move is to get their for pickup before 7, have a Happy Hour cocktail while I wait for my takeout, and then come home a conquering hero with terrific Thai food. Get the lychee martini! This past time I got the the drunken noodles and the pineapple fried rice, but no matter what I get there it’s great. It’s my favorite Thai place in Philly.

Goofy Little Project I’m Working On: I started this awhile back, took a long break, and just started back on it. I’m a huge fan of the book Travels in Philadelphia by Christopher Morley (you can read the entire book online, though I’d suggest you get a physical copy if you really like it.) I decided awhile back to start an instagram page where I went back to places he wrote about in the late 1910s for the Philadelphia Evening Ledger and take pictures of them 100 years later. Kind of fun to see what’s changed and what’s the same after this much time.

Question of the Week

In what city was Edgar Allan Poe born?

Final Quiz at O’Neals Tonight

After 16 years, we’re going out with a bang at O’Neals. Barring any popular demand to bring it back, we all think it’s been a great run but time to move on. $3.50 Mexican beers, lots of giveaways, and to celebrate 40 years in business, $4 40s. And it’s the start of Halloween Spooktacular week. Make it happen tonight!

The Friday Five: What to Eat, Drink, and Listen to in Philly

Carving a pumpkin at Craft Hall.

What I’m listening to: Ok so let’s get the nepotism out of the way; the artist known as Reef the Lost Cauze is one of my best friends in Philly. He’s the kind of guy that everyone who knows him considers one of their best friends. He’s just got that kind of energy where to know the guy is to love him. But before I knew him as a friend, I knew his music, and I truly thought him to be right up there with Black Thought among Philly MCs. He still occupies that rare air, and his latest album was his masterpiece. The Majestic is an album of heartbreak, anguish, but most of all, love. Check out this song about his second born son that he performed on XPN. He also just released a new video this week, and it’s another tour de force about family. It’s a song about his grandparents, and it pulls you in right off the bat with the blues guitar riff and the first few lines:

Well the old man is dead, his wife is in a home
And just like that my childhood is gone
Forever never seems that long until you're grown
Never thought you'd pass away I assumed you were made of stone

It’s a beautiful paean to two of the most important people in his life, and will have you thinking about your grandparents as well. It’ll also have you interested in his album. You should listen to it, then buy it. Support local artists, but even moreso, support a classic album.

What else you should be listening to: You should be listening to the latest edition of the Philly Blunt, this one with legendary Philly mob writer George Anastasia. If you’ve ever wanted to learn about the Philly Mob, this is an excellent opportunity. He tells all and holds back nothing, talking about Skinny Joey, Frank Bruno, and why the mob isn’t as powerful as it was 40 years ago. If you enjoy the interview, do us a solid and leave us a 5-star rating on itunes. And remember: “vice is commerce”.

Where I’m eating: The Nan Zhou Hand Drawn Noodle House in Chinatown is a damn gem. Had the chicken stir fry this time and it was out of this world. Had soup the last time I was there and it was great as well. Can’t recommend this spot enough.

Where I’m getting coffee/tea: Stumbled across Bloomsday this past week while walking through Headhouse Square, and wow! What a space! It’s a wine bar as well, but I was there in the afternoon and I haven’t quite reached the point of drinking wine at 2 pm on a random Wednesday. So I got a Macha Latte (because I’m a fancy boy) and enjoyed the hell out of the scenery. Really cool space. Can’t wait to go back for wine.

Maccha Latte at Bloomsday.

Where I’m Getting a Beer: Holy shit, have you guys been to the Craft Hall yet? You probably have, because judging by the crowd there on a rainy Sunday I was the only one who didn’t know about it. It. Is. Awesome. Packed on a Sunday afternoon, and extremely kid friendly, it has a playground and on Sunday had pumpkin carving. Could have killed a whole day there if I didn’t have a damn family. Just kidding! My wife and kid loved it too, and we had to pull ourselves away. It’s in the old Yards Brewery space right next to Sugarhouse.

Houston vs DC Quiz

We’re honoring the two teams in this year’s Fall Classic by having a Washington vs Houston quiz. Hope to see you this week!

NOTE: No quiz on Wednesday at Founding Fathers due to Sixers opener. We’ll be back there next week. All other quizzes on as planned.

The Friday Five

What I’m watching: In preparation for our interview with George Anastasia for the Philly Blunt this week, I watched this National Geographic special on the Philly Mob (which features Anastasia quite a bit). It’s a fun watch, and gives you a good background on the past 50 years of the Philly mob. Interview drops on Monday and it’s a good one.

What I’m reading: Jemele Hill wrote a great piece in the Atlantic about LeBron James and the Hong Kong situation. I’m both massively disappointed in LeBron and massively disappointed in myself for believing that a business like the NBA really ever cared about anything other than money.

Oh, and my Pete Dexter book just arrived yesterday. Psyched!

Whose artwork I’m appreciating: Jenna, better known as @ifacepaint215. We took Avery to his friend Gabe’s birthday party last weekend. While the other kids were asking the facepainter to look like tigers and dragons, Avery said, “Make me look like a haunted house with a graveyard outside and also could we have a witch on a broom and a few ghosts escaping from the haunted house and a phantom walking in the graveyard?” Now this request came after she’d been facepainting all afternoon. But instead of doing what I would have done, which is packing everything up and quitting facepainting for good, she not only did everything he asked for but did an awesome job of it. If you need a facepainter, she’s your woman.

Where I’m grabbing a drink: Finally made it to Friday Saturday Sunday last weekend. Beautiful room, terrific drinks. How terrific? My wife got the Eggplant spritz. I hate eggplant and the damn drink was still delicious.

I got the Assassin’s Handbook, since it didn’t sound like anything I’ve ever had (what in the hell is cognac, really?). It was spicy (habanero!) and strong and tasted great on a cool Fall night. The space is beautiful, made me a feel a bit like I was in the bar in the Shining (that’s a compliment!). It’s a really fun place to grab a drink, and I’ve heard the food is great too.

Where I’m eating: Few places in the city where I love to eat more than Blue Corn in the Italian Market. Right next door to one of my favorite Italian places, Villa di Roma. Two first class restaurants, with no frills and no bells and whistles, just absolutely great food and drink. It’s a reminder of what a huge positive immigration has been for Philadelphia, and the importance of family in the two cultures that currently dominate the Italian Market: 15 family members work at Blue Corn, while Pip Deluca and his 5 siblings work at Villa Di Roma. You get that family feel when you walk into both. Really might be my favorite side by side restaurant combo in the city.

Got the Blue Tacos this week, and they were terrific. Can’t recommend this place enough. For what it’s worth neither can Craig Laban.

Until next week, if you enjoyed it, click like below. Be sure to follow me on Instagram, twitter, and facebook. And while you’re at it, follow the Philly Blunt on IG as well. We’re doing some incredible interviews on the show.

Happy 18th Birthday To My Damn Cat

Malia joins us for dinner.

“Shut the f*ck up,” are the first words out of my mouth most mornings. I know that makes me sound crude and uncivilized, but when an animal the size of a breadbox is screaming in your face at 6:15 am, a time when you’d saw off your right arm with child-proof scissors for another hour of sleep, I don’t think it’s unreasonable. Sometimes I’ll grab her and toss her off my bed, which is basically a couch from a nice neighborhood.* Other times I’ll just succumb to my inevitable fate.

“MEOW!” she’ll scream from the floor.

“Shut…” this time placing the emphasis on the blue word in the sentence, “the….F*CK…up.” It has no effect.

“Meow!” Having been tossed from the trundle bed, she exacts her revenge in the hallway, knowing that my wife can now hear the meows from the other room, and if SHE has to get up an hour early on a work morning to feed the damn cat, I’LL be the bad guy.

“Meow!” A decibel higher. So I lay, one eye open, a battle raging in my mind over which is worse, losing an hour of beloved sleep or having my wife mad at me because she had to get up early. My decision is obvious, and I begin the slow slog down the stairs.

In October of 2001, my girlfriend Colby, my buddy from Hawaii Duff, and I had decided on somewhat of a lark to move to Philadelphia with essentially no money in the bank, and after a couple of weeks grew tired of sitting on camping chairs.

I lived on 6th Street, just south of South Street, in the old Levi’s Hot Dog building. It wasn’t far from where much fancier people put decent furniture out on the sidewalks on Mondays. One day, when walking home from another disastrous lunch shift at Sfizzio’s (where Zahav is now…that’s a whole other story), I came across a small sectional on the curb, and as I had a friend from work with me, decided to take it to the apartment. Initially, the small sofa was the height of luxury for guys who had spend the first two weeks in Philly in camping chairs. But it held a dark secret: it was inhabited by mice, and within a few days they had begun to attack the kitchen. It was time for a cat.

Colby and I went to the Morris Animal Refuge just before Halloween with the intent of taking home a kitten, but we saw two who were brother and sister and didn’t have the heart to tear them apart from each other. So we took home two kittens, who we named Popiko (cat in Hawaiian, we shortened it to Popo) and Malia (after a mischievous dolphin that I loved when I worked at Dolphin Quest in Hawaii) in the hopes that they would alleviate the mouse problem.

Duff enjoyed taking ridiculous pics of the cats playing basketball.

Popo was the early star, active and excitable the way a kitten should be, never catching mice but letting his presence be known. Malia, on the other hand, spent most her time chasing her own tail and staring at candles. So it came as a shock when one night Malia hopped up on our “coffee table” (technically a piece of wood placed on top of milk crates) with a mouse in her mouth. She was hailed as a conquering heroine, and the pride she found that night has carried her through to this day.

Colby and I broke up a year later, and for some godforsaken reason I demanded to keep the damn cats when I moved in with a work friend at 19th and Bainbridge in early 2003. One night that spring, a door in the back was left open, and Malia disappeared. Frantically, I made up posters and hung them on telephone poles. I then walked into the back alley calling her name.

“Malia! Malia!” Finally I heard a meow, loud but coming from a distance. I looked over walls, behind alleyway detritus, until finally I decided to look up. Stunned, I saw her perched atop the second story roof of a nearby house. How she got up there will always be one of life’s great mysteries. In the meantime, I had to figure out how to get her down. I went home, grabbed a ladder, and tied a shoestring to it. I climbed the ladder to the top of a back porch, then MacGuyver-style lifted the ladder up by the string. I climbed it again, and leaning tenuously (as one does atop a ladder on a flimsy deck porch) I reached for her. I was hoping to expedite the process, knowing that at any second a neighbor could be dialing the police in reference to a man on a ladder on top of a nearby porch deck. Playfully she avoided my reach and went to rub up against a nearby chimney.

“You little bitch,” I muttered under my breath to no-one in particular. “Malia, come here.” She meowed, rubbed up against the chimney one more time, then pranced over my way. I grabbed her, dropped the ladder down one floor by the shoestring, and together we descended.

Malia and Popo.

The past 18 years have gone whirring by, and she’s been there for just about all of it: multiple roommates, girlfriends, and other pets moving in and out. She has taken it all in stride. Like most cats if there’s food in the bowl come morning and again in the afternoon, the rest takes care of itself. After six years apart, Colby returned to Philly and we got back together, then got married. Malia could have cared less, though it did give her one more human to draw heat from when the weather turned cold. Once we had a kid, there were two.

Let’s not get overly romantic here: once you have a dog, a wife, and a kid, the cat takes a backseat, and becomes more of a chore than a close companion. But she went missing again in October of 2015, and I found myself once again desperately searching the back alleys of the neighborhood for her, posting flyers on telephone poles again, looking under nearby parked cars. Don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone, I suppose. After a couple of weeks of fruitless searching, my buddy Vaughn came by to help me hit up a few alleys. After an hour or so, we called it quits.

“You put up signs, you’ve spent days searching through alleys for her, you’ve done everything you can do,” he said. “Now it’s for the universe to decide.”

I would continue to walk to the wall in our back yard, call out her name, and shake the cat food, but once we past the month milestone it seemed to be little more than a pitiful habit. Until, one night, I saw something move down the alley.

“Malia!” I cried. She ignored my call and kept scurrying towards the gate at the end of the alley that emptied onto Pemberton, slid through the grates, and ran across the street.

The next night, I walked back there again. I was about 75% sure I had seen Malia the night before, but couldn’t be certain. I peered into the alley again. There she was. “Malia! It’s me! Come here!” She looked up, saw me, and sauntered back the other way.

“You little bitch,” I muttered under my breath to no-one in particular. At this point I was just annoyed. “Well she’s had her chance to come back. She knows where we are.” I stomped back into the house.

It was late October, and the next night the temperature dropped drastically. Sure enough, Malia came prancing back into the yard. The queen, after a month abroad, was ready to be pampered, fed, cleaned up after, and most importantly kept warm by her people.

Her brother died a few months ago, at age 17. He was, for about the past decade leading up to his death, an old man: feeble, sickly, and cranky. He existed to eat and ate to exist and the rest of it was bollocks. Malia is quite different. She has always enjoyed it when company comes over. She loves being rubbed on the head and adored and worshipped like the goddess she undoubtedly is in her own mind. A few months ago she decided she was sick of cat food, and simply stopped eating. She was essentially on a hunger strike, and willing to die for the cause. And so we started buying tuna fish, which she enjoyed for the next month, until she decided she was ready for cat food again.

Is there a moral here? Have I learned anything over the past 18 years, other than “Maybe shoulda gotten a dog”? I don’t know. Does there need to be? Isn’t that kind of the point of cats, that there is no point, they just confound you by hopping in front of the coffee pot, fridge, or sink, wherever it is that you’re trying to get to? That their existence is driven not by love or affection but by food and body heat, and that we spend thousands and thousands of dollars over the years to give them both? There’s probably some sort of moral about unconditional love buried in here somewhere, but my sleep deprivation has left me incapable of articulating it. I’ll just leave it to the universe to decide.

*My wife and kid sleep in the “good” bed, as he has taken over my role as “preferred cuddler” in this house, and the cat and I sleep on what I only found out three weeks ago was called a trundle bed.