When you live in a cigarette filter like Los Angeles, you need a place to curl up like a cat. Our den is straining at the studs, with more square feet than you usually get for under a thousand dollars we are still inching around each other what with all the books and my lady's piano and our other instruments, two of us, a baby on the way, and of course the pussycat who fancies himself an ocelot.
My Sunday's business consisted of an unsuccessful mission to Home Despot, looking for a certain kind of doodad that would not require me to drill a hole in the whoozis that needs a doodad, but the doodads were not designed that way so the whoozis must go without a doodad until I get a varoom and violate the whoozis sufficient for the doodad.
Seeking to console myself with a nice cappo, I took myself to the villagey part of Los Feliz and what do you know, but The Alcove was crammed, Mustard Seed across the street had nowhere to sit, and Psychobabble was populated by the Laptop Undead staring sullenly into the menacing blue glow of their notebook-sized screens with wires running from their ears.
Stopped at the bookstore to smell the bindings and calm down somewhat, but the panic was aching in my chest as I swam in the sirens and breathed in the rainy air, like drinking dishwater while running at full speed - unpleasant. And then to come up our hill and catch sight of the rentstead, to catch the distance of our tiny den behind a garden wall like the belfry of a run-down palace, a place where cats may curl up. The window you see on top is where we are.
You are always welcome here once you find your way in. Those who know the way can always find food here, hear a song, and vent whatever awful idea has occurred to them today.
It is our den of fenility. We are all mad as housecats here.