The Shitty, Smelly, Sweltering Bus Ride Back from Toronto to Windsor from Hell

I said earlier (last postage, whenever that was) that I would explain in detail mine and Katie's harrowing trip back to Windsore from TO on the bus ride from hell. But since it's really fucking hot, I haven't slept in two days and I'm starving - I will sum it up, or down, whathaveyou into as few of sentences as possible. Here we go: Hustling from the ticket wicket window to a bus that's about to leave we enter our stinky, sweltering, semi-filled box of chairs for the next five hours. A virtual who's who of T.O. exiting patrons. Everyone was there: Ms. bedazzled and jewelled going to Detroit older East Indian sandal-wearing lady to our left, super talkative and cackling smokey-voiced dirt ball couple going nowhere, unfortunately seated directly behind us. Up front we had twenty-somethings Ms. Black T.O going to London and Mr. Mulatto going to Windsor from Scarborough. They were all present and accounted for. But most important to the shitty-ness factor of this story, there was the damn immigrant family of 8 with the crying baby from hell. Now, the kid's whiny whimpering (which if the family had health insurance could probably be qualified as colic) was annoying and loud as fuck, and I know the parents could have done a better (any) job of comforting the little brat, but, besides being preoccupied with the rest of the brood, the Indian family of 8 were sitting directly beside the greyhounds' toilet. And this wasn't any ordinary Greyhound bus lavatory, which I'm sure even at its best isn't the cleanest or nicest of situations. This particular john, on this particular day, on this particular trip- released a hellish, sweet but revolting stench that made your stomach turn, eyes water and your nose upturn in disgust and retreat. I found that the only way to cope with these multiple disturbances (the heat, the stink and the creeps) was to immerse myself in (and occasionally bury my face in my collar) the book about cults, suicides and society that Phil lent me - which I did.

Trip to TO. Day 2 of a 3 Day Story. Skip ahead then come back and read this one... It will make more sense. Maybe.

I'm up. But barely. If you call eyes opening to somewhere - up, then yeah. My head is killing and my limbs ache. Am I still dreaming or do my eyes and fingernails hurt too? Can you feel pain in a state of REM sleep? Possibly. I'm in a blue room in a comfy bed but I feel like shit. I think I'm still in Toronto, but I'm not really sure. Katie is sprawled out next to me not looking any better. And she's sleeping. Information starts creeping back into my rocked brain and I wonder if the 47 beers and 18 shots I consumed yesterday had anything to do with my present shittiness. Shitty-ness? Shiteenis? Shit. That's how I feel and that's what someone says from somewhere outside our door when they realize we have to get up and leave soon if we're going to make it to the Jays game we plan on attending. It's 11 am and the game starts at 1. If I were laying dead in a strange bed with a face-full of sun anywhere else we'd have plenty of time. But this is anywhere but anywhere else. It's TO. Somehow we all get up, shower and leave. Not sure how, but we all exit together. Before heading to the game we bolt haphazardly and without fear (as if we'd just woken up and left the house immediately after a night of drinking) across the street to the twenty four hour Portuguese bakery. The Portuguese Bakery of all Portuguese Bakeries. And located within three minutes of our friendly innkeepers home. How Toronto you must be saying. Within two minutes of walking in any direction in Toronto you will see either a) something cool, b) something weird, c)something big, d) something gross, or e) something undefined. The Bakery was cool. And a bit exaggerated (which I think falls into the something 'big' subcategory). They had breads that looked like cakes, pastries that probably tasted like sandwiches, counters upon counters of croissants and danishes galore, yeast and cookies and donuts and pies and bread overflowing and falling onto the floor. A lot of foods I've never seen nor ever knew existed in my wildest dreams. So I bought a coffee. "Two sugars and two creams please," I say because for some reason nobody in Toronto knows what a double double means. "You want four-fresh-blueberry-swirl-topped-pound-cake-stuffed-hand-made-cheese-ball-muffin-cod-loaf-straight-from-Lisbon-extra-flaky-butter-smothered-croissants?" (had to throw a 'fish' reference in there). No. With a coffee finally in hand and a weird hankering for something warm from the oven, we're gone. We rush to Jeff's apartment driving Jeff's truck, pull up to Jeff's and a million other people's building, meet prompt as usual Mr. V-Neck and walk quickly up the stupid hill to get to the Rogers Centre. A few minutes in line and the seats are seized. We take a nice little detour around the entire building, because Jeff said I needed the exercise. He was right, but we didn't have time to dilly. Or dally. Our seats are directly behind home plate, but about a third the way up the CN Tower. I'm obviously exaggerating but we were high up in the air like a flock of Blue Jays trying desperately to escape a stranded, giant concrete spaceship. How convenient of an allegory at the time. And it was hot as hell. And I was still recovering from the self-inflicted and ingested brew-fest from the night before. And I had a hot plate mess of greasy ten dollar fries and a slimy six dollar dog waiting patiently but deadly for my soon to be churning stomach on my lap. And I was as close to the sun as I'd been in a while. And I didn't care. Play Ball! In our mad dash up the never ending concourse to our premiere seats in the sky we had missed a homer by some Cleveland nobody - but we would soon find out there were some more jacks to come. In the form of home runs. Three more to be exact. All by the Jays. All to left field. One off the foul pole. (though it's fair if it hits it so...?) But the Jays pulled one too few long balls as it turned out. By the eighth inning, we had walked down to the lower level in search of closer seats, less heat and stray foul balls we could dive head first for, and over ten seats and the roar of the crowd make an amazing jumbo-tron worthy snag in mid-air - barehanded. With a beer in one hand. And money for another in the other. And if I catch it, a ball as well. It is summer time after all. Baseball and beer go hand in hand as they say. And sun. And jumping out on the field in a football formation with the sole intent of making it to across the field. From first to third as we so perfectly concocted during last night's drunk breakfast. Now for that to be done would have taken more than just a good jump out of the box and some above average speed. We would have to avoid the players, and the umpires and the cops and the tazers. I'll follow you Phil. Promise. The game had some pace to it and the score stayed close til the Majors home run leader JoBau, pronounced Ho-Bow (as Jeffrey and I so hilariously dubbed him) came up in the bottom of the ninth with two out, one on and down by one. Pressure time. Even for Baustista the Destroyer. Even for Jose Can You See The Ball Flying Over The Fence Bautista. Even for Boom-boom-Bau. Even for a good player. I wonder if he's Portuguese? Bautista that is. Has a pure Portuguese guy who purely calls Portugal his pure home ever played in the bigs? I mean straight pure. Maybe for the Marlins? The Dolphins if he were bigger and stronger and faster. Would not the Blue Jay be the natural enemy of the Portuguese baseball player? Not if he has thirty two home runs at the end of July. But here's the situation that separates the big from the time. With the weight of a semi-decent Sunday afternoon crowd cheering down on him, the full count pitch approaches our latest local mostly unknown hero. With a swing so hard my back hurt - Ho-Bow whiffs. The legend ends. Game over. The Sky Dome weeps. Just kidding. It was a fun game and even Cleveland gets to win sometimes. What's next we say as we pour out of the stadium with the rest of the let downs. Me not so much, and my Tiger hat I was sporting at the time and always, would back me up.The natural swing of the exiting masses brought us down towards the water. Past the black guy on drums with the head set and the bucket, the same poor percussionist who's been singing and pointing and doing his little drum act in the same spot since at least 1992. "Thanks you very much!" Thank you, thank you and thank you!" Past him. Past the packed brewery and the weird tiny but to scale childrens train, pulling children, conducted by a middle aged man in a childrens train engine, around a miniature track, puffing real, thick smoke from its stack all over everything. Past that. Past the underpass. Or is it under? Past the Craziness of the Caribbean Fest, past some boats, some cool buildings, and a restaurant with a patio on an enclosed little lake designed for casual family canoeing. Past all that. And also past the outdoor, fake ice designed for real skates plastic pad area that it's users were walking on. With real skates. Outside in the sun. Past all that too. And past the free give-away but tips invited power drink and water stands, past a corner in front of a dock and stop. Turn towards the large, packed patio with the extra-sized Gallagher like umbrellas and chill. Now this is summer livin'. Pass the beer, the high-flyin' insults and the good vibrations. Our way that is. Ears are ringing in the west but we don't care. We kind of like it. This is why you go to Toronto. To not be in Windsor. It's an act of cathartic cleansing that everyone needs, craves and deserves once in a while. Just ask Hank - he'll tell ya. Four or five pitchers of beer, some juicy booze and a plate of Toront-ized nachos and we're ready to go. Coffees. We need coffees. Now bro. And naturally, some more booze for it's only the latter part of a perfect TO afternoon and there is plenty of prime boozin' light left for us to absorb. To the liquor store! Dammit. Since today is Sunday that means that the booze depository (Or LC as Lahey calls it) is operating on more restricted hours. Phil, call your more of an alcoholic friend than us (and see if he (or she, for this is 2010 after all) can direct us to some black market rum runnin' China town back alley after hours bodega. No dice. I tend to think this same informant is the same person we called the night prior for the after-party directions, if so his insider information is lacking at the moment. It's understandable. A long weekend, in the dead of summer, smack dab in the middle of a crazy Caribbean fest in one of if not Canada's most exciting, fun and busy cities. Plus he (or she) was probably drunk themselves, but that's okay b/c we had more reserves than first panicked. Moving on. The day and night ended without incident, aside from the amazing peanut butter cookie ice cream chocolate dessert contraption Mich laid on us and we crashed early. The whole weekend was a complete success and I want to go back. But this time, maybe not on the bus, for the ride back (as prefaced earlier) was a nightmare and I need an entire separate blog type blog like thing to describe that fucking ordeal. Another time. Sleep tight TO but don't get too comfortable b/c I'm coming back. I don't know when, how or where I'm going to get the money to support it - but I'm coming back.

Trip to TO. Day 1 of a 2 day Story...

Quick update on the cat situation before I get into my condensed but effective & fun Toronto trip. Rock-see is slowly but surely emerging from the corners and shadows, out from under and off on top of fridges, couches and cupboards - but slowly. Katie says she will eventually snap out of her "scared, freaked out and alone" stage - though it may take years. So, that's that. Aside from the cat fiasco and recent Cat-raiser (Katie's roaring success of a benefit for felines),last weekend Katie and I made the trip up to TO to visit some friends. More specifically - Phil & Michelle and Jeffrey. PhiJeffelle. We decided to greyhound her. The trip that is. Though it's a longer and less comfortable ride - it is much cheaper. More than half per person in cost compared to the train (with a registered Student Card, which I don't have, but they are pretty lax in their look over of one's student credentials) Another bone-ass (that's bonus spelled stupidly) about bussin' it (that is cool-speak for taking the bus) is that I don't have to worry about being stranded on the side of the 401 a la the less-reliable, though much appreciated over the years Honda - who has made the 3 and half hour north east trek many a times before. Thank you. The ride up was uneventful, which is what you're looking for when you're stuffed in a packed bus with fifty tired strangers heading to a large metropolis. Some five odd hours, two games of 'Wheel o' Hangman' and one twenty minute break at beautiful London terminal and a smaller one at the large mall outside To - we arrived there. Downtown TO that is. Jeffrey met us around 2 pm Saturday, outside the station, with a bag of sandwiches and bananas. What a guy. I think there may even have been wet naps in there too, but I'm not a hundred percent sure. Only would Jeff arrive with fresh egg, ham and cheese lettuce wraps topped with a homemade guacamole sauce, on the street in a low cut v-neck. And designer shades. And a perfect tan. Actually, maybe in TO this happens more often than not. And the more you walk around this city, the more oftens you find rather than nots. Casual greetings followed idle small talk about Jeff's new dwellings followed by a few city blocks passed, and the sandwich is fantastic by the way - besides the one time we had to wait to chew it until the demented and babbling middle aged female Native bum - was out of sight. And sound. And most importantly smell. Gotta love the dot. Anyhow. It's a beautiful, warm but breezy Saturday afternoon in one of if not Canada's busiest, liveliest and most exciting city's, so what do we do? Go to Jeff's apartment and use the washroom. It was, after all a long trip and god forbid I use the john on the bus (as I will mos def find out later) - so I have to go. Along the way we do some natural people staring, grab a coffee at a neat but one of many cafe, walk through a small but loud and defiant crowd of animal activists - one of which had an attitude, a mic and a coarse ultra-antagonizing female voice. Now, Jeff's place is located high among the action. Close to the water, the downtown and the CN Tower. His apartment (which looks like fifty other in the area and beyond) faces the Sky Dome, on Blue Jay way, nonetheless. An everyday 'so close yet so far away' scenario. That is if you want to watch the game from his tiny balcony. Because you can't. With his apartment being on the wrong side of the Rogers Centre for a clear shot, I naturally watched the Jay's battle the O's on Jeff's twenty seven inch TV as the real game went on a block away in a massive stadium I could almost peer into from the couch. So Toronto. The apartment was very sleek, white and sterile looking. Even for housing three of Leamington's finest Gino's - and one space consuming DJ booth table contraption. A quick deuce and short rest later, we were off to Philchelle's. That is a mix of Phillip and Michelle. After a thousand people, a hundred shops, and the twenty minute trip that would have taken two in Windsor - we were there. At Michilip's. That is Michelle and Phillip mixed together. I'm not saying anything psychological about their individuality as individuals - it's just funner to combine the names of couples (they're usually famous, but in Toronto, everybody's somebody famous) together to make one funnier word. Just ask Perez Hilton. He'll tell ya. Or blog ya. Anyways, back to the fascinating story about my trip to a place four hours away that I've been to many times. O ya, prior to arriving at Phichellip's, we stopped briefly at the Beer Store where I signed my receipt for some cash back with an X and a dot. The twenty-something new aged Toronto-ized Asian said that my signature was obscure but interesting. I agreed. So Toronto. Flash forward. Past the customary hellos, how are ya's and bud hugs - and we're in MiPhlipchellip's... awe... stretching...back yard. Drinking the beers I bought off of the quirky cool Asian Beer Store employee. He's probably even famous. What's next? Hmmm, small chat, dumb jokes, bull shit and queries. Good times in Michips' corner lot, above average and ginormous for TO back yard paradise. And I mean paradise in the nicest of terms. Besides the garden, lattice, crack dealers and urban quaintness, there is a shed in the back yard that might have been the first, smallest and most oddly decorated shed ever in TO. A heritage item at the end of your own grape covered car-port. Only in the City. The best thing about staying at Phil and Michelle's (I give up) pad, besides the pleasant accommodations & hospitality's, killer food, cold beer and better times - is that they live literally four minutes that way downhill from Lips' house. That's right, your second favourite (or first favourite, it's a personal choice) character in your all-time favourite culty-inspired Canadian rockumentary on an aging but determined Toronto metal band who never got their chance, but never gave up - filmed by a British Journalist turned director with a Yugoslavian name. Who just so happens to know how to play every Anvil song on the drums. Because he was Anvil's roadie for three years. Before he had a falling out with them in 1986. And after he was educated at Westminster School before reading modern history at King's College London. Just another one of life's natural progressions of change. Rhodes Scholar to Sleazy Roadie. So, off we were, to Steve Kudlow's house, (sorry, I mean Lips) a tad buzzed, but with good intentions. (I think). Standing out front of his house from the movie (and real life as it is) we called out to our momentary but local cinematic hero. He didn't answer our meek invitations to join the 'free beer and food' party down the street, and we knew he was avoiding us b/c we saw his Sebring parked out front his house. Though the little Lips Figurine must have fallen off the mirror (maybe his wife was upset that Steve wasn't being open about his family), b/c the cartoon lips were stuffed inside the panel under the stereo. The same stereo that was most definitely housing the latest rough tapes from the highly anticipated soon to be released, "Juggernaut of Justice." Another Anvil gem, I'm certain. And on CD I'm sure. If Lips still sports a fanny pack and large metal bracelets, he also still then listens to CD's. So Toronto bro. In the way that you can be so close to everything but so lost among the footsteps. Huh? That can make sense as can anything if you really want it to. That most ambiguous phrase could probably relate to bowling and doing your taxes or reciting a play. If you fashioned it to do so in your mind. And at least one other person's. It's like a hole in one. Does it still count as a hole in one if nobody is there to see it? So, the night continued, as did the flowing of pints, the harmless jabbing and the summer living in the city. In between all this hard hanging we had an intense 'winner take all' best out of seven Foosball death match. Katie decided to sit out b/c she believed that her time spent on the All-Canada Women's All-Star Foosball squad was an unfair advantage. She was the captain of the team after all and it's most decorated player of all-time. Her nick name is Foosball for god's sake. It was only fair. Out of Katie's consideration for fair play formed the teams: The Wilson's vs. the Whops. Kingsville vs. Not from Kingsville. Mungy-cakes vs. the Guidos. Unnecessary but funny ethnophaulisms vs. funny but unnecessary ethnophaulisms. Good vs. Evil. Anyways, for a number of reasons, evil won. Or did they lose? It wasn't out of a lack of will, determination or skill for the teams were fairly, evenly matched but maybe our overconfidence at times got in the way of what seemed like sure victory. Taking nothing away from the Italian Stallions, but maybe it was the beer. It was either too much or too little, but whatever it was - we lost. And it still stings. Michelle said that it was most competitive game they have had thus far on the Foosball table in the basement. And I have to agree. I think Jeff and Phil would also. From the sidelines, Katie was scoffing at our inferior play. The night continued. We decided to then go out and check out an indie band's Toronto cd release party. Phil looked them up on the Internet and we were gone. The bar was packed, the bands were eclectically talented with female pianists, and you could tell within five seconds that Katie and I were not from Toronto. Which is fine, because we aren't, but I thought for sure that at least one other person would be wearing a sleeveless shirt, shorts or ball cap - besides me. Not one of the three existed, let alone any known combination of the three. So Churana. I know that this was a 'scene' I was walking into, but c'mon man - not one god dang Blue Jay hat. Or a pair of ripped up Dickie's? A 'The Misfits' wife beater? Nope. None. Zero. Tight jeans, tighter t's and tight TO do's. Messy-chic-look-at-me-careless. After more deliberating and sidewalk surveying I also decided that I may have been the fattest guy in Toronto. I probably wasn't but dang - this is a skinny city. From what I gathered from my whole eight hours of being in Toronto, that is. Phil actually pointed out to us a Top 10 Finalist in "Toronto's Skinniest Male in Toronto Contest." Though he probably didn't even qualify for the bi-annual competition - meaning that there are probably even skinnier people than the stick in tapered jeans we saw. But imagine, a top qualifier in a made up contest walking right across the street, right in front of us as we wait at a light. Only in the Dot. After much more beer, some shots, talks, laughs, seeing the lead singer from Cocked Guns, trips outside and back in the bar, and some cool-ass indie rock - we were gone. To another bar, two doors down. This bar was different than the other. Almost in every way. From the decor to the patrons. To the lack of space to the lack of light. It didn't have a stage, but it did have a very small room in the back to dance in. And it didn't have a band, but it did have a juke box that didn't work. It didn't have a stage or dance floor but there was a DJ crammed into the corner of a back room converted into the smallest dance club on earth. There was also no pool table or table whatsoever, but there was a vintage couch and other mish mash of second-hand, weird but perceived as rad decorations. After clearing the world's smallest dance floor with some new and innovative dance moves and a deep but shallow conversation outside the washroom where I learned that an ellipses is actually a punctuation - we were gone again. Another newly discovered fact: Not only are people in Toronto very stylish and physically fit but they are also very smart. So, we thought, what's next to do in the city that has so much to do. People watch? Check. Eat while walking? Check. Feel weird watching a guy standing still on a bucket pretending to be a statue? Check. See said weird human guy sculpture thing move slightly and feel weirder? Check. Admire the hustle and bustle from a top a cool downtown balcony? Check. Drive through the madness that is Toronto traffic? Check. Drink Beer? Check. Stalk a national legend who lives down the street that nobody knows? Check. Drink Beer? Check. Watch half a documentary about Jack Black's quirkiness, The Edge's obsession with effects and Jimmy Page's kissy lips guitar face? Check. Eat the best battered peanuts ever bought just outside of Toronto? Check. Try and find the after-party? Phil checked. Hit up a twenty four hour breakfast joint packed with drunk, hip Toronto twenty somethings? Check. So Cool. So Toronto. So where you want to be at this exact time of night. After taking down Toronto's version of a 3 am breakfast, we were off. How does one top off an afternoon and night such as this? Of course. Cash-cab. Unfortunately we didn't hail the semi-popular, mostly unknown, Toronto-based game show. That is held in a cab. With unknown but always enthused fares. I mean contestants. But that didn't stop me from flicking the interior lights on and off and yelling 'Cash Cab' while demanding the driver to ask me random questions for money. Sort of like reverse-drink-inspired-nonsensical-cash-cab-for-losers. After ten odd minutes of this we were home. And passed out. Day 1 in Toronto was a success. But what will Day Two bring? Stay tuned to find out...

QUiDbiT

Yes. A quick report to report on. Quickly. The cat has only since yesterday (the 30th?) emerged from solitary confinement by her own devise. Only slightly, unsure and still a bit afraid - but she has given my apartment and me a chance. Only slightly. She is still very timid, and you must be very careful not to startle her, but last night she nonchalantly strolled into the living room, plopped down on the floor and began cleaning herself. Rolling, licking, having a good time. Until Katie stood up. Bolt. Gone like Usain into the cover of the darkness of the other room.

POST # ONE HUNDRED AND SOMETHING

Day Three of Rocksee the cat vs. her new environment vs herself vs. me vs. the purpose of life's very existence itself. Very little progress to report. Other than a few nibbles of tuna here and a late night stealth mission upstairs to the litter box here (and I only know that b/c of the little puddle and foot steps in the sand) - Rocksee is still keeping mostly to herself. (If you call never coming out into the open whatsoever 'mostly,' then yes, mostly). However, she has discovered yet another out of sight but not out of house (and definitely not out of mind) fortress of solitude. Perched high atop the nightmare that is here now, tucked away snug between the ten inches of the bottom of the shelving and the top of the fridge - Rocksee sits and waits (for what, only no one knows). I came home today and at the advice of Katie, (who had come to my apartment earlier in the day to visit the cat) grabbed a chair, put it in front of the fridge, stood on it and pet the cat. I also tried to feed her tuna, dry food, treats and some water. I think I was giving it too much attention, b/c after a few minutes Rocksee bolted from her nest, jumped off the counter and ran straight under old faithful. Mr. Couch. There she remains as of now...check in again later some time soon in the future.

There is a cat somewhere in my apartment

...Time...passing...So, Rocksee the Cat is still in hiding/freak-out/shaking/doesn't know what's going on mode - big time. Places she has hidden in fear since arriving yesterday afternoon: under the couch (the most obvious and convenient choice), squeezed head-first in between the fridge and the wall (a most uncomfortable and awkward looking choice), blended into the shadows beneath a table up against the wall (a wide-open but legitimate choice), tucked up against the wall between the bed and the wall (another 'in between' choice), wedged behind the bathroom door (a slightly dangerous and vulnerable choice) and lastly - behind the toilet (does this choice need to be defined further?). No, it doesn't. She has since come full circle hiding crazy, up-stairs, downstairs - going into hiding back under the couch. Slinking low like a terrified snake cat let loose in a house of unknown, unseen but ever present terror. A box. The snake cats' worst enemy. With a mouth gaped open looking for air or a way out, the reptilian feline searches for a new and even more impossible to get at nook or cranny. Wanting desperately to flee this place and return home - but frozen with too much fear to try any sort of half-baked escape. The snake cat must learn to adapt to this new home. Like the animal that it is. That I know it can be. I have learned however, that Rocksee loves back-to-bum rubs and soon she'll [Rocksee] realize where she has been swept up and brought to in a flash and without warning. Cat Paradise. That's right. Multiple access to crazy outside world viewing via the many windows facing different directions. Mountains and caverns to explore and conquer cut out through the different furniture around the apartment's landscape. Padding, bedding, walls, paper, carpet, and shower curtains galore to tear and rip with her deadly claws (and the two holes in my upper arm can attest to their sharpness). An empty room with a closet. The fun can be endless. What else does a cat need? Okay, maybe the comfy confines of the only home she'd ever known and her countless best friends and buddies at her side would be alright too. But this is all I got. Honestly, if a cat can find hours of enjoyment with only a piece of paper and some paws - then surely Rocksee will have a blast here at Campbell Cat Palace 'o Fun and Good Times. I feel like a tea.

...Time...Passing...

Today is Saturday. It is gray, raining, hot and wet... How predictable. The entire week has been a blur of humid, sticky wet film. But today I am happy, despite the shit weather. For I am to foster a new little kitty from the shelter Katie volunteers at (or volunteered at, since they have recently been evicted from their dwellings b/c of lack of funds- five months behind rent to be exact, and a smell of shit, fur and piss that will never evict) - and I am excited. Her name is Roxy. Roxie? Rocksee? Rocky Balboa? Not sure, but I do know it is a girl. A semi-short haired orange, white and gray five year old cat. I am nervous but excited. It is fitting that her name is Roxy/Roxie/Rocksee/Rocky Balboa? - fitting for me and the few who know - but I will tell you... I once ten years ago rescued a lab/Shepard mix from a box outside a Soo Ste. Marie Zellers - but b/c of undesirable circumstances - I subsequently gave her up (though I know she was taken in b/c I followed up). What was her name you ask? Roxy. So, I hope this all works out b/c I am sometimes lonely here all alone by myself on my own. Here. At this place. After a long, combating and frustrating day at the office, it will be nice to come home to something other than stale air and disagreeable sports talk radio. Having a little cat friend could cheer me up I presume on those days when I alone can not do it by myself. Or drive me nuts. Probably a nice little mix of both. And don't worry, I'm not trying to replace Coppertoes, he'll always be both the coolest cat and person I've ever met - but it's time to move on! Coppertoes would have wanted it so. Okay. Katie has arrived. We are now going to pick up Roxie/Roxy/Rocksea/Rocky Balboa...time...passing...Back. We're back from picking up Roxie the curious but scared cat who's never been away from her many roommates and out of the friendly confines of her five year old home - ever. R-o-x-i-e. As I've now discovered that to be the correct spelling of her name. Though, I will still technically in my head and if anyone asks from here on out spell her name as such: R-O-C-K-S-E-E. Moving on. The cat (I mean Rocksee, as I earlier predicted) upon arriving to Campbell promptly jettisoned out of the cage and directly under the couch. How predictable. It has yet to emerge. Stay tuned for more postings on this situation.