Ah, to blog! What sweet semi-productive irrelevance....

This is my first post on My First Blog (by Fisher Price) and I am at a loss as to: a) what to write about; b) who will want to read it; and, perhaps most importantly, c) why my cats are shitting so much.

I will address these topics in order, as I enjoy lists and the checking off of things listed.

A) What to write....

This spring, my third in New York, is a season of new endeavors for me (trenchcoats, CSI, physical fitness) and a season of latent endeavors begun anew (cooking, halfway decent books, eyebrow maintence). Add to the former category blogging, and to the latter writing.

I haven't written anything but a rent check in quite a while, so this undertaking is a little queasy-ating. I have, however, been doing a lot of non-writing.

For me, non-writing generally progresses thusly: I encounter a piece of bad writing; I decide I can write something better; I am satisfied knowing that I can write something better; I write nothing. (Alternately, non-writing can take the following form: I read something amazing; it makes me want to write again; I am afraid my writing will be awful; I channel my burst of creativity into another activity -- usually eating or singing loudly; I write nothing.) On a busy day, I non-write at least three times before lunchtime.

So actually writing writing feels a little awkward, sort of like wearing shorts for the first time after a long winter. What shorts should I wear? Will they look funny? Are my legs too skinny?
Inevitably, it will be a difficult decision what to write, the finished product won't be perfect, and I'll feel embarrassed exposing a part of myself I've gotten used to keeping covered up. But if I don't start writing something now, I'll end up wearing pants all summer.

But does a blog need an actual theme? I hope not, because this one won't. To be honest, even using the term "blog" makes me feel like a sixty-year-old man with an earring. On a snowboard.

I'm just going to write what seems appropriate at the time. It might be about New York, it might be about design, it might be about three sentences long. And most likely, it will have nothing to do with what I wrote the post before.

B) Who would want to read this?

My mom, mainly. I'm pretty sure she'll like whatever I write, and right now I'm all about positive reinforcement.

I'd also like to non-bore any non-Moms who happen to read this. And who knows? Maybe this blogging thing will pay off. I'll write a poignant yet cheeky comedy about a pregnant teen, win an Oscar, and finally be able to quit stripping. (Or maybe I'll continue to strip. Lord knows I love the pole.)

Keep reading and find out.

And finally...

C) Why do my cats shit so much?

Seriously.

In truth, they're not actually my cats. They technically belong to my roommate, especially when they scratch the furniture and need to be fed. They are my cats when they do anything halfway entertaining. This includes the monumental amount of shitting they do.

To be fair, they're both pretty good guys. One is named Timmy: he's a scrawny 11-month-old kitten with a smoker's cough. He reminds me of an emaciated ex-con grateful to have a decent place to crash but loathe to give up his hardened ways. The other one is Obie: he weighs as much as an impressive bass, and when he flattens himself out on the arm of the sofa he looks like a bearskin rug. You'd think that of the two of them, Catzilla would be more prodigious shitter.

Not so.

I'd say Tim shits three times as much as Obie. It's hard to believe that so much shit could come out of something so small, but I think he probably produces roughly a pound a day. That's about the daily output of an eight-year-old human. It's totally sick.

I hope no one minds, but I may periodic updates about the cats. Only if something truly noteworthy occurs.

I think that's it for today. I need to go eat an unholy amount of carbohydrates so I can gain ten pounds in my sleep.