I received Ron Goulart's Groucho Marx books today from Amazon.com. He mentioned in an email that he'd had 160 books published and I responded that it had taken me four years to not get 1 finished, let alone published. If he's been writing for 40 years, that's one book every three months and I'm astonished. My piddly little four or five hundred words a night journal wouldn't even cover his title pages and dedications, so I'm going to start Groucho Marx, Master Detective this evening in my continuing endeavor to strike a spark and start reading again, giving me something to do during my declining years. Somehow I don't think television will be an option.

I brought home another small packet of fresh catnip that MSW had left for me on my desk this morning and tossed it under the monitor when I got in, promptly forgetting about it. Mr. Wuss reminded me. He expressed a positive fascination for something just right of the on/off switch until I realized what had happened. I want to shoot some pictures when I put it out on newspapers in the living room and I'm too lazy this evening to set up the strobe lights, so Mr. Wuss spent the next hour demanding my attention, meowing sternly that he wanted whatever it was he smelled and now couldn't find. Pain in the butt, but mostly a pain in the leg as he pressed his claws through my pants to get my attention. He's now asleep to the left of my keyboard, dreaming cat dreams.

Mr. Wuss came to me with the name Mr. Wuss and although it's reasonably clever, he isn't really. A wuss. I think I said he was some journal entries back, but I think I said it because the words seemed to fit and flow properly and since he wasn't following the narrative I didn't have to worry about retractions. Mr. Wuss isn't a wuss. He's a pain in the leg.