There's something really great about finally getting your project finished. Every section of cloudwrangler works now. There are posts in every section, the archive works but needs fine tuning, there is new stuff all over, and scary as it was, I put up a couple of stories I wrote. I think they stink, but then the artist is his own worst critic. Tours of cloudwrangler are available by clicking things, which I am sure you can all do without a guide. Enjoy.

A sampling of the things I saw at the Masonic show on Thursday night.

The Continental Club, which is like the South-Austin-Hipster 78704 Mecca. (I had never been, clearly I am just now officially cool.) Elvis on a postcard. A green Kangol hat. Jack Daniels. K-dog. A snooty brown sweater who seemed offended when I lit her cigarette (it's just professional habit, lady, ease down). One of the guys from Spoon (Kev pointed him out). Tall boots, everywhere. Red curls, beautiful. Shiner Bock. Rye-bread. swagger. American People, the opening act, who looked like what the Partidge Family Band would be like if none of the Partidge family had anything in common and didn't even like each other (They were great). Black Lipstick, unloading. black lipstick. Baby Newsum. More Jack Daniel's, Kev told me to get a sponsor (he was just kidding MOM). Great Bathroom Graffitti, which isn't a band name but should be.

And, oh yeah, a killer Masonic show. Those guys rock. They also roll. Big fun.

All right, now it's time for kitty updates. This is how low my life has sunk.

We have two now, Jessie and Nug. They're Sarah's, not ours, and they are weird, as cats tend to be. Jessie is fat, somewhat affectionate, and wide eyed. Sarah says she likes guys, whatever that means. She mostly ignores us, though she has staked out a favorite spot on my leather easy chair. She has claws, unlike Thomas, so she better be careful around the leather is all I'm sayin'. She hides in Kevin's closet a lot, but basically she tends to wander about the house during the day.

Nug is actually a myth, not a cat. He's not really here. He hides away in a deep cave (under the spare bed in what's supposed to be the office) and only emerges in the depths of night to wreak havok on the inahbitants of the village below (actually, I think he's scared of the sun). Nug does emerge at night, and Sarah says both her cats are mostly nocturnal. So we have something in common. However, neither of them drools. I'm just sayin' .

Technical difficulties? Here's your answer! Thank God for the 'Net. Also, Granola says I have to let everyone know when New Stuff shows up in other areas of this site. I just assumed you could all look for yourselves, but whatever. Anyone notice how the great hero figure always has two masters, one whom he loves, the other whom he rebels against. Kevin and Sarah are my blogging Yoda and Obi-wan. Now, figure out which is which.

It's late and I can't sleep. I should be tired, I worked all night. I had a hard night last night, and I've been a little down about my friend. I am also wrestling with some weird personal stuff that I may get around to writing about, maybe not. Maybe it's just the good old family insomnia (thanks Mom, thanks Grandma) but I can't sleep. So here's some of the stuff rolling around in my head.

One To become a member of Mensa you have to have a tested IQ in the 98th percentile. You also have to pay membership fees! Doing so should immediately disqualify someone as a genius, as far as I'm concerned.

Two We get cats tomorrow. Jessie and Nug. I bet they are not nearly as cool as Thomas, but we'll see.

Three I'm re-reading Ludlum's The Bourne Identity. There's an upcoming adaptation starring Matt Damon and the girl from Run Lola Run. I just don't see it though. I read it several years ago, and then, as now, Jason Bourne in my head looks a little like a young Robert Redford.

Four I am also reading Steve Martin's Shopgirl which is absolutely charming. For the first three chapters, I could hear Steve Martin nararrting in my head as I was reading, like a voice over by him from a movie. Weird.

Five Reading two books at once isn't whats keeping me up at night. I am almost positive. I think.

Six Sifl and Olly are the two funniest socks in the history of man. Kevin unearthed some old episodes on tape, and we've been watching and shooting milk out of our noses. I don't even drink milk (I'm allergic).

Seven I met a young woman tonight, which is not that unusual since I work in a bar (its official policy to refer to it as "the club"). She had absolutely the most beautiful laugh in the history of man. It sparkled. I hope she comes back, just so I can make her laugh again.

Now and then, tragedy becomes more than something you studied in school. I learned in just the last few hours that a young woman I once kissed is gone forever. I have no idea what to make of this. She was an incredibly sweet young lady, fun, outgoing in a very protected way, blonde and innocent, meek and shining and wonderful. Will I miss her? I have not seen her in months, I was already doing so. Now it's longing mixed with pain. Do I wish I had known her better? It has already been hoped for. Do I regret a missed chance to make my life a little brighter? I do, and I will, always. I'm not a greeting card, niether was she, and I do wish I were better at saying this. I am sorry for all the things that will never be.

Hey everyone, movie reviews are up and running. check 'em out.

The two best parts of buying an X-mas tree.

One, we bought it at The Optimists Club tree lot. The trees themselves were less than optimistic. They were all dead. Some more than others, to be sure, but they were all dead. No replanting for these guys. They were all just standing around, dying slowly and thinking to themselves, "Optimists, my trunk. This is exploitation! I need a good lawyer." We got a good tree. His name is Andrew, and he's wearing my cowboy hat, for now.

Two, It has disco lights.

Well, it seems there is more kitty love in the air than I thought. Granola is bringing her cats back from paradise to live with K-dog and I, and the Cult Leader seems to have found a new follower.

(For the record, there were about a thousand crude sexual humor references that I came up with in my sick little thinking engine that could have been included in this post. I mean, when writing about felines, they just pop in there like the Stay-Puft Marshmellow Man. However, the management here at the 'Wrangler seemed to think such crude humor would be detrimental to this site's high literary and commentary standards. Personally, I think management are a bunch of pussies.)

I got asked a favor today, and I am looking forward to it like summer vacation. Marrilee asked me to look out for Thomas, because she is going to be out of town for a while. I absolutely LOVE doing this.

Thomas is, quite frankly, the most Sinatra fuckin' cat that ever lived. He's so cool it hurts. He's black and white, kind of skinny, and really cocky. He used to pick fights with the neighbor's cat, even though he doesn't have any claws. He's not stupid, he knows he is weaponless in the cat world, but he tries to kick kitty ass nonetheless. He's house trained and doesn't use a litter box, which is cool for a cat, in my opinion. He likes attention, and doesn't really do that aloof, who-the-hell-needs-you-anyway thing that most cats do. He'll head but your hands if he doesn't think you're giving him his kitty props. He'll sit about two feet from the door and just stare at it until you let him go out, without meowing loudly or generally bugging anyone. Marrilee swears he can tell who has come to the door by the way their car sounds on hte street outside. But there is one unique thing about him that makes me miss him like crazy.

He drools.

The first time it happened I was totally freaked out. Tom will sit on your chest when he's feeling like he needs some love, and while you pet him, he gets so happy, he drools on you. It's hysterical! I remember telling Marrilee that first time, "Hey!, Your cat is broken, it's leaking on me!" Apparently it's because his purring mechanism doesn't work properly. When he can't make that happy little rumble in his throat, he starts dripping. He can purr sometimes, I've heard him do it, but mostly it's just the drool. It sits on his chin in perfectly clear white drops, and it drips on you , sometimes as often as one every five or ten seconds. It's the most adorable pet characteristic I have ever seen. We watched Kevin's sister's dog for about three weeks recently, and Bailey was cool and a little weird for a dog, but no pet has ever been as cool as my ex-girlfriends cat, Tom. My friend Stacy, who is a big time animal lover, says it sounds like I miss the cat more than the girl.

That's absolutely not true.

Eight more days to go. I think K-dog and I are gonna give cloudwrangler a re-design for X-mas. Be ready.

This week has been insane for me. I worked nine of the last ten nights, and a few days as well. I have been trying to X-mas shop, and to resist the urge to do so for myself. I am also trying to arrange a night off to attend a holiday party at my own home, to which all readers of cloudwrangler are cordially invited, since I am sure I know you both and you won't even need a map. In an effort to relax a little in my spare time, I decided not to spend every afternoon at the movies as I often do, and instead rent some videos and rest up at home when I can.

Big BIG MISTAKE.

The problem lies in what I decided to rent. The Sopranos Season 2. In the last few days I have seen every episode. Almost 15 hours of gangsters doing the various things they do, all in my house. Most of you who know me (again, thanks for reading, both of ya) know this is right up my alley. My spaghetti sauce recipe, adapted from my mother's own, takes four hours to prepare. The recipe requires that Mob movies be played during cooking, a tradition spawned by the scene in Godfather where Clemenza teaches Michael to make sauce since, "you never know when ya might havta cook for like tirty guys someday." The recipe makes seventy nine gallons of sauce, so I give a lot of it away, mostly to Sarah these days. In perfecting the recipe, I have seen almost every mob film known to man, good and bad. However, only once before have I ever had to process this much TV mafia at once, and I have learned something very interesting this time around.

It's not very relaxing, and it changes the way you think.

I look over my shoulder now. A LOT. I have awkward moments just before I turn the key in my car ignition. I've also noticed my speech patterns are changin'. I say tings lately that I can't believe are comin' outta my mout. Like yesterday, dis guy I work wit was walkin' past the bar, and I says, "Hey Ferris come 'ere fer a minute." and he says, "I'm off the clock," like I was gonna tell 'im ta do somethin' and he didn't wanna on account of he wadn't gettin' paid fer it, and I says, "Who fuckin' asked youse about off !?!?"

It's also affected my decision making and problem solving methods. Yesterday I couldn't decide what I wanted for lunch because there just aren't any really good Italian joints in this town. When I finally gave up trying to find one, I decided to just go to the drive thru window. Then, when the guy forgot to put pickles on my burger, I dragged him out of the window, beat the crap out of him, and ran him over with my car. I had a guy whacked for showing up to work fifteen minutes late a few days ago. I got a line on a whole rack of full length mink coats that fell of the back of a truck, swear to God. It' not even cold in Austin, fer christ sake! I guess I may need a new nickname.