A New Series . . .

. . . Death of a Ladies' Man.



I'm leaving the giant E-shaped building and heading a few blocks southwest, to live with The Girlfriend. (Some of you may take issue with the title of this new series, saying, "A.v.E, you were never a ladies' man." To such remarks I say, "Let me just have this, please?")

I have my apartment through to the end of March. Rather than do the typical 48-hour move, I've began slowly moving my stuff over to her place. As I was taking out some boxes, stationed steady atop a wheeled office-chair, I met the guy that just moved in across the hall. I told him my plan of slowly moving out, and how I'm starting to prefer this over the whole renting a truck and begging friends to help. He'd just done the same thing and hated it. I can't understand how. He goes on to explain that he moved to our building from Hyde Park, over the span of several weeks, via BUS! For those of you not in Chicago, that probably doesn't mean that much to you. Those of you in The White City know that moving from Hyde Park to Uptown via bus is completely batshit insane! (Imagine moving all your possessions from Dodge to Garden using only a Ford Focus. Think of how many trips that would take, and how frustrating that would become after a while.) Luckily, the guy is interested in taking some furniture off my hands. So I can't fault him to terribly. I feel bad enough that this man will soon be eating and sleeping on the secretions of the most vile sex. Secretions which I'm surprised didn't burn through eight floors dripping into the basement. I can barely look him in the eyes when he speaks.

There's a scene in the Gregory Nava movie Mi Familia, where swinging latino-bachelor (and crossword puzzle staple) Esai Morales has settled down. We see him looking at a wall. There is a poster of an Aztec warrior carrying a buxom woman to the top of a temple under the night sky. We pan back to Esai, then pan back to the wall. The poster has been replaced by a large portrait of Julio Iglesias.

As I sat with The Girlfriend in what is to become Our Movie Room, we watched her cat (named simply, Cat) chase his tail atop my bookshelves. I am now, partially, a cat-owner.

Living with Cat is like living with the Indian guy from Predator. He seems fine and all, but at any moment, without any provocation, he'll lash out at you, knife in hand. The Cat is such a cocksucker, too. Aside from the shallow breaths, red eyes, and itchy face that comes with being allergic to cats, he hides outside of entryways, so when you step into the room, he'll pounce at your feet. He's technically proficient with his claws, able to always slice right into the webbing of my toes. And when I try to spray him with a water bottle, he begins to talk. Honest to Jehovah. If you pull out the water bottle, he'll duck under a chair and begin to replicate the same sounds of an infant forming his words into, "I love you." It's impossible to reprimand him when he does this. Cat was a gift to The Girlfriend from her ex. If i ever meet that man, I will lay him out in one punch.

Then stand over him until he comes to, only to do it again.

My fear with Cat is of something far greater than any scratch. As I got sucked into watching him chase his tail atop those bookcases, I began to see how someone can enjoy having something alive pacing in the background of their home. How his fur-ball antics are, at times, laughable. How soon, I'll see photos of cats doing things on the internet and being ROFLing with delight as my Cat does the same thing. Maybe The Girlfriend and I will begin putting things on him, or placing him in the sink to see if he shows up on the web. Sending out Christmas cards with him on the cover.

Even Hercules was undone by a sweater.