New Digs (home)

So I thought I would offer this up in case anyone is inclined to send me some mail.

I have moved.

The address you previously had for all those Christmas and birthday cards, they were lovely by the way, thank you, has been updated.

I only mention this as I would hate for any further correspondence to be lost in future Louis DeJoy attempts to destroy the U.S. Mail, especially with a pretty consequential election just around the corner. Damn those mail in votes says Louis.

I now call the kingdom of shopping plaza’s and strip malls and waaaay too many churches and pizza joints home. Albany (or its thereabouts).

I had been, for the longest of time, situated in a perfect of spots with a friend and her above garage place in Poughkeepsie. It was a place of wonder, furry and even winged wonder. So very furry you could lose count. And a spot so furry that you could easily get in shape simply from the oft repeated petting “hello (insert name)” bend downs and one that begged you to take stock in rolly sticky things that you kept on hand at all times just to keep up with all the fur that would stick to you like welcome glue.

Never wear black by the way.

But things change and I have new digs.

See, I have this sister, her name is Rebecca, she’s very nice and a real love and quite possibly the best friend I have ever had (others were in the moment though some have thrived past that thankfully) but she’s been a constant, surely to her year’s long “Seriously Steve?” dismay. You’d like her, good at charades and card games, and she has these two boys, their names being Jacob and Mathew who are also very nice, who you’d also like, though I don’t know of their proficiency at charades or cards, and Matt is quite the cook and champeen good at simulating the pyramid of Giza in the kitchen sink in the process. Together they have this house, home, a little place in a land called Schenectady that has a finished basement that was only being used for housing a behemoth of a treadmill that no one treaded on and a litter box for a very chunky, clunky, chubby little large cat named Ricki who meows like 2 or 3 packs a day.

There are two other cats, Arthur and Sephira, but they are more able to fend for themselves outside of this and are quite lithe instead.

I’ll hold off on referring to this as a basement though, even if that is what it is, as it sounds like I am the story of sad “guy who lived in somebody’s basement” lore. Me being in an almost Mom basement can cry pathetic and solitude and conspiracy theories and manifestos and tinfoil hats but that it not the case (I haven’t finished the manifesto yet … it’s still just a draft).

It’s a nice little spot and will afford me a break on rent, Beck only asks of my soul to use in rituals on small altars, nothing too involved, and a few dollars and gives me a chance to maybe breathe a little, something in this radio life of mine I have never really been able to do, and I have been doing this for quite a while.

So anyway, you can direct your cards this way now, they will be welcomed by myself and my own fur, Bella and Cricket who are enjoying their new surrounds replete with central air but who haven’t met Ricki the chunky yet, or Arthur or Sephira, though I’m sure that will be all kumbaya’s and peaches and cream and sunshine and rainbows and happy meow songs and will be picture cut perfect and pasted into vision boards or collages like grade school projects on large poster paper hung on walls in a NOT basement.

Cheers all.

(I told ya Ricki was a little chunky and sounded like a 2 or 3 pack a dayer)