In Which We Clean House

 

I have spent the last week organizing and cleaning out super agent Fred's apartment.  Considering it is only a studio, there certainly was a lot of crap to get through.  A huge chunk was Fred's art supplies. Photographic evidence supplied:

 

I had discovered a recycling place here in town that would take art supplies.  They had very clear standards about what they would take, but they would even come and haul them off IF you packed them up in specific boxes and there had to be at least six boxes.  No problem hitting the minimum box.  Photographic evidence applied: 

I spent all day packing paints and brushes and who knows what.  Artist esoterica, that's what.  Then I went to the recycler's website to arrange for them to come schlep it all off only to be met by a notice there saying they were taking a break from donations.  As you can see in the picture above, the windows were all blocked with the flotsam and jetsam I have been dealing with which was fortunate because otherwise I would have thrown myself out one.

I lay in bed that evening crippled and concerned the cats would figure out I was too weak to fend them off and they would eat me, all the while trying to conceive a plan that would allow me to unload nine very heavy boxes of art supplies.  That's when I remembered my old friend Craigslist.  When I sold my house, I put a listing on there announcing free crap and there was a line out the door on the day of the crap fest.  Following that plot, I posted a listing for Fred's stuff and within 12 hours I had agreed to meet some guy over there who was the lucky winner of all the equipment a budding artist could want. 

I also now have more than 200 responses in my email from Craigslist aficionados, but first come,  first serve.  Also, two things that made me glad I went with the first guy.  He was not only interested in the art stuff, but willing to take all sorts of other random junk I was trying to get rid of.  Yay.  And he was really cute in a classically California surfer boys sort of way.  Photographic evidence supplied: 

Anyway.  Everyday when I go over to the apartment and work and work, I think "Oh thank God, I'm almost through." And then the next time I come back whatever progress I made seems to have evaporated and I am confronted with a mountain of Fredtastic debris.  But after today, thanks to the Craigslist cutie, I think I am pretty much finished.  Photographic evidence supplied: 

Before

After

Cute guys who may or may not be on Craigslist:

You know how fond I am of gingers.

The terror of the locker room, hopefully.

Ready to rumble.

Honestly, I'm too tired to come up with captions for nekkid guys.

The old peekaboo pose.

In Which We Have News from the Cat House

 

Two weeks ago when we introduced Toby the cat here, I didn't mention that Toby had originally been Secret Agent Fred 's cat.  He moved over here when Fred got too sick to take care of him and now he's my cat.  I'm very glad to have him, but it seems like a sad consolation prize for Fred's death. 

Toby is the world's sweetest cat.  As I write this, he is curled up next to me with his head on my shoulder.  I am overwhelmed with the sweetness.  Sweet, sweet, sweet.  Tout sweet.  When I would visit them, Fred would be lounging in bed and Toby would walk over his face and then lay down on top of his head.  I would always think how glad I was that I never had a cat inclined towards trying to suffocate me.  And now I do.  I just hate cheap irony.

Speaking of introductions, how did the one between Octavia and Toby go?  Not bad, but not the way I expected either.  Toby is younger and bigger than Octavia so I was afraid he might pick on her, but that is not the way this funny old world rolls.  When I opened the door to let them meet each other, Octavia immediately let loose with a string of growls and hisses.  I was shocked at such language from a respectable old widda lady.   

That was a little more than a week ago and things have settled down to a sort of stiff-legged detente.  She is still hissy, but not as implacably.  Toby, on the other hand, just wants to be friends.  His attitude seems to be pretty much "bitch, what is wrong with you?"  As you can see in the picture above, they are willing to hang out in the same room, which is an improvement over the initial hostilities.  Baby steps.  Baby steps. 

Guys, I'd like to hang out with:

I just love humpy boys with blank-eyed expressions.  Intelligence is so overrated.

It's still warm enough for tanning.  Get busy.

He looks like he would be a load of laffs.

Extra beefy.

... and extra firm.

I appreciate how they have roped him and his buttchops off for crowd control, no doubt.

Honey, I think you dropped your parachute.

In Which Flights of Angels, Baby, Flights of Angels

 

When an old friend dies, they take with them all the shared vocabulary and jokes you had.  Secret Agent Fred died Wednesday afternoon.  We had almost 30 years of dumb, inside wisecracks that no one else would have found particularly amusing, but which meant a lot to our tiny little brains.  Now I will no longer be able to say to anyone, "zip your clam."  Well, I suppose I could say it, but the charm of it would be missing.

I don't think I ever knew anyone as capable of living life on his own terms as Fred was.   He was funny and charming and I will miss him.  Zip your clam, bitch.