Before I start this, I do want to mention that both Sam and myself are reasonably clean individuals. I'm not saying we have a need to get our cleaning supplies from Costco or anything. But we are both tidy, do the dishes regularly, and generally exist without wallowing in either our own or each others filth. I don't mention this to brag (not much of a rousing recommendation that), but to stave off any criticism that the following anecdote might rouse.

After a long day in Manhattan, I returned yesterday to the apartment with the intention of sitting down with my notes on C programming ('cuz I'm a geek) in front of the television ('cuz I wanted to watch the Rockets beat the Lakers. Which didn't happen, but what are you gonna do?). After I got my pajamas on (it takes me an amount of time on the order of seconds to change from my outside clothes to my PJs. For some reason I'm just completely uncomfortable being in my own space without a pair of flannel pants), I walked from my room to the living room, and turned on the light. It was then that I saw the caterpillar.

I don't think it was the same caterpillar from my place in Bushwick. It was bigger, first of all. Think small dog. It was also really fast; at least, he could corner pretty well - he ran around in circles a lot. He was also furry, not unlike one of them annoying cats that I assume all old English ladies have. You know, the ones that eat Fancy Feast and think they're better than other cats just because their owner calls them "Duchess." Oh, and it was ugly. I think the only thing that had more antennae than this creature is the entire Clear Channel family of radio stations. Needless to say, I froze and shook.

Well, it wasn't that bad. I definitely froze, but there was little to no shaking. The problem was that, in normal circumstances, I would have raced over to the caterpillar, squashed it, and left it for Sam to clean up. But having just put on my PJ's, the only footwear I was wearing was a pair of open sandals. So I quashed my original instincts, because there is nothing ickier than squashed bug on your feet. The problem was that the few seconds of internal monologue I had to go through before I reached "Get a newspaper and whack it" was enough time for the bug (I say "bug" but I mean "boil on the face of all that is holy") to do a few more laps of the circle in which it was running, and then head into the hall closet.

This is where the problem really became a poser. I could definitely have gone in after it. But the way I see it, I knew there was at least one bug in there that I didn't really want to meet. That was the best case. And there's also a lot of stuff in the closet: boxes, golf bags, jackets, etc. It's not like the bug was just going to be hanging out in the middle of the empty space, so there was going to be some moving boxes and looking behind things. And at the point where you go looking for a bug like this, the bug has a distinct tactical advantage which can reduce one (and by "one" I mean "Kennyb") to screaming like a little girl. The upshot, of course, is that I indulged in the better part of valor, and left the door closed. From now until I find him again, there's a "pajamas with boots" policy in effect for the apartment.


(And as part of a personal request from a co-worker (Hi Gary!), I'd like to thank the lady carrying a piece of luggage who was dancing around on the corner of 35th and 5th Ave a few Thursdays ago. It's people like you what make this city funny. That sort of thing just doesn't happen in the suburbs.)