Zooey Deschanel Appreciation Day
I realized something the other day: I dislike Scarlett Johansson. I've only ever seen her in one movie, The Man Who Wasn't There; it was horrible, but that wasn't her fault. I want to see Ghost World, and, because of Bill Murray, I am willing to see Lost in Translation, but nonetheless I just don't like her. I realize this is based primarily on the fact that these days she is extensively talked about in the press and featured on magazine covers. It had nothing to do with her acting. And that's sad. So, let this be a small secular prayer that Ms. Deschanel's career will be long, successful, and interesting, but that she will be spared the cursed title of "it girl."

Hello, Kitty
We have moles. Years ago we had rabbits, but then Sam killed them all. (He may not have killed them all, but those he didn't kill he certainly drove off.) Later, he brought us offerings of shrews, birds, and mice. However, he is powerless to combat the moles. Even were he not a decrepit, trembling old man, even in his great white hunter prime, I don't think he would be a match for the moles. He's just not subterranean. So, we have contracted with profesionals to poison our yard. As a result, Sammy has to stay inside for a few days. I don't remember exactly how young he was when we first started letting him run wild, but he was barely past being a kitten. Sammy is now and always has been an outdoor cat. The past two days have been rough. As soon as I get home, he begins whining. It is a truly pathetic sound. I try to pet him, give him little bowls of milk, and ease his pain, but to no avail. He feels the call of the wild and nothing else can sate him. The worst part is that he simply cannot understand. How do you explain to a cat that he can't run around outside because Great War-era poisons have been deployed against moles? Hang tough, Sammy, it'll be okay.