The last Soul Asylum 12” I’ll be sharing for a while sits in my hands like a relic from a forgotten kingdom. For a while, I say — though somewhere in the record archives lurks another Soul Asylum 12" I’ve misplaced, a fact that gnaws at me with a slow, maddening frustration.
Oh, Soul Asylum… the beautiful, sloppy, unappreciated misfits of their era. They should have been crowned royalty, but instead they were tossed into the dust bins while lesser bands strutted across the stage. Only when Columbia came calling did they finally ascend the throne — but those A&M years? Those should have made them legends, the undisputed bosses of the whole scene.
I’ve spent years obsessing over Cooper, and I realize I’ve neglected my quieter companions — my feline confidants. Today belongs to K.C. He’s not feeling well, and the vet visit today left him wary, wounded in pride more than body. He’s five years old, a distant observer by nature, the kind of cat who watches the world from the shadows as if judging its every move.
When I picked him up today, he looked at me with a betrayal so profound I’m convinced he won’t let me near him again until the end of days.
And beneath all of this sits a softer ache: his sister, Izabo, whom we lost last year. Her absence lingers like a quiet, persistent echo.
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