To the young boy in line last night with his mother at the Walgreens pharmacy counter: Yes, I do kind of look like Drew Carey but only if he had brain damage and stored fiberglass in his neck. Also, just for future reference, don’t ask strangers what’s in their bag especially when it’s a small slender bag with orange cylinders inside.
To the man with red star tattoo one inch in diameter on his left cheek bone sitting across from me on the train this morning: I’m torn. On one hand, my New England-raised WASP mother’s influence is telling my thinking that your tattoo is an excellent example of why one should not manifest your eccentricities to the world. It’s best to keep internal struggles just that way, internal. But, on the other hand, you were wearing mint condition British Knights. Like the real thing and they were spotless. (It’s wintertime, dude! They’ll get ruined!) That is a level of amazing on its own.
To the homeless man who looked like Emil from RoboCop except with long hair, dirty clothes, and pissed pants who I passed walking to work on Adams this morning: Thanks for flipping me off and telling me to suck your dick. While I didn’t need the reminder of my general position in life, it’s always good to have that reminder.
I have heard that kittens learn how to properly meow from their mothers. We had a cat that had been abandoned by her mother and the cat could not meow. She made this weird gutteral squeal when she saw a bird, but was otherwise mute.
She did, however, teach every other cat in the house that it is appropriate to make weird gutteral squeals when you see a bird. Five years after the cat died, we still had gutteral squals whenever a bird went by…
My Sophie doesn’t meow. She squawks and often. She follows me around makes squawks and “AAACK!” sounds. She sounds just like I thought Bill the Cat would. Sid, the baby, meows up a storm though and never had a mommy other than Sophie. So I dunno….
Sophie is a Siamese though and I have read they typically don’t meow- just kinda holler.