Who is this unusual person, with her own unique way with the language, who keeps posting feline-centric comments about the blog? Is she a spy, sent by the power elite? A lonely teenager pining for a purpose? Who is she, I ask?
But, to make her happy, I'll relate this: The way Seymour jumps into his blanketed basket is like that of a ballet star - lithe and sleek, despite his bulbous form.
I can't write much. I have to go attend a meeting, one which is so marked by a lack of necessity that I find it crucial to attend for anthropological purposes, even if my attendance is completely voluntary. During this meeting, I will hear speakers express alarm about loosely organized systems that are working perfectly well. Wheels will be reinvented. Eyes will roll. And, at about 4:30, the meeting room doors will open and 200 pairs of shoulders will collectively shrug as we all try to beat the traffic to the West Side. Or Pasadena. Or Long Beach. Or, especially, Baldwin Park.