Take it from this fanilow, Barry Manilow’s oeuvre is just like cats (no, not the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical; the actual furbies). Each song is the favorite, and each song is the best.
Any self-respecting cat would never buy a bushel and a half of horse apples for 3 people, not even to can applesauce and bake cake. No single cat that has ever existed in the entire universe (they are out of this world!) would ever think that was a suitable amount of apples per capita.
For the past 6 months, many of us have spent an inordinate amount of time wearing out our sofa cushions. Recent reprieve notwithstanding, pajamas are getting threadbare, and sourdough is so 2 months ago.
Joe Piscopo, local, comedian, actor, portrayer of a lounge lizard. Bill Murray, not at all local, comedian, actor, portrayer of a lounge lizard. Lounge lizards. Crooners. Performers. Bar acts.
All cats are great. All cats are good. Comparison is the thief of joy. But sometimes, dangit, there truly can only be one.
Cats are gleefully non-self-explanatory. So it’s only right that their names are often shrouded in mystery.
The strawberry moon has hopped back into its hidey hole. The Jurassic Park/World/Money franchise has handed over its latest. The magical month of June has jaunted off for another year.
Good things happen in June. Good things also happen in eleven other months, but there’s something about June that just makes you want to…sing-a. Especially when it starts on a Friday, and you’re alive, and you live in a world in which cats exist.