Pets hate me (the feeling is mutual)

This llama clearly hates me

Months or maybe years ago, we were walking through the streets of Cincinnati when a guy with a clipboard stopped us. I never sign petitions, so I was already planning to blow this man off with a curt, mid-stride “No thanks.” But what he said surprised me.

“Do you guys care about animals?”

We kept walking.

“No,” I called back. “Not really.”

I meant it as a joke — the question was a trap, because what kind of cruel person answers that question in anything other than the affirmative — but then I actually thought about it.

Do I care about animals?

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Why do we still watch Shakespeare?

Chasseriau's "Macbeth Sees the Ghost of Banquo," 1854

OK, this is going to be my most annoying blog post yet, and it will reveal how uneducated and simple I am, but since I posted that blond picture of me, I have nothing to hide. Here goes.

We saw “MacBeth” last night at a Shakespeare theater down the street, and it was a great little production — passionate, unsettling, bloody. This director decided to go modern, and so the characters talked on cell phones and wore camo fatigues and combat boots while Lady Macbeth slutted it up in shimmery cocktail dresses and a bra-and-panties set that challenged even me to keep my eyes on her face.

And yet just before intermission, I looked over to see my boyfriend sitting low in his seat, struggling to keep his eyes open. I was having the same problem. During the break we chugged big cups of coffee and I said, only half-jokingly, “Why don’t they speak English?”

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