“Dad,
Arrived in New Orleans on honeymoon.
Found this notice in the taxi.
Plans ruined.
Please advise.
-Your Son”
“Son,
The sign says ‘may be a First Degree Murder offense…”
A good lawyer can work with that.
Stick to the plan.
-Dad”
I was in State College, PA for a few days this week. The weather was perfect for running and I ran each morning through Penn State owned farmland and around the very large football stadium, which stands there like a gigantic alien spaceship in the midst of pastures and mountains.
It was on the second day that I spotted these creepy cats staring at me from the cement wall at the entrance to a tunnel beneath Interstate 99. I stopped and stared for a moment, baffled that I ran past them the day before and did not notice them. I am not a morning runner. At first I thought maybe I was having a pre-breakfast, hunger-induced hallucination. But no. Those cats were definitely there, staring at me, thinking fiendish feline thoughts, waiting for me to enter the tunnel.
I ran like hell.
I hate cats.
My gal says this doodle reminds her of this photo:
I wish I had drawn that instead.
As best I can tell from the collective ornithological knowledge on the internet, this is a tree swallow. He seemed to enjoy sitting on a wire and gazing at an open field rather than hanging out in a tree. Jonathan Livingston Swallow.