Unfortunately, as a result of way too much Marx, Emerson, Thoreau and now Melville (with a goodly dose of "head scratchin'" "deep thoughts" on how to subject Moby Dick to a Marxist "reading" - blah!) I have been having some truly bizarre escapist dreams lately, including one with "me" dancing "tango" with my cat - which could have been something terminally cute like this...
Except it wasn't.Because it was more like this:
I thought that our cat's phlegmatic mien and decided elegance and agility in chasing its own tail round and round in giros would make him the ideal tango dancer in the tradition of El Chino, or maybe even Fino.Alas, not so. The human-sized tango dream version of our cat was a big, hulking, hairy, clumsy, lead-footed, up-and-down shuffler with no musicality.
Which makes me think that the ideal "dream tango" skill to have in cases like this would be the ability to play dead. Running away in slow motion would also be quite acceptable.*
* Also an option when confronted with a surfeit of Marx.
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