Why buy the cow, you ask?
Why buy the cow, you ask?
"Was that a problem at one point? Like, in the dairy community?"
We have cows that come to graze in our backyard. Not at the apartment — outside the window of my studio apartment, in the yard of the embassy adjacent, no cows step foot. At my parents’ place though — a rural rental, temporary place — there are cows. Mom sang to them her first day here and it stopped the cows in their tracks. One even stared at her intently and stepped closer to the fence with each stanza. She posted a video to the Family Chat that proves it.
When I sing to the cows, they run away.
Am I that off-key?
We had cows where I lived in Champagne for a season, too. My mother made me — implored me — to write her a poem one day, and so I took a walk outside and observed the cows. One of them had a giant metal ring hanging from its nose; I wrote that it belonged at the Folsom Street Fair.
The Folsom Street Fair is where I found myself the first weekend I moved to San Francisco. A girlfriend from college with a beyond-her-years knack for interior design suggested we go couch shopping together near SoMa. To get to the furniture store, you had to walk through open displays of nudity with lots of whips and chains.
I think that’s when I realized I’m an East Coast gal.
At the end of the day, I prefer suits.
And cows.
When the cows ran away from me here in Virginia, I caught a video of them fleeing and posted it to my Instagram. In my search for a song to accompany the video I stumbled upon a ditty titled “MOOO!” by Doja Cat. B*tch I’m a cow, b*tch I’m a cow. I’m not a cat, I don’t say “meow.”
I’d suggest you Google it but really, it’ll get stuck in your head all day.
Moo.
But not in my coffee. My German brother — who came into our lives almost exactly two years ago — makes great lattes with Oat Milk. We call them No Cow Coffee. Ich will einen Kaffee ohne Kuh.
I grew up in farm/ranch country. I was president of my high school's Future Farmers of America. My high school best friend's family were pig ranchers. I have some experience. Cows are much much much smarter than generally believed.
My second address in San Francisco was near Bloomingdale’s in SOMA, where I would often nap on bedding and drink complementary nespressos. Though a few blocks away the raw flames of Folsom were impossible to ignore, as I had to wander through it to return home. My only goal: to pass all random bare bottoms in chaps ungrazed. And someone always had a cow bell! Moo!! - I wish singing could have parted the herd!
Even though I spent many Madonna moments dancing on a platform in a sanctuary of a gay club in the French Quarter simply to practice (while partying) without having my bod grabbed by an the uninvited tourist, I found the Folsom Fair daunting. And, I attended over 30 Mardi Gras at this time. I too have an attachment to the East Coast crowd. Mine would be the creative night owls.
Though “suits” is an associated Wall Street stereotype, it has thread with the northern fashion crowd. I recall a neighbor near my Gramercy apartment who I have never seen in anything but an Armani suit. He was a pale-faced, black-haired artsy type, like myself, and I admired his NYC style. Suits can be cool! Being I once short-term dated a bit-to-young-for-me gent who modeled for Armani, I have much greater appreciation for wandering through their herd. Certainly more so than the Folsom Fair!
I will never fully convert to Californian. I miss the 24/7 lifestyle, and always being able to find chat-worthy company and fresh carrot juice after 2am. …. Happy 2023 to you, dawl!!!