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have a Free Willy –themed birthday party in the fourth grade. And dinosaurs, Ilove them. Do they count? I guess I like animals that you can love in a more abstract way.
    While I realize furrier animals are inherently cute, fun to cuddle with, and good, loyal companions, they’ve never really done it for me. Yet I’ve never understood why it’s socially acceptable to openly hate cats, but when I indicate my indifference toward dogs, people look at me like I’m a registered sex offender with a swastika tattooed on my face.
    I even saved a cat once. Or saved a party of people from a cat, I should say. (This depends upon whether you were viewing the situation from four legs or two.) A group of us rented a house for a wedding in upstate New York, and we hosted a party after the rehearsal dinner. In a drunken stupor, someone left the front door wide open. In ran a collarless cat, full-speed ahead, weaving through clusters of people and jumping on the furniture. You should have seen how these people reacted. They leapt onto couches, dove onto tabletops, locked themselves in bathrooms. It was as if a chainsaw-wielding, hockey-masked murderer had crashed the party. It’s just a cat, people; it’s not going to kill you. The cat, no doubt as freaked out as the party guests, retreated to the second floor.
    A few minutes later, one of our friends descended to announce, proudly, that he’d solved the problem: He locked the cat in the room with the guy who was passed out. Everyone laughed and seemed to accept this as a suitable solution. Perhaps it was years of latent guilt, my subpar animal affection calling me to arms, but I did not see this as a suitable solution. I put down my Solo cup of vodka-soda and marched up the stairs, opening the bedroom door with the “I’ve come to save the day” swagger of a male stripper dressed as a fireman. While our human friend was sleeping soundly on the bed, our new feline friend was sprinting in psychotic circles on the floor.
    A wave of panic and nausea came over me. I began to have flashbacks from my childhood. The only other time I’d pickedup a cat was during a celebration dance after winning a riveting game of Mall Madness at my friend Veronica’s house in the third grade. The cat seemed nice enough: gray and white and named Mr. Moe. I scooped him up, hoping he’d partake in my victory dance, but instead he just bit me on the face. I tried as best I could to shake the memory from my mind, crouching down in a coaching-third-base position. If I were wearing sleeves, I would have rolled them up. I reached down and squealed as I scooped up the little fur ball. He did not seem to like this, so I had to hurry down the stairs, his legs dangling awkwardly below my “this baby’s got a dirty diaper” grip. When we arrived at the front door, I considered tossing him to see if they really do always land on their feet. But images of Free Willy flashed through my head: Would I throw a whale at a sidewalk to see if it landed right side up? I don’t think so. Instead, I placed the kitty gently on the front lawn, pet him affectionately on his creepily small head, and sent him on his way.

Star Gazing

    Throughout all my shifts in the box, I’ve never seen a celebrity at the hotel, though I am sure they have been there. They are everywhere in LA. That’s one thing Us Weekly actually has right: Stars are just like us. They really are at the grocery store, and at the gas station, and behind you in line at the bar. (Correction: They are in front of you in line at the bar.) With the box, it’s sort of strange to think that, for once, they are looking at me, not the other way around. I’m so accustomed to watching their faces inside boxes, but in the lobby of this hotel, they are forced to watch mine. Well, not forced. I guess they could look at the ground. I am sure they are not particularly impressed. But are they looking? If the