Last night I went out drinking with just about everybody I worked with at the restaurant and we all ended the night in the usual Tuesday place, the ground floor bar Noir of the Charles Hotel. Only this time I wasn’t cocktailed enough to sit quietly in the corner and listen to the chatter… for some reason I was sparked into wading through the throng and actually talking to people.
I went over to say hi to my friend Jess’s boyfriend who was commanding a lively conversation next to the bar. Sidling over cautiously to avoid the semi-lazy eye of the bartender who catastrophically over-served me last summer, I said hello to big Dave and immediately began talking about my blog to this guy who seemed suspiciously familiar. I tried to find out how I might know him, because he had the squirrely look on his face of someone who might know me from the internet… Now theres really only one or two actual people in physical reality who would know me from the internet, but they both have this kind of squirrely expression.
Somehow (somehow?) the topic of talk between me and this squirrely stranger switched from my blog to animals (somehow). Mainly because my blog & animals are the only two things I can really talk about in physical reality. Anyhow, this guy who’s name is Mark, who is a DJ for WBCN, began to tell me about how his friend went to Alaska and bought a wolf. Alaska! A wolf! I was probably shouting loud enough for the whole late night crowd to hear. What about bears! Alaskan bears and animals in general are known to be very, very feral!
Mark told me his friend bought this wolf and then paid to fly it back to Massachusetts, First Class. Evidently this guy rented out the whole first class cabin of an Alaskan Air jet and rode the whole way through the air with the wolf in his lap in one of the plushy recliners. Now he has a pet wolf in his Somerville apartment/house. A feral wolf in Somerville. I was noticeably perturbed. But the story went farther.
The way to pleasure this pet wolf seems to be to stick your index and middle finger down its throat and scratch the back of its tongue. Perfectly safe, Mark told me his friend guarenteed him. For you see, the wolf wears an electric collar, and when the fucker steps out of line. Zap zap! You get the idea. So the friend tried to convince Mark to pleasure the wolf by sticking his fingers down its throat and scratching the sweet spot at the back of the wolfs mouth. The back tongue. Mark balked. My reaction:
“Feral wolf tongue scratching man! Feral wolf tongue scratching!” I shouldn’t be let out of the house after midnight without an electric collar. That way, when I get loose and agitated, and start asking people to stick their fingers in my mouth to scratch the sweet spot at the end of my tongue… and someone does, like WBCN’s Mark, and I try to bite them, my handlers could press the button and activate the electricity: Zap! Zap!