In this snapshot from 1920, patrons at Whitey’s Pub and Bordello react to the news that women were just given the right to vote with the 19th Amendment. (Notice that there are only two people smiling: the bar-back on the far right, who apparently later gave birth to Freddie Mercury, and the one guy at the bar who is too blitzed to identify his own mother.) Interestingly enough, some of the people in this photo are now on the Supreme Court of the United States, where they are doing everything they can to return America to a time when people were forced to sip from different drinking fountains.
Another thing that started in 1920? Prohibition. Not that you would know it, based on this photo, further proof that some unhappy white men rarely follow the rules that they try to enforce on everyone else.
Scotch the Cat, wandering up as I type. “Daddy?”
Me: “Just a second. Daddy’s trying to finish this story.”
Scotch: “But Daddy…”
Me: “Hang on, Little Buddy. I’ll get you some treats in a minute.”
Scotch: “I already knocked the bag off the table and ate them all, so you need to buy more. I was wondering if… hey, what’s that?”
Me: “Scotch, we’ve talked about this. I can’t always see the weird things you think you see in empty corners, staring at the nothingness in horror until I start to get creeped out.”
Scotch: “Oh, I’m not playing that game. You’re looking at it right now in that picture. Down at the bottom. Are those hot dogs?”
Me: “Ah, hell. How did I miss that?”
Scotch: “Because you drink?”
Me: “You sure have a lot of attitude for somebody who licks his own butt.”
Scotch: “That’s racist. Can I have some hot dogs?”
Me: “You just ate an entire bag of treats.”
Scotch: “But they didn’t taste like hot dogs. I want hot dogs.”
Me: “You’ve never even had a hot dog. How do you know you’ll like it?”
Scotch: “You never let me go outside but I still want to try it.”
Me: “Look, we’re done with this discussion. Daddy’s got to rewrite this entire story because he didn’t see the hot dogs, and that changes everything.”
Scotch: “So does that make me an editor, because I made you change the story?”
Me: “It makes you annoying.”
Scotch: “Editors are supposed to be annoying, everyone knows that. You need to pay me for my services.”
Me: “And you need to pay for all the damn food you eat.”
Scotch: “Okay, good point. Then just mention me in the story.”
Me: “This story is not about you.”
Scotch: “I’m a cat. Everything is about me. Put me in the story or I hire another lawyer.”
Me, sighing: “Fine. I’ll give you a walk-on.”
Scotch: “Good. It’s the least you can do after destroying my hot dog dreams.” Then he trotted out of the room to go stare at an empty corner.
I opened a new document.
In this snapshot from 1920, an annoying cat walked into a bar…
Previously posted in “Crusty Pie” on 03/30/15. Considerable changes made, as the original version only consisted of the first paragraph, one that now seems mundane and incomplete. Sometimes you really do need an editor, but I’m certainly not going to tell Scotch that. Besides, every day is a new day with him, and he’s not going to remember this conversation…
Categories: Past Imperfect