Millie Monarch has been hanging around our backyard for nearly a month now. I see her out there, flitting back and forth across the green of the arbor vitae trees. Only her, none of her monarch friends. It makes me wonder why she’s here and not up north where she would go through the same life process all monarchs go through. The southern breeding, the flight north, the milk weeds, the laying of eggs, the eggs becoming caterpillars, the chrysalis stage, then the breaking free to feed on milk weed in preparation for the October flight south. But that’s not for Millie, who must be hearing a different drummer, and Thoreau would be proud of her.
It was so good last Friday to see Cat Deeley and So You Think You Can Dance, so good to see Mary Murphy and Nigel Lythgoe. Good to see some remarkable dancers trying to make it to Vegas, trying to make it into the top twenty. If the fans of Dancing with the Stars consider that show the cat’s meow, fans of SYTYCD consider this show the lion’s roar. That’s how big a difference there is between Stars and Dancing—pussy-foot dancers compared to Big Cat Deeley’s B-boys and high fliers. I’d like to see Kirstie Alley try a B-boy step he called “The Insect.”