So, I’m staying in Tacoma with my friend Wolf for the next week & change. It has been lovely thus far. Tacoma is small & sweet & interesting & sunny, and also really diverse (esp. along race & class lines) in a way I was not at all expecting from a smaller Pacific Northwest city. That’s what I get for making assumptions, I guess!
Anyway. I wore my “Fresh Meat” shirt to the grocery store with Wolf today. The butcher walked past me and exclaimed, in full-on down-home small-town Pacific Northwest sweet sweet earnesty “Oh, I LOVE your shirt! I’m the butcher, I really need one of those!!!” Plus a big, big smile. I grinned back, chatted with him a bit, and proceeded to collapse into giggles onto Wolf (who was also giggling pretty hard) as soon as we were out of earshot.
Wolf says The Butcher had no idea what it meant. I’m not so sure? I mean, even if he doesn’t know about Fresh Meat Productions*, the phrase “Fresh Meat” has a particular, well, connotation, doesn’t it? Or is my mind just permanently installed in the gutter?
*Which is what the shirt references, but I love the double-entendre.