Now
Megan and I are reading Oleg Cassini's autobiography, and like
nearly every other book I ever read it has an
owl in it. Sometimes the owls aren't real owls. You know what? They're never real owls when you think about it. I don't want to get too deep. They're just words on a page, man. "Bobby was
an owlish looking fellow, heir to a large scrap-iron business."