Yesterday, whilst reading a cookbook as I sat in my car and figuring out my paella strategy for today, I inadvertently, upon the passenger side, let loose my car keys. After shooting a wedding in a small town, and then trying to get into the car, I realized the tragic turn of luck. Hitched a ride with wedding people to a country club, hobnobbing with their bitchy limo driver the entire way. He was driving a near-classic limo like a yacht.
Him: This family never tips me, I drive the aunts around, the mother of the groom around, and they are all loaded. No tips, I'm like a waitress, I work for minimum wage. GRRRR, etc.
Me: (thinking) get a-no-th-er j.o.b.
So I'm grabbing his big subliminal hint that for helping me I should grease his craggly palm. I did - for the rides to & fro and for hanging onto my cell phone as I shot more wedding moments, alerting my photographic self when AAA was en route. More kvetching from Mr. Limo. We arrived at my car and the guy in the towtruck said Your car doors are already open. Handed tip to Mr. Cranky. Had a stress smoke on way back to club. Accidentally melted a grand and gaping hole into an article of clothing in the back seat - glad the little ember didn't hit the old newspapers archived vehicularly. Imagine someone making an announcement during the wedding reception thusly:
Would the asshole who parked right next to the building please rush out to your vehicle, it's engulfed in flames!
Conflagration follows me.
As do high rockstar times and minor misdemeanors.