You have no idea.
No, you have idea(s) but I'll fill you in on mine. Mine ideas post-nightout, trolling for serendipity like I troll my happenstances with all of You for blogposts. Yes, I've become one of those writers who elevates, who alienates, a few. For art's sake. Is the muse forever a shining golden figure with snacks for one and all. I think not.
Tonight's gig yielded this unfortunate, yet fascinating, result. A woman with mental derangement (perhaps sensing in her condition that her kindred spirit, RR/666 had expired) was lost for hours.
Cops were called, flashlights were lit.
And two hours later she was retrieved.
As I left said gig I noted some with cell phones at the ready and flashlights out at the ready and thought Perhaps I should inform them that Ms. Kook turned up in the Cosmic L&F (lost and found, getwithit) but then again this is like summer camp when some knew and some found out and some never found out until the next morning over waffles and it was a study in political interpersonal honing. Hone in or be lost on a suburban street corner for too long, missing out on festivities.
Onwards was girl-on-girl social interaction and deflecting the unwanted attentions of male arrivers.
In one week the plane for complicated, not plain, grad show and tell and do and say and talk about get withitness.
Note to self:
David Beckham is allegedly soooo hot, yet not for Perfect You. Give me Kennedy and his wanton fuzz any ol' day.
Hot Love.