Lunch today was left over grilled chicken cut into cubelettes. Seriously, you’re not going to believe this. I no sooner finished typing that first sentence before I heard this sudden disturbing buzzing coming at my head; I didn’t know what it was because it was too loud for any one insect I know, or like a tiny drone, had I made that connection at the time. But no, it was a hummingbird. Usually shy, elusive this one was full on. I had heard the intense buzzying behind my head and quickly turned to find her stationery in the air, her invisible wings a sound. In the immediacy, I yelled quite loudly oh my god, which should have frightened her away, but it didn’t. She kept buzzing at me. Then I started cooing you’re so cute, you’re so cute, and she bolted away. Imagine being a hummingbird.
Anyway, we go to the Took store called Island Market. And we needed to buy some dinner food and figure that all out because we are seeing a Mentalist tonight at the Community Center. Yes, there was a dog show this morning and tonight it’s the Mentalist. The girls thought flatbread pizza would be perfect and they saw that the Tooks had one style of that pizza and I should get that plus arugula and some other things. I drove and waved and entered and found that it was pulled pork and pineapple pizza. Yeah, no. So I bought beer and left and told them we needed a new plan. Let’s have a picnic. They have a certain baguette, get it. Also some paté (if I wanted it which I do) and so forth. They didn’t have baguette but I don’t care. I will eat the paté tonight after the mentalist. So I’ll leave this unpublished until tonight when I can relate our evening…
…okay, last night was a trip. We got to the community having talked through the possibilities of how the room would be set up to a nearly eight-year-old asking us questions we can’t answer about a place we’d never seen. I finally told her that the room will have all white chairs that will be very comfortable. We arrive and Stella’s like white chairs and I’m like see. There’s a fishbowl set up into which we must drop little papers filled out in the center with a “something” like a favorite pet or what not, fold it, and then put your name on the top. The front person was a sort of nervous-happy local who was in ultimate earnest, and then this executive style woman, beautiful in her sixties, maybe, comes walking towards us, and I know that face. I look at Stella who just gives me a quick and intense: you’re on to something. And so I said to her are you Lois? And she said yes. So it was Lois Childs and I said my wife Lynne worked with Sylvia Heisel (they did in fact partner on an item-driven collection which I named called Region) back in the day—Lois actually modelled in one of they’re shows—and then Stella took over and reminisced about visiting Lois’ house in Santa Monica with Sylvia and all going out from there for dinner where Lois ran into Lindsay Buckingham. This made Lynne happy.
So get this, she wasn’t just a guest here. She was running this whole mentalist show. She asked how we came to be here and we said we were visiting at a friend’s of Nancy’s which is true, leaving the rest of it out, because you never know. And then we sat second row to watch this manchild come out on stage. I pegged him as a Pisces right away. A more comely Bieber with coiffed no-color hair and a knit grey blazer that draped and brown shows with red laces, palest skin with pink flushed cheeks. His name is Nat Lawson. And he mightily suggested that he will be a great one day. His confidence was astounding. He is ready to assume any 7:30 PM network game show, now, at the age of eighteen. Without an intermission, which he brazenly told us his shows typically include, we were there a fat hour. He threw a stuffed rabbit into the audience as a means of picking his first participant who then threw the bunny to pick the second, third, fourth and then Stella-Lynne caught the bunny and was tasked with holding the bunny during the first act before being instructed to kick off the second one. The answer to the first trick was that there were exactly four cards and then the cards would repeat in the deck; the deck was from a children’s game with which our host promptly distracted us, relating stories about his fourteen-year-old brother, the photographer in the audience, was way better at predicting math tallies than he, in effect, planting seeds regarding his supposed personality, subliminally impressing upon what was a highly suggestive audience, inserting certain suppositions about him that would sort of bore and dazzle the audience at the same time, bringing down their defenses to a point where they are ready to believe what’s being shown them. They want to believe. Pisces motto is I believe.
But I knew this guy had to be a Pisces—I actually don’t as I’m writing this know what sign he is—when he went into some story cul-de-sac, lullybying the audience into belief, wherein he said he loved strangers. If anybody knows anything about Starsky+Cox’s take on the Pisces persona, one would know we heavily explore to the brink of exploitation the whole “I’ve always depended on the kindess of strangers” notion.
Anyway, let me see if I can find out somehow if this kid is a Pisces—maybe he’s on Facebook—will let you know what I come up with.
Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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