Friends, I am in triage preparation/panic mode for this weekend's two shows. Hey! Here's one now (there is a misprint in my name, but it's my own fault for not noticing in time. Let's pretend not to notice). So, you're saying that you're just now preparing? And the first show is on Friday? Yes. That is what I'm saying. I am a terrible procrastinator. Wanna make something of it? What with all the hand-wringing and self-doubt that I need to attend to, there may not be a lot of cereal for dinner this week except for that which ends up in my own personal belly. It is not because I don't love you. It is more because I don't want to humiliate myself in front of scores of people. Selfish? Perhaps.
As an act of good faith, here's a little snapshot to tide you over:
This morning, a man stood on the grassy, be-palmed median of Dolores Street holding something delicately between his thumb and index finger. He regarded it intently and blew on it repeatedly. I was charmed thinking that he was making a wish on a downy little dandelion. Only when I drew nearer did I perceive that he was trying to salvage a cigarette butt he had found on the ground.
It's not quite Amelie around here, but we do what we can.
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