That's one of the things I love about your writing - the passion that oozes from every pore of every inch of skin that you wrap your thoughts in. --- Robert Stewart
I follow in the wake of a Woman Wearing Fragrance, having just caught a glimpse of the frame of a close-up table, carried by a man in a bowler hat.
ClownWorld, here I come. I am amazed at how quickly, how often I forget how much I love it here.
Chat with the guard, signed in and properly badged, I quick-step past the car show (excuse me, let me mop up that drool puddle on your front bumper) and bounce into the main tent. Step, step, slow....pause, halt. Oh, gods, LOOK at the way he MOVES. Who IS that man with the profile, the hair, the shirt that would win an ugly contest? I don't care. --Move, girl. And don't scrape your jaw on the asphalt.
Clownside, greet friends: LA Jimmie, the Ex of my Ex, Inspiration Dana, and his heretofor unmet Mrs., a few others I know nominally and some I've never met. A good crowd.
It promises to be hot today, and my teeny t-shirt may yet prove a liability. A good day to not be stilting. We waltz back to the main tent, where it is shaded and breezy. The band warms up with some heartbreaking harmonies. The guy with the hair is the drummer. Naturally. Could it have been otherwise?
I point him out to Double Ex.
"That's my boyfriend."
"For the day. He doesn't know it, but he is."
We find our spot, set up to handle smutty sweaty cherubic cheeks painting cats and unicorns and (ugh) butterflies and (yaay) spiders and (double yaaay) snakes and (her) "my first cow!" and (me) "does she have to be naked from the waist up?" a mermaid. (I made her naked anyway, covered by a draping of hair. As though Naked Girl could have done it differently, hah.)
The band plays My Girl, zydeco, Brian Setzer. Lots of hot jazz. Hot, hot jazz. I read that people who listen to jazz have more sex than rock or oldies fans. Bring it on. This is an amazing cover band.
"I want these guys to play at my next wedding."
"Your next wedding?"
"I need to get married again, for an excuse to have these guys play."
"You could marry the drummer," she agrees.
The lead singer talks into the DistortaVoice Microphone, perhaps says the band's name, though I can't decipher actual words.
Drum solo: "There's your boyfriend." We both grin.
I manage to not fling my paintbrush in the air and dance with wild abandon to O-bla-di, O-bla-da. It helps that a parent in my line sings along with me. It's also good that the band drowns out my vocal addition so completely.
Double Ex and I finish cleaning up as the band finishes breaking down, and our paths cross on the way out. Expressions of appreciation; they are gracious and grateful. This close, though, they're just a bunch of sweaty South Baltimore guys.
Close examination being akin to reading the ingredients on a Twinkie wrapper, I realize I prefer my fantasies unscrutinized.