We rode up the wrong way on the valet drive, got some good shots of the place and the city, and tried to video Corinna's Tallgrass poem with her sitting in some tall grass. It's an installation (the grass, not the poem), supposedly the native stuff. But between it being dark (we used our the Niteriders on our helmets for stage lights) and the incessant racket of cars, we might as well have tried to shoot the poem in a tent on the field in a NASCAR race.
I learned a lesson about hauling beer. I was uncharacteristically sans panniers that evening, and I tried to lash a sixer of the beer that made Milt Famey* walk us onto the rack. Going down the Twelfth Street bridge, my ankles got chilly and wet as one can leaked its goodness out; a second can blew before we were out of the haunted house district in the West Bottoms.
Someone who bore a striking resemblance to the love of my life tried to tell me not to lash the beers down on their sides. I could have listened, but that's a dangerous precedent to set.
This guy was playing with flaming nunchucks (or whatever you'd call them) in front of one of the haunted houses.
You know what they say, right? Play with fire, you end up on my blog. Okay, maybe they don't say that, but they will, someday. You'll see.
*Really old, really long joke, sorry about that if you took the time to Google it.
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