No heavy lifting today; the old melon feels entirely too squishy. Instead, a small detail from real life that I want to preserve by putting it down in pixels.
Saturday night Cecil and I were going to the movies and, after much hemming and hawing, we finally decided to see The US vs. John Lennon. The wisdom of this decision was confirmed, I thought, when I took my seat in Cecil’s Chariot of Fire and heard a Beatles song on the radio. As it turned out, our friends at KFOG had chosen that day to play every Beatles song in alphabetical order, so we got to hear “Rain,” both versions of “Revolution,” and “Revolution #9” on the way into San Francisco.
We found the theater and, somewhat pressed for time, opted for valet parking in the garage underneath. As we got out a Middle Eastern-looking gentleman stepped forward to take the keys. And what do you think his nametag said? That’s right: “Ringo.”
I was also a little unnerved when we sat down and who do you think the guy sitting in front of me was? That’s right: Paul freaking McCartney. After a minute or two, he got up and mumbled something to himself that sounded like “Paul’s going to go get something from the fridge-a-dilly” and then “I’d see a picture about me versus Belgium. I could break Belgium in two. [Bear noise here] ” and he walked out.
And we never saw Paul McCartney in that theater again.
-Cecil