It Happens Once A Year

With this having taken over the city presently, a little bit of mayhem has been working its way through the city streets and my place of employ. Curiously absent from my immediate vicinity are any real celebrities to speak of... or speak to... or trip on their way down a flight of stairs.

I've never been star-struck, but I think that I could enjoy seeing a star strike off some surface or object in a painful, yet funny, way. Just like in the movies, only real. Mind you, nothing that would do any permanent damage; I'm not a monster, after all.

"Be careful what you say," A.I. might remind me, "our celebrity overlords are always listening."

Our masters who rule from the Hollywood hills.

Bah.

However, the Festival has managed to deliver me a very entertaining sexual escapade, and were I the networking kind I'm sure I would be up to my elbows in business cards by now.

I have noticed that all about the city, unrolled like lapping tongues to streams of traffic, the red walkways and avenues of carpet. What's evident is that the quality of said promenades is not the issue on everyone's mind: matted or mangy, tattered or heavily traversed, it doesn't matter as long as it's red;

as long as it shows you where to go.