Mr. Smith Goes to Fallbrook

Frank Capra, esteemed director of feel-good 50s flicks, was actually an engineer with a degree from Caltech who felt compelled to give his alma mater the deed to his ranch outside San Diego. So that’s where I was yesterday and most of today - lounging on Frank Capra’s patio, drinking gallons of fresh-squeezed lemonade and hobnobbing with yellowing photographs of movie stars. There are pictures, as many as I could fit onto my tiny 8MB memory card, which was not nearly enough - it’s high time, I think, to spend more money on technology, grab extra memory and a USB smartmedia-reading device and while I’m at it, would anyone listen to me if I bought a microphone and did a talk show? - and they’ll be in the photoblog shortly. I had to come back early for a band concert this evening, though, and since everyone else is still lounging in the avocado capital of the universe I’m spending a quality evening with myself, some cookies and some computer.

Anyway, the concert was at 8, I’m supposed to be there around 7:30, and at 7:15 I realize my pantyhose has vanished to odd-sock-land and I haven’t shaved my legs in months. Which is all well and good and I can shave in the sink… except my otherwise long skirt has a slit in the back that requires me to shave past my knees, making for some really awkward positioning. After twenty minutes of teetering and tottering and splashing soapy water all over everywhere and discovering that yes, my right sandal really is in the box with my old physics notes, I’m out the door without a scratch on me. Hooray!

It’s only when I’m halfway across campus that I remember I forgot to buy a contribution of juice, and notice that my hemline is falling apart. It’s not until I’ve unpacked my things that I remember I forgot to do anything about the corks that fell off my straight mute. And once I’m home after a reasonably successful performance, I discover that my fly was open the entire time.

Thank god for long shirts, and all’s well that ends well.

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