Signs

I am not overly superstitious, but I do brake for "signs". If, for instance, I opened the door and found a dead raven on the step I would immediately turn around, take a Xanax, and call it a day. As I opened the gate today, a beautiful swarm of yellow butterflies took flight around me and took off into the air. THAT was a good sign, and after stopping by the office for a short bit, enjoyed a day a home.

Sunday afternoon, though, is the high point of the week. When Michael called, I suggested that we would spend the day on Lincoln Road and away from all the court intrigue. I'm very good at timing, and arrived at The Van Dyke for a perfect seat and then--again conscious that timing is everything--suggested we leave for Score where we secured a prime table just after it opened. That type of table on a Sunday is what I refer to as a seat in The Diamond Horseshoe; no one can pass by without being scrutinized or without us being seen. After a while many friends join in, people you know pass with a quick kiss, and still others take a distant table and sulk. Four hours passed of gossip and mindless banter. It was, itself, a sedative from the usual madness, and eventually we were joined by the usual friends. "Good choice," Michael commented as we left. No, I thought, a good sign.