On Monday night, wily-kid mayhem ensued merrily, a tangle of limbs eager to dispel propriety and wrestle, bestowing wedgies and smashing cherry tomatoes and banana into virgin orifices. "She's a biter!" someone yelled. "Excuse me, I have mashed potato in my ear." Cold beer flowed down necks and torsos while laughter squirmed across the room, crawling under tables and into corners.
Of course, a cop arrived to spoil our 'horse-play,' deemed not-yet-criminal, only almost. Unsuccessfully, I endeavored to quell my smile at the tableau of sticky abandonment that still transpired behind his burly back, a gleeful spectacle of flying zucchini torpedoes and water-gun discharges.
And last night, I dreamt that Joe and Yoko played music together at the party. Waking up, I could still hear the music, a skittering-bird-at-the-sea-edge sort of music, perfect for a season that will lick my wrist sweaty, me dream-heavy, sketching blueprints for trickster havoc in this city and Paris too.