Written by Heather T. Taggard

Main Show, Lido!

Sundae Evening. I skipped all deserts to fast (track!) this day 'n by Sundown I feel like I need a John Mayer enema. The dude's been drunk for days and his music is suffering. Not only is this party dragging out but the general artificiality is becoming far more apparent. Just when I'm feeling sick 'n tired of the walled-off attitudes of artificially feminine, non-intelligent (or kind) ladies, I hear the voice of the MAN top lung from the Pacific Diner, or so I thought. Thinking he must be in there singing to AJ, the birthday boy (18 at Midnight) with the freshly signed guitar, I rush down a flight of stairs in my heels to the upper level of the extravagant dining room. What I found was the shocker of the trip, and brought tears to my eyes. No, it was not John Mayer, table top rocking as the servers had done in the other dining gallery the night before, but it was at least 40 and maybe 50 or 60 brown faced servers singing "Waiting on the World to Change" for their blessed patrons. Overwhelmed with emotion, I let tear drops splash my cheeks, as DRH rushed in to see what he was missing. Whoever orchestrated this brilliant maneuver deserves kisses and hugs and a lifetime supply of Ben & Jerry's and crocks. Strangely enough I had just come from the other dining area where I learned from an Indonesian server that despite only making $75 per paycheck plus gratuity, his living wage was still double that which he could earn back home in as much time. The Filipino said he makes 10 times what he could at home. Or maybe it was vice versa. It's not that they looked the same to me but that I bombarded them with so many questions that some of the answers ran together.

But one thing I'll never forget is those worldly brown voices singing that bright and shiny tune for their fanciful guests. And how hopeful and selfless they sounded, joyfully on key. So on key that they had Mayer's left hand man on his toes.

Reliquished of my aggravation I bound upward with revelation, imagination bursting from irritation to interpolation, growing 3 heart sizes, triumphant as I fly to the seventh for my camera gear, post haste.

I revel that my formerly bad mood was 2 part. 1: Judgemental ignorami, 2: VH1 had offered me a part as an extra but then reneged at sundown. Still, I got these shots and if I hadn't searched the crew out I would have never witnessed Mayer training his management in self defense on the back end of the lido deck as day 3 settled into darkness. Personally, I would have loved the chance to slap him in the face with my bare foot, but these yellow-shirted beefcake made access intangible, except for the briefest of glances and soul-tingling brushes. His blonde-haired student took many blows to the throat, good-heartedly, but it looked to me like aggravated assault. She was wearing nothing but a football jersey though, which might say "ruff me up" to an intoxicated millionaire, counting down to his grand finale at the 23rd hour. I choose not to zoom in on this behavior.

DIVINELY WELCOMED:
God Bless them all on the Victory Ship. No one attended my CH-OY-CH service in body so I ate all the bread and communion punch to myself. I heard a sound within the part of my ear that is outside my head, it said- "Tell them I love them!"

Tracing: The gossip ends here. Retrace over the lines
but only the best ones
the scribbles are gone
smudges
mudged over
blanketing snow
covers the lines
we just don't
need to know.