I just knew the death of the ancient mariner was going to screw up our vacation. Now we have to pack up for the big Irish wake in Boston on Saturday, and we haven’t brought a thing to wear. Now that the whole Camelot mantle has been officially passed to us, we’ll probably have to send someone out to buy some new pearls.
I can tell you, we’ve had 5 assistants working the internet since Wednesday trying to figure out WWJW: what would Jackie wear? And still they haven’t come up with anything that can be translated to suit Lady M’s “athletic” figure. The closest they’ve come is a redo of that get up she wore for her audience with the Pope.
But as you might recall, even her best friends hinted that the assemble might have been a mistake. And BFF from Chicago weighed in with a dismissive, even derisive verdict of it being a little too derivative.
So it’s going to be tense around here today, what with hours of trying things on in front of my sub-optic photon reflectors (to make MO appear appropriately somber without looking downright mean).
And I’m not going to be able to ramble through the estate tonight, projecting weird ghostly images like I’ve been doing to de-stress, because Big Guy’s got a speech to write.
Well, he won’t actually be working on his deeply personal eulogy himself. We’ve got little people to do that. But believe me, it’s a lot more dangerous to spook the speechwriters who practically live on coffee and cigarettes.
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