At any rate, I got out of there without having to use my credit card and I also sang and danced way more than before.
So, all in all, a fine evening overall, and that doesn’t even include the lovely pink and purple sky witnessed from Bread War Park and the rise on the low bridge, nor the visit to the Chelan Café at an unprecedently early time, all in support of a fond far-thee-well to our gang’s prime ceramicist on his way east to seek higher education at the celebrated kiln of his choice.
There was, perhaps, a little more indoor activity than would have been expected on such a lovely late summer eve, but who cares, right? You still got to spin south and west and east and north on mostly empty streets and there were nevertheless opportunities for outdoor imbibing; no one crashed spectacularly (nor even simply) and rendezvous were effected even without planning.
It was one of those times where not everything has to be everything; everything is still something, and something is something that’s enough.
As always, if you keep in mind what an amazing privilege it is to have the good fortune to be even a little bit disappointed about what didn’t happen when what did happen is—compared to all the terrible, awful things happening in the world that it wasn’t—a goddamn bountiful harvest of good fortune, then how in the world could you possibly complain, even if the karaoke system audio buzzes a bit and the words don’t always show up onscreen for the audience to view.
Which is just another way of pointing out that pretty grand time was had by all, even in light of the somewhat bittersweet nature of event, given the imminent departure: Godspeed Timmy! Make us proud!