Proof of What
Going from his beige track shoes to her black flip-flops allowed me to find it. Neither smiling nor frowning, but simply staring, there it was. It was there. Beneath the empty orange seat of the dirty beach-bound A. A familiar face, calling out to me and only me:
CLASS A AMPLIFIERS
Our May 2005 cover imprinted upon a blow-in subscription card. I sent hazel light into its shadowy home. I returned its simple stare with a wink and a nod. And I wondered: How did that blow-in subscription card get there? And why?
Elizabeth tells me it was proof. Proof of what?
And yesterday morning, walking beneath the steely and relentless construction of poorly named Orchard Street, poor Orchard Street sweetly named, I was welcomed by John DeVore.
"I'd been waiting to run into you," I said, before walking away, feeling that all in this world is perfect and right.
I arrived at the Sheraton Gateway at about 9pm, LA time. Someone was asking for me earlier, I'm told as I check in. I smile, happy to know that someone was asking for me, but, instead of following the sounds of the show, I go straight to my room and into the endless and soft bed.