dance! dance! revolution!

moons ago i fooled around with a local rock and roll star. we had some things in common; both our fathers are profs of philosophy, for instance. if there were other commonalities i now forget them. he was articulate and earnest and signed his emails

'bestest'

after we dressed he mussed his hair just so to make certain his bangs hung in his eyes just so.

i was briefly smitten—it happens sometimes. (i later found out later he'd been to my apartment before we ever met for parties when my friend was the previous leaseholder; teeny world)

this morning i turned first to the porno section of the times to see who got married and what galas took place and how many organzas men affix now to their lapels, and i start to read a column about a rock guy who comes on to the writer and signs his text msg (it's a new era and who needs email) with 'bestest.'

b.i.n.g.o!

maybe that's an affectation of many indie/pop rockers. i read on. by the end, there was no doubt of the dude's identity. cause it is a wee world, and that fact bursts from its parenthetical marginalization, and through gossip and jabber the various bits i'd heard about his life were repeated in that thar text right down to the courderoys.

after i finished reading i called my friend m, who also dallied with him. she said without my saying more than 'hello' that she's read the piece and was going to call me after talking to her mama. she knows two other women who tangeod with him too.

oddly feels like i had someone else's deja vu. and only an amble under the pink, thick halo of cherry blossoms will now do.