This morning in traffic (to use the term very loosely�it�s maybe a 12 block, 5-minute drive), I angered a woman by driving the 30 MPH speed limit, whilst she shook her fist, then whipped around to pass. Miss P and I smiled and waved as the middle-aged blond with long, large hair drove past. She did a double take and hesitantly waved, as if she thought she should know us. I joked that she�d probably be at the socialite luncheon extravaganza today, and wouldn�t you know it�I walk in, and she�s practically the first person I saw. I don�t think she wants to be friends.

The larger issues was that I couldn�t stop laughing, pointing, and talking loudly about such things as how my Burberry suit is at the dry cleaners and giant diamond ring is in for repairs.

Seriously, people. I am coming to understand that the size of a woman�s coiffure is indicative of financial and social status, even in this bucolic midwestern city. (I wouldn�t call it bucolic, actually, but it sounded nice and evocative, right?) Hair color, too. I saw some startling shades of red on women who might�ve come over on the Mayflower. There were fur coats. All additional indicators to help you pick out who had a slinky Jaguar vs. a sporty BMW.

I was at best a sarcastic and giddy participant in the self-indulgent love-fest. Yes, it was for charity, but it was far more about seeing and being seen.

On the bright side, there was cheesecake, an absolute necessity to help me get over the shock of realizing the Bottle Rockets play tomorrow eve, not tonight.

Perhaps I�ll end the day with a late PBR to bring me back to my place in this world. Cheers.