Let’s talk about Krista. Krista is a cool woman and I’m glad I selected her. Given the limited time available, I was forced to be more aggressive in my courting. I don’t know if the French spelling bee will make the final cut, or the part where we inspected each other’s teeth and withers. I am sure that Bravo will include at least one of the wind sprints, certainly the final if not the preliminary heats.
After the physical trials, we moved onto some improvisational drama. Krista did an excellent bit of early Benny Hill. The Russian brunette nearly brought down the house with a Nina monologue from The Seagull, but she lost points for implying some fantastical sort of comparison between myself and the self-absorbed artist Trigorin, who ruins Nina. Me? Self-absorbed? I mean, c'mon. I asked the three finalists to each do the Alec Baldwin speech from Glengarry Glen Ross, but as if it was being delivered by Mr. Snuffleupagus from Sesame Street, and I think that, of all the finalists, it was Krista who really found the heart, the center of Mr. Snuffleupagus. Krista probably would have been my selection even had she not broke off in the middle of a doily-tatting evaluation to chase down a purse-snatcher and talk him into a rehabilitation program. She’s witty and fun. So I picked her.
I flew her to Las Vegas for our date and picked her up in Betty, my 66 Eldorado. Like many old-timers, Betty has some memory issues. She sometimes forgets what gear she’s in, or which side of the road she’s supposed to be on, or that when I push down on the brake, she’s supposed to stop. You don’t drive Betty like a car so much as you steer her like a ship. It’s all about momentum and inertia. Pushing down on the gas pedal produces a 19th century sort of delay as if you’re waiting for someone to yell down a pipe to get an undereducated Yorkshireman to shovel more coal into a boiler. But her heart is in the right place, and Vegas is a perfect place for her to be. There’s no point in going fast in Las Vegas, anyways. All the interesting driving is done near the Strip in heavy traffic at night. It’s basically a cruiser paradise. (For daily driving, I use a teutonically efficient Mercedes named Inga.)
After dinner, I took Krista to a Strip cantina called Diablos, where I happened to get called up on stage by the singer, Jeremy Cornwell, who happens to be a friend of mine and who happened to have my acoustic guitar up on stage with him. I was shocked (shocked!) when he asked me to jam with him, but I did my best and then decided to serenade Krista with one of my favorite Jonathan Coulton songs, “Soft Rocked." For those who can’t make out the lyrics, suffice to say that there’s more to that song than meets the eye. Check it out online.