On the SS Diplomat

I went to a party with my friend LE tonight, totally unplanned. I called for some other reason and she invited me. I figured it was about time I said yes to one of these events where her Ambassadorial friend sends a car ’round to pick her up. (A car that waits 45 minutes for her while we are several miles away.)
Also in the party was the Hungarian Model who, as always, was georgeous. Apparently, she also has an eye-lash weave? Who the hell has an eyelash weave, unless, of course, it is the Hungarian Model. On the up side, the Hungarian Model is proof that, if models actually eat, they turn into nearly-normal sized georgeous people as opposed to being frightfully small georgeous people.

In any case, I was glad to see her, even if I really do feel like a proper hobbit standing next to her. She’s really rather lovely. And, as we were trying to guess the origin of a particularly pretty dress, I got the designer right and she didn’t. That helped.

And, met a guy who has a MFA in poetry and taught at the english-language university in Ifrane, Morocco. That was encouraging. He’s on his second screen-play. I’m on my first. He seemed rather surprised to meet someone with such a similar background. Me, not so much. First of all, it would seem that most people consider themselves an undiscovered Whitman or Hemingway. Second, you are on a boat with a bunch of Arabs. Chances are, someone on the boat will have something to do with Morocco. Finally, isn’t everyone trying to get into Hollywood? Poor guy probably thought he was special.

And that is all the detail I’ve got for that.

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On the SS Diplomat

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