Oh goodie, nearly lunch time. I'd had to start off the day with Frenet after just imagining the Bonfire of their Vanities consume them all last night at the shoreline and wherever (and I'd even skimmed through the current Vanity Fair to get in the proper mood for those events, but in that month's edition, in print and in public and for all to see, the writer fell down on the page and just worshipped David Bowie's inherent sense of good TASTE as exemplified by Bowie's digging through the roots everywhere to hire this Japanese photographer and that Japanese designer all for his costuming (the same issue that has Iman on the last page talking about what kind of instant Detox she carries with her in a small paper tube for an instant cleansing). So inspired was I by THAT afternoon's quick reading, where I thumbed through the gloss as rapidly as I could, looking for all the world as if I were an amphetamined student of kalimba, I'd set aside a copy of the current Departure magazine to toss into the growing (what I hoped would become a funeral pyre) at the Mercedes Benz Club Owners Beach campfire, but no! No one caught fire, not even me, and I was discomfited somewhat by that even into this morning, so I slugged down a Frenet early and was adrift in herbal flavors, and naturally thought about having Italian for lunch. While searching through the cabinets and cupboards I found what I first thought was a bottle of imported olive oil, but it turned out I had encountered olde acquaintance Ron Brugal, which I had previously squirreled away, but because of the nature of lettering and blue white and red on the label I'd mistaken this now for an import oil. Ron had long ago lost his gold fishnet, and was a bit of a disappointment, so perhaps I'll partake of a different tropical drink instead, because then I can sing "Bu bu de coconut juice", a wonderful folk song I'd picked up somewhere along my way to the Marquessas once, and have a jolly time of it. I might not even get around to having lunch today.