By Todd Lavoie
Last night I had the most peculiar dream. There I was, in Paris of all places, glug-glugging champagne from the boot of a Moulin Rouge can-can showgirl while a pair of elephants bejeweled with emeralds and rubies swaggered a slow bolero to the one-two-three/one-two-three of a rowdy accordionist grinding out hot-pepper triplets from the razor edge of a tightrope hung above.
I pulled my hungry gullet away from the champagne overflow and the heaving tray of exquisite pastries cradled in my lap to crane my neck in the direction of the most deliciously weepy cello I’d ever heard, sighing into my ears from overhead. Up in the balcony, swaying back and forth, were two young lovers with eyes blazing hot ‘n bothered, and every time their fingers touched, the swell of strings surged out of them. I looked out into the crowd— jugglers, acrobats, fire-eaters, starry-eyed mystics, couples dancing with the sheer wild damn-it-all abandon of being in love for the first time. My cat, Pickles, was playing the castanets with fierce precision. Hell, I don’t even have a cat.