On our way out, we stopped by the Camp's little fire pit. There, Joe Allen from the museum had organized a little hoedown, and instead of 1000 people crushing around, there were one, two, three, seven, nine. Nine is such a nicer number. And instead of dirgey surf boys, there were two women from New Jersey. And instead of sounding like a poor man's Jack Johnson, Sharon Vanetten and Corbi Wright sounded like a rich man's Shawn Colvin, with the phrasing of Marianne Faithful and Joni Mitchell's pure,sweet trills. They were beautiful, and it was sweet and peaceful, the tiny crowd silent and rapt and snickering only when a gaggle of girls in high-heeled shoes noisily clacked their way past us to Aire.
Clack clack clack. Click clack.
Vanetten and Wright left for San Francisco to spread their loveliness by the Bay, while I was home and in bed by nine p.m. to watch SNL take on Hillary Clintonbut fierce, and to win two more Pulitzers and a beau.