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The Palo Alto deputy sheriff charged with searching our bags proceeds to sift through them with pokey Neanderthal punctilio, giving each of us a look of extinct-species hatred as he does so. Her most excellent HRC, we learn, is hobnobbing in the Garden Room with local luminaries and special guests, but will soon begin readying herself for us.
I think I’m good: all I possess in the way of concealed carry are two i Phones, three i Pads, my laptop and a Laocoön-like tangle of charger-cords and cables – the minimum one needs to function these days. When the time comes, we will be asked to form a crocodile leading into said Garden Room, where each of us will be introduced to Herself and have our pictures taken with Her. ) After that, we will assemble again in the tent and have the pleasure of hearing our new friend Hilldebeest deliver a rousing speech.
Sad to get wasted even as one stands leering hysterically at the (Possibly? I have a particular investment in survival tonight: I’m hoping that one magic handshake with HRH Hillary the First will cure my life-long scrofula.
Sailing down the freeway to Palo Alto at 75 mph, Blakey’s flooring it: we’re pretty giddy already.
We’ve heard that upper and lower colonic ‘background checks’ have already been performed on us in advance (without our knowledge!
) and that tonight will feature metal detectors, iris scans and hologram IDs. After all, we’re going to have our official pictures taken with HER: who wouldn’t want to be safe?
The fabled Queen of Soul serenades us with the song at least 47 times, by my count, affirming to the point of anomie, one might venture, what must be natural womanhood of mind-shattering amplitude.
Alas – given that we’ve skipped our evening meal and now feel distinctly peckish – these delights turn out to be of two kinds only: green frondy things made of kale and quinoa (a strange new Californian food otherwise known as cardboard) and greasy devilled eggs with brownish spots.Since it takes a village, we anticipate, too, the requisite flock of drugged up toddlers cordoned off somewhere in a nanny-pen, raptly checking the Nasdaq with tiny fingers or watching start-up porn on Androids larger than they are.Overlooking everything (or so one hopes), a magisterial phalanx of burly fellows in dark suits, sporting ear buds and bulletproof vests.glamorous in a pair of très bijou tenderfoot booties.I’ve opted for classic Teddy Girl spats and a tiny Santa hat, all in the possibly vain hope that Cate Blanchett (pensive, fur-coated, alone) will by some miracle be attending the festivities and mistake me for the nubile Therese in .