Count Your Blessings

In the event, Gentle Reader, that reports reach you of a crazy redhead singing Rosemary Clooney songs at the top of her lungs from a fourth floor balcony of the Marriott hotel at Bonaventura Beach on Christmas Eve, I want you to know — and, understand that this is in no way admitting to any firsthand knowledge of said events — that the tall, handsome gentleman who accompanied her on one or two numbers (though in a much lower and more dignified register) did persuade her to come inside before security needed to be called.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass calls her friend Sara, in New York.