The lead singer tans in our gaze. Turning occasionally for an even mahogany, he flirts, in a spandex mock pilot's uniform, rather than, say, a bikini. We keep him warmer than the spotlights. He barely breaks a sweat, though,
After the fireworks, the red ghosts began our parade, horns and hooves clacking like those of the King of Goats. Belching fire, they vanished, replaced by goblins twirling green fish like scaly balloons above heads.
I woke up today with an ache in my hunting tooth. Despite the springy hotel mattress, my back cricked like a viewmaster wheel, clicking picture to picture. Breakfast was delicious, I think. More fuel than feast, though.