George surprised us by making it - George is a central character in the Bumptown play, a pivotal figure of some sort, and we're interested in learning, one day, what sort of figure it will be, George included - surprised us because he's now living in a suburban town beyond Lake Merritt, beyond Broadway, beyond belief, commuting now through town to the south. The bum's become a Bumptown alum, one who still knows, but no longer plies; one who's done, but no longer dances, the Bumptown rag.

What does that mean, exactly?

George knows and is known by everyone, and, when his name is mentioned, gives blessing to any and every transaction. I recall shooting buto babe's photograph at the Carnaval Parade last year: "Are you (the) buto babe?" A look of astonishment. The sublimated fear: is this?, could he be?, the blogger stalker! "Your link was on George's site. You suggested anyone reading say hello if they were going to the parade (and shoot your picture - click!)". A look of relief. Um, right. This guy must be legit if he's reading George.

Rare enough to meet someone who knows everyone, rarer still for the mention of his name to open doors. ("George said I should come by, have dinner, borrow money, meet your daughter and take her for a ride in your new Cadillac automobile, may I have the keys?", hand extended.) That's why we're wondering what part George will play at the Round Table, Harold Ross (the founder of the New Yorker) or George S. Kaufman (cause they're both named George)? And who will he be when he reaches the real world? Will he want press secretaries and body guards? Does it rhyme with Washington..., or Enron?

But you digress.

Yes, I digress. Sorry, George, nothing personal. Gwen's after the Dorothy Parker chair, no doubt, and there's probably a place for a photographer. Back to the more mundane. Tomorrow is a day off, today I'm tired, so, to bed.