Messenger Puppet

Ok, for a while, I was getting my ass kicked by ghosts in the machine or three dimensional reminders of days past, and it was really starting to drag on me.

No more. That experience, glorious as it was, is past now, supplanted by something new and old at the same time.

I am going to the mitten state for a vacation. But brace yourself:

…

…

…

I am also going to meet up with Madonna.

*FLASHBACK*

Dr. G: 8, I am meeting Madonna for a drink. Come with me to the bar to make sure I don’t leave with her.
8: OK, I got your back.
Madonna: Hi.
Dr. G (inner monologue): *Visualizes the tautness and ripeness and all that stuff. Visualizes enthusiasm, dedication to art, interactivity. All that and more.* Just reach out and take it.
Madonna: Mmmm… beer.  Wanna go?
Dr. G: You had me at “I promise to stay conscious,” baby. C ya, 8.
8: *mutters* Dumbass!

Yes, that’s right, THAT Madonna. As far as I know, no hubby, no kids. Still runs. She called me Saturday to see if I was in state yet. I had to pull over so I could focus my brain.

I am assuming that this will be just an opportunity to catch up and to close out some unresolved dissolution issues, which I was prevented from doing way back when, first by a jealous “successor,” and then later the vows and shit. I still owe her a couple of apologies, and a big thank you, so maybe I will have a chance to address that.

Any disposition will be fine, as long as there is some closure in whatever form. So “GFY, ‘Dr.’ G.” will be OK. Not my first choice, of course. Not even in the top five.