She looked like a million bucks, but didn’t know it. She had a million bucks, but it didn’t make her happy. Let’s call her, ah why not, the Millionairess.

I remember when I was first over at her place, I thought hey y’know for a Williamsburg kinda gal who likes “the” bands and going to see ‘em at “shows” she has a pretty nice apartment.

“Yeah, my dad pays the rent.”

“Really, what does your dad do?”

“He’s a businessman.”

“What kind of business?”

“A family business.”

“What kind of family business.”

“Oh you know they make blahdeblahdeblah.”

“Ha, ha, not, blahdeblahdeblah?” (I was joking.)

(Pause)

I mentioned this in Blog 1, but she was trying to find her way in NYC, and she wasn’t finding it, uh, easy. Y’know the song if you can make it here ... you can slit a sheep’s throat and drink its blood for breakfast.

“Everybody here is ...”

“Yeah I know,” I said, burping loudly after my morning sheep’s blood.

Speaking of sheep, she was the noir one of her family, Surprise! She usta like to smoke a lot of pot, and stare for hours at the Rodins at the Met, and was worried ‘bout that as a lifestyle.

Huh, I thought. Isn’t that normal. Isn’t that what everybody does. What else would you do?

(I’ve gotta get out more)

We pulled off somethinc together which was virtually akin to the moon walk or the best episodes of Monty Python, some kinda strange miracle, we had a beautiful Valentine’s day. It helped that some wacko, um artist, had put his blunt down for a second, and stepped away from the Rodins to decorate Central Park for us with these incredible saffron (I think that’s orange) colored fabric gates, that we could walk under in a cold February with a slight snow, and naked trees wind whispering us along their way.

It helped that she was wearing a high-collared almost top-coat, and was walking with a tall proud posture.

It helped that she was the black sheep, and all black sheep are brave.

It helped she liked the gift I gave her, and clasped it high to her, um, very nice bosom.

It was an out-of-print book of the lyrics of the forgotten half of a great song-writing duo. Hal David of Bacharach/David. Y’remember what he wrote.

What the world needs now is ...