I wanted to be. And thank you. She planted a peck on my cheek and her patchouli walloped me on the chin. Reeling, I pocketed the card and snorted some bourbon to clear my sinuses. I furiously scrubbed my cheek with Bactine where she'd kissed me, then my hands, wringing them free of germs.
Hands are dirty.
As luck or fate or touring schedules would have it, Phish was playing in town, so I high-tailed it over to the parking lot and started asking questions. A bleary-eyed girl selling bean burritos out of the back of her Mercedes station wagon directed me to a Winnebago on the outskirts of the lot. After knocking, I entered the Winnebago, turning the knob with a wet-nap on my hand. Blueish, oily smoke billowed out. The interior was crammed with row after row of concert tapes.