And so we are all waiting for the next blonde to implode.
We are, as always, impatient for disaster. We are chasing the tabloids. We are glued to the news. We are addicted to the the prickly pundits and the underground prophets, weathermen dishonest in predicting the size and the shape of a particular cloud, on a particular day, in a particular place.
Nothing is this certain; except the catastrophe.
Cosmetic surgeons and urgent responders are paid to act not to contemplate. Most assuredly, the stitches will blow. (You know it without knowing.) The long row of sutures that holds her together, holds her into her dress, will--at any moment--begin to unravel and pop. Nothing can stop the blondes who will wander off of the cliff. The inevitable is inevitable. The residue is what the residue is. There are too many lives that will be expunged from the world's record with moist towelettes.
And too many blondes are eager to deplete the gold--the saffron, the yolk, the butter--from the sky. She (the mother in you) will at least take her apron to this shapeless thing, filling the pockets with the talk of the town. When you get "home"--back to the place you are identifying as the I--the air will thicken like a dangerous stew. But before... .
...before any one of a dozen waiting, anticipated and horrifying conflagrations can take hold, some blonde, somewhere will implode and the details--of her abortion, her car accident, her hunger for pills--will blot up the remaining pages of the unsettling and dangerous news.
This business in Japan is nothing when compared to the ambitions of a spokes-model with her bubbly, brand-new, pride of the yankees, rippling wonderland of singing double d's.
