[TRANSCRIPT]
[click, static]
Dear Harry,
To think I was craving unpredictability just last week.
I’ve had to leave the Caesar—or, I guess I didn’t have to, but—well, I was working on getting the record player going this morning when the fire alarm started blaring. Scared me right out of my skin, let me tell you.
So I gathered up my things and did what any sane person would do and evacuated. I’d gone through my usual safety checks before settling in, but it’s a huge hotel, so I didn’t get to all of it—with all this power actually working, I wouldn’t be surprised if something sparked and caught fire. But there wasn’t any evidence of smoke or fire, so who knows. Better safe than sorry, I say.
God, thank god for automated emergency systems. Whoever came up with those really did the apocalypse a favor. Without the tornado warning and the fire warning and everything…well, I could be dead several times over. It’s a pretty good argument for sticking to hotels over homes, I guess. If only people had these things in their homes.
Anyway. Fire or not, I’m out of Caesar’s now. And moving hotels actually proved to be an excellent choice, because I got to the Sands—that’s the only other hotel I recognized the name of, mostly because of Frank Sinatra at the Sands, the record. And I guess he and the rest of the rat pack must have come here a lot because guess what? I think I’m in their room.
That’s right—I got to the Sands and came up to the fanciest suite I could find and what does the wardrobe have in it but Dean Martin’s suits. His name is stitched right into the collar and everything! I couldn’t believe it.
It’s pretty late now, but tomorrow is the big 3-5 and now I know what I’m going to be wearing as I fix myself up whatever celebration I can. I think I’ve earned a day of treating myself, even if treating myself in this case means wearing a dead man’s suit.
Night, Harry.
[click, static]
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En liten tjänst av I'm With Friends. Finns även på engelska.