No, it's not the name of my new business venture or band. Although it does work on a lot of levels...
After months of goofy blog commenting and messaging back and forth about the perils of furniture and the ever-dwindling supply of radness, and shamelessly brain-picking one another about business-y stuff, I finally stopped internet dating Morgan and drove out to the desert to meet her (and her shopping haunts!) in person.
I almost peed my pants and got a nervous zit in anticipation. The zit wasn't nervous. I was. I hope that's clear.
I'm not about to reduce her to a bunch of overused superlatives. You know how I feel about that. Even though she is the best-est, most-est, talented-est, etc., that's just not the whole of it.
She spent the day propping me up to everyone we met, although failing to mention who she was, and simultaneously fielding calls all day from famous people I won't mention (but I reeeeeeeally want to), demurring about how freakishly in demand she is ("Oh, it's really nothing. All I do is write some blog.."), hesitating to reveal to others the magnitude of the projects she's working on. And she gently shamed me with her knowledge of art. You could say she's down-to-earth, but that really doesn't quite do it. She's also admirable and educated and sweetly shy and modest. And tough, and kind, and driven, and generous.
I really wish I had taken some pictures, especially of the ex-model junk shop owner with green hair and my Ace pot pie. And the windmills we criss-crossed back and forth through a thousand times, and the snowy San Jacinto mountains suddenly looming out above us like some desert Mt. Fuji. But I was bewitched and forgot about the 10 pounds of camera in my purse.
And the Brick House? It's even better in person.
Thanks for everything, Morgan. Love, Coy Pooper