The magnificent Sheila Callaghan and her equally magnificent composer husband, Sophocles, are starting to host Sunday evening sunset concerts in their Silverlake backyard, complete with picnics and ambient sound and babies with fauxhawks and performance art,
and then I laid back and gazed at the stars to see if they were in fact planes, or stars, and then Sheila sang beautifully with her husband on a song he wrote for her, then I trapped her in a bag and stole her life*, and then we all lived HAPPILY EVER AFTER. What?
* I promise* I won’t.
**I probably won’t.