laura jansen

Vagabond In a Betsey Johnson by Heidi Ross

She wears it to parties, don't you know. In it, she will wander through the silicone enhanced and heroin chic-ed and they will suddenly feel desperate and alone and eager to abandon their sad angry anthems for the sound of bells. Pianos will play themselves as she passes. Merry-go-rounds will go round themselves in her wake.

In the canyons, the coyotes that have been practicing a symphony written especially to mark the occasion of her arrival will lose their composure entirely and yip themselves into a frenzy, springing moonward in short, ecstatic bursts. Legions of gay cruise ship dancers will cry sparkly eyeshadowed tears of delight and dab them away with little kleenex pulled from little travel packs cleverly hidden in their little latex hotpants.

Mad Hatters and White Rabbits and Cheshire Cats will rise from the illustrated pages of storybooks to pour tea in celebration of the Second Coming of Alice. A contingency of dredlocked rastas will emerge from smokey dens and drum circles to form a tattooed phalanx around the tiny white girl in the blue dress with the puffy skirts as she dances along the boulevards, disrupting world premieres and scattering herds of preoccupied paparazzi.

Sullen will go out of style. Mentadent and Colgate stocks will soar. Morbidity will die a sudden, boring death and its funeral will be attended by absolutely no one. Girls will become impatient with their own insecurities and will send them to rehab, from which they will return as self confidence and wit.

Earthquakes, tidal waves, hurricanes, and Music City insanity will prove powerless over the will and velocity of a very small blonde vagabond in a Betsey Johnson dress, dancing toward the west coast like the bride of sunrise.