Monday morning rolled around, and I headed out my front door to get the newspaper. I was in my pajamas, as it was only 6 AM. There was Muse on the front porch, waiting for me. Or hiding from me, I couldn't tell which.
"What do you mean, 'What's going on'? I live here," I replied tersely. "I am getting my newspaper. You look terrible, Muse, you should take a shower and maybe drink a pot of coffee. Hold on, I'll just throw some jeans on and drive you over to Starbucks."
"I have some ideash for you, MOVee, some realllllllllly good ideash. We gotta talk." She reeked of alcohol.
"Oh, Muse, not again. Forget the coffee, why don't you come in and just take a nap? Hmm? Come on, just lie down on the couch for a while."
"New York," she whispered, "You have to write the story about that flight you had there, you know, when Nick Nolte was in first class? That is a great story."
"It wasn't Nick Nolte, it was Michael Keaton."
"Michael Keaton." Now I was beginning to doubt myself. Well, Muse had never been wrong before, I needed to scribble down the idea before she took off.
"Hold on, Muse, let me grab a pen and paper, gimme a sec." I walked in the front door and picked up a pen and grabbed an old envelope off the top of the trash.
"Ok, I'm back. What was it now?"
She was gone. And so was the idea.