Sandgarden, silently impressed

In last night's episode a party was thrown, I think for me, at my parents' house. This parents' house was different, maybe made so just for the party. It had a big city apartment feel, the likes of which I might have seen somewhere in a Woody Allen movie.

The Russians had sponsored the party and there was Vladimir Putin zeitgeist hovering about the whole affair, including the giant metal structure dominating the living room. It was a thing out of the county fair, like one of those rides that I was afraid of but my brother insisted on riding.

The Russians weren't there but managed to be upset about the Bulgarian contingency at the party. Understandably. Their zeitgeist rivaled Putin's to say the least.

Bebe came over to talk to Hank and all the kids (that's us) had to leave.

****

I watched as an older American interviewed and wooed, in my booth at the restaurant of all places, a British woman who could have been Sally Carter. Is Sally British? I can't remember.

****

Later I am waiting in line to walk down, underground, along a Mobius Band path in a giant, Mobius Band room. Really. The room was a three dimensional Mobuis Band.

Samantha and I made our way to the bottom floor where each dance couple member was made to stand on a platform, facing his or her partner before beginning the gallop-dance. Someone cut in front of us and Samantha had trouble balancing on the platform. We ended up in a gigantic, pale yellow bed with Sabine Schmidt and countless chatting others. I asked, excited at my level of knowledge on the topic, about a fundamental quandary of anthropology. I think Alex Tripodi was there, which would explain a quandary of any subject.

Samantha was impressed. Sabine too, though silently.

****

I am in an institution of education, all a shady cardboard-bland brown. I try to get something out of a machine, something like a vending machine for index card-sized pieces of blue and yellow paper. They won't come out and sudden mess of sand has amassed on the floor. The glass facade must have shattered.

I walk down the hall to an inlet with grey plastic garbage cans holding brooms and such, but only find one relevant instrument in an over sized zen sand-garden rake. It doesn't tidy well and the janitor offers me a broom from my childhood, which may or may not have worked.