What are the chances, that while away for 4 days, that I would run into – likely the tallest and the shortest famous black men?
I am not kidding.
I am not saying I see colour but I think I need to mention it here for poetic purposes.
Are you familiar with my love of poetic moments?
The first night I was having dinner* with Patrick Ewing. All 7 feet of him. You cannot imagine the size of those hands. I was mesmerized by his proportions. I tried not to stare I totally stared. He was wearing a gingham shirt. It went on forever like a tablecloth at a big family picnic. I told him he looked good. I couldn’t help it, after all that staring. I had to say something.
The next day I practically run over run into the very mini Emanuelle Lewis. I was in heels and we walked and talked to each other for several steps. I don’t think my children were ever that little.
What are the chances?
I immediately went over to the black jack tables and bet the farm. Surely it was a sign.
(Fortunately, I don’t have a farm to lose)
(*What I mean was his table was beside mine. We were both having dinner. Together. Apart.)