Our BoBo town, Laguna Beach, recently suffered a landslide, destroying a number of homes.
The locals have bellied up to the charitable bar and held breakfasts, raised money, and what-not.
Yesterday they held a concert (pictures, here) as a benefit for the displaced.
The day before, we received a call from my daughter's choral director, asking if she could join some others and back up Paul McCartney, who was going to be a surprise guest at the concert. In fairness, I don't know whether Paul even knew about it or whether it was a triumph of hope over information. Althouh we adults were excited, my 13-year old's reaction was more or less, "Okay. But Paul WHO?" This is a child who saw a cache of LPs and asked me what they were. Heraclitus was right. All things DO flow.
I took her to a morning rehearsal, and up to the site, where the kids were gathered into a room to practice. Long story short, Sir Paul never showed. Why, we don't know. One rumor is that it had to do with too much TV coverage. The kids weren't crushed at all. They were well-fed, had been led in games by chorus alumnae, and got to play frisbee inside a school where normally such antics would have been verboten.
I took the waiting in stride, as the picture above shows.
I'm reminded of the film The Big Night, involving a rumored appearance at a failing Italian restaurant by the great Louis Prima,
the avant-garde play Waiting for Godot, where Godot (God?) is the no-show,
and the great country singer George Jones's recovery song, "No Show Jones." 
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