A gentleman with interesting hair and a confused expression wandered into my office and asked for directions to a conference room. I offered to walk him there, as I needed to stretch anyway. As I waddled and he huffed down the corridor, I kept thinking, “this guy’s a rock star. I know he’s a rock star. Who is he? Why can’t I remember his name?”
Yeah. It was George Clinton.
A couple of secretaries and I hovered near the elevator for a while with a camera, hoping we’d catch him before he left, but we found out he’s in an all-day thing and may well be here late. Rats. I wanted to take a photo with his hand on my big, pregnant belly.
Now my babies may never be funktified.