Meet Pete
Honey, I’m home. Well, not home per se but most certainly airborne and so what better time to recapitulate the very, very important moments of the weekend that sit freshly behind us than right now sandwiched between two sleeping clowns. No better time is the answer to that. None. Ultimately though, there’s only one important thing that I should share and if you’re quick on the uptake–that is to say Twitter friendly–you likely already know what this is about. You may even be thinking: she’s taking this personification of plastic flamingo thing too far. You’re probably not wrong but he’s not plastic, assholes regardless, world, meet Peter Gabriel. He’s not related to the famous one–though this one is likely going to top the socialite ranks of New York City fairly fast. He’s lean and shit. We met on Saturday afternoon in Palm Springs at a Rolling Stone, Milk Studios and Havaianas hosted pool party. He was standing in the grass looking leggy, peculiarly pink, beak up and super fancy. I looked at him, he looked at me and in that moment a friendship was born.

As it happens, I had to remove his legs in order to remain assured he wouldn’t run away. This induced a sort of awkward patch of time between us but we resolved the issues quicky–I told him he could remove my arms if he felt so inclined. He didn’t though and instead just spent copious time slung over my shoulder, in some instances even came forward so to perfect my emulating a certain Bjorn. Last night we danced to Calvin Harris and then held hands–this was actually more beak to hand than anything–at Florence and The Machine only to finally find ourselves amid a cloud of Dre and Snoop fostered illegal smoke and ultimately in Tupac’s digital presence. Through it all, he was a champ and so when we went home, I gave him a cracker. We gave it some thought and he may actually start his own blog, we’re thinking Flamingo Pete and The City. We’re also sitting together on flight–he says hi. I’m not kidding.

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