(Coughed up by Facebook from a couple years ago. I don’t remember writing it but whatever.)
My only Toni Basil story was hanging out all night at her pad two tenants later and marvelling at the beautiful patterns a gallon of butternut squash soup had left on the ceiling. The kitchen was a sticky yellow mess but above it was the Sistine Chapel. That was some explosion. Redneck cuisine, his wife said. We ate the scrapings from the pot and talked about Toni Basil. If only she still lived there to see it. If only she liked butternut squash soup. If only she liked explosions and art.