"I was going to write about celebrity beekeepers. I’d been brewing an elaborate tale in my head for weeks about Solana, the diva, who only eats babaghanoush and suns herself on patios while her bees feed on peach blossoms outside her bay window. And about Rhonda, the feisty one, who attends awards ceremonies in cocktail dresses with no underwear on beneath her skirts, and who prefers to strut on mirrored floors. And maybe there would be a man in there, just maybe one male beekeeper, a boy slave who keeps the bees organized, because Solana and Rhonda are preoccupied with being photographed from flattering angles. The sweet, innocent boy-child, with a clownish name like, Oh, I don’t know, Defithedra, something invented, because he is mythic basically, living in the shadow of the B-List celebs who call themselves beekeepers, while they wave their martinis around on the red carpet, though Defithedra does all the work. His name rhymes with Ephedra because he’s always up, always keeping those bees in line, always cracking the whip on those ornery insects. Slave and slavedriver."