Be Silly. That’s what was imprinted on a license plate in front of me today, as I drove up Laguna Canyon Road to a yoga class in Irvine. I couldn’t help smiling. Instant love for the driver, an older man from what I could see. There were four people in the car. Four heads in an old beige Mercedes tootling up the road. No doubt they were all were wearing Groucho Marx clip-on noses with attached black eyeglass rims and eyebrow tufts. Maybe one of them, not the driver, I mean he’s older, safety conscious and all, had on a pair of swim fins, another, Ronald McDonald red-striped tights. Maybe one of the men wore a tu-tu. A mauve one.

I just knew if I pulled up alongside them at the stop sign at El Toro Road, Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen would burst from the windows and all four heads would jerk back and forth in time, with the foursome singing at the top of their lungs along with the group. If I continued alongside the rocking car up the canyon, I would see them lift their chins and sing the final chorus, “Nothing really matter, nothing really matters to me,” all mellow and melodic, lips stretched to the sky. And I would sing along with them.