We love show biz. And if you don’t love show biz, we will destroy you.

Waiting for the murder ballad show to start, I started passing out fake blood capsules so that we could all be indicating signs of internal bleeding, or just give good-natured fight club grins now and again.

Praba understood how to use them: popping two, snapping them hard and kicking her head to the side to start the flow out the corner of her mouth. Sue and Lisa declined to employ the device. I waited with a few in my mouth until the gelatin started to weaken, then spit out the contents. It really was bad tasting. How can anything not bad for you taste quite that bad? It had to be bad for you and no one was telling. I popped another.

Alan had a handful and when I looked over to him to see how he was doing, a three foot thread of drool was coming out of his mouth. It wasn’t even tinted pink. He was just standing on stage, playing bass, and drooling this massive drool.

So, yeah these things work perfectly.

Sue Hutchinson Facilitated My Fright

The ink went out of my inkjet right before the check run, when I was trying to print the report now that it had been resized to 19 pages instead of 33 for the fax of the emailed url for the ftp site or, if you had the userid and password, the html which favored, in a teeth gnashing way, IE browsers from wintel machines. Would I accomplish both a/p and a/r and payroll and quarter-end financials? Was that the phone?

Yes, yes, yes, yes, but I could not have known that at the time. However: Yes. It was Sue calling to remind me that we were going to the Parkway and then to 21 Grand. I began to equivocate, recalling that the Parkway movie was being touted as

black blair witch
black blair witch
black blair witch

Twisted! I thought she said Twister! These are two totally different movies!

During the question and answer period after the show, I had the typical sensory overload problem: tingly hands, nausea, and my familiar affliction of instant and irreparable melancholy brought on by seeing people scream relentlessly, hysterically, and, here’s the tricky part, fictively so, like, even if I wanted to help them I couldn’t because…

it’s a fucking movie

No matter. It’s Bob coming over the couch in a latter twin peaks episode, forcing me into wounded silence for a day and a half until I end up sitting on the porch in the fading afternoon light crying and crying and crying.

What’s the matter? Z asks.

The fucking Lynch! I sob. He’s… He’s… amoral!

I was really hurt by David Lynch’s use of subwoofer in lieu of coherent plot. I was really hurt by Constable’s cloud studies. I was really hurt by those Titians showing people getting their old testament heads chopped off. I was really hurt by the scene in Defending Your Life when the toddler cries helpless in his playpen as his parents argue pointlessly and cruelly over his head.

Pi didn’t hurt me. Requiem for a Dream did.

Bjork in Shepherd’s Bush didn’t hurt me. Bjork in Dancer In the Dark did.

Boo.