Tonight's Episode: Who's Buried in Grant's Tomb

In my exceptionally brief tenure with Agatha’s: A Taste of Mystery I convinced them to experiment with the theories of Antonin Artaud by attempting Dinner Theatre of Cruelty.

We'd present between-courses scenes of brutal gestures and searing physical honesty. To heighten the scorched-earth aesthetic of an art stripped of artifice in a world with a posthumous God, I’d solve infuriatingly obvious mysteries as detective “No Shit” Sherlock.

Soon after they relocated.

Cata-Strophic

Sadly, Haiti's summer seemed to follow popular song structure:

• First Verse

• Hurricane

• Second Verse

• Hurricane

• Bridge

• Hurricane

• Hurricane Repeats

Okay God, try your hand at a more temperate and challenging sonata-allegro form for a while.

McCain Recycles

HPV-TV

My HPV vacine hunk--also known as The Cervical Polyp Bit--as revived at the Star Bar recently. It risks seeming sick and misogynistic in order to make a larger point. I hope.



BTW, I think I might change my stage name to The Gesticulator!

If I Ever Play the Dozens with Prince Charles

Yo mama's so fat the sun never sets on her.

Yo mama's so old there will always be her.

Yo mama's monarchy is so limited it's only allowed in the first trimester.

Yo mama's so nominally the head of the Anglican church her pantyhose are about to schism.

Yo mama's an irrelevant, vestigial remnant of an ancient, aristocratic past. And ugly.