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One From Column A...
by "The Real A"

February 7, 2000 - #103

Well, dear readers, I have just spent the last hour defragmenting my computer. Yes, you heard it here, dear readers, my computer is now defragmented. I don't know what that means but I'm told one simply must defragment one's computer if one is to be considered anyone. I'm told by those in the know (as opposed to those in the no) that fragmentation occurs in computers and this causes blank spaces which in turn cause the computer to run very slowly. I'm told that a similar fragmentation can occur in the brain of humans and yet we humans cannot push a button and defragment said brain. Therefore here we sit like so much fish, building up blank spaces in our brains which causes us to run very slowly. I, for one, feel somebody should invent a defragmenting device for humans immediately, because frankly I am way too fragmented right now and all because some selfish person hasn't invented a defragmenting device for humans. The other thing I think they should invent for humans is a remote control. That way, if someone is saying something we don't like we can mute them or change their channel or just shut them off. Or, if we like what they're saying and want to hear it again, we can just push rewind and voila (aliov spelled backwards). I'd just like to know one thing: What the hell am I talking about?

Well, that was an opening paragraph, wasn't it? That just kicked this column into high gear, didn't it? Not into low gear, mind you, no, that paragraph kicked this here column into high gear. Has anyone noticed that I am in need of defragmenting? I know this to be a fact because earlier today I locked my keys in the trunk of my car. That is a very annoying thing to do, locking one's keys in the trunk of one's car. Normally I always carry a spare set of keys with me for just that reason, but because I am fragmented I did not, in fact, have my spare set of keys with me. So, there I was, sitting in the driver's seat of my car unable to drive because the fershluganah keys were locked in the trunk. I then thought to myself that there must be a way to pop the trunk from inside the car. I looked everywhere and could not find anything that resembled a trunk popper. I looked high and low and also low and high. I looked hither and thither and yon, especially yon. I then had the presence of fragmented mind to call the lady who watches my house for me when I am out of town to come get me and take me home so I could get my spare keys which should have been with me but weren't on account of my fragmentation. But the lady who watches my house did not have her car and so could not come to get me. But she did a very clever thing, and she did this clever thing because, dear readers, her brain is not fragmented and does not have blank spaces therein. She called an Infiniti car dealer and asked them if there was a way to pop the trunk from inside the car. And lo and behold they said that there was a way to pop the trunk from inside the car. They told me where to find the extra special handy-dandy trunk-popping button, which I had not been able to find. There it was exactly where they said it would be, on the armrest of the passenger door. The one place I hadn't looked! Who would put a trunk-popping button on the side of an armrest is another question for another day. And so, the story had a happy end because I pushed that there trunk-popping button and thus the trunk popped open and the keys were retrieved. It was a good thing, too, because frankly I was getting so upset that I was ready to call it a day. Of course, why would I call "it" a "day" when "it" is clearly an "it" and not a "day"? How do you suppose "it" feels being called a "day" all the time? Perhaps we should just call a "day" an "it" for a change and see how the "day" feels. In any case I was so paranoid the whole rest of the day that I double and triple checked that I had both sets of keys with me at all times. I even left the front door ajar until I'd ascertained both sets of keys were on my person. Have you ever left your door ajar? Did the door want the jar? What does a door do with a jar anyway? I'll tell you right here and now and also right now and here that this is what you get when you cannot defragment your brain. My computer, on the other hand, is defragmented and running quite well thank you very much.

There is a redheaded girl who is rollerblading up and down the street, back and forth, over and over, from one end of the block to the other end of the block. Doesn't she get bored of seeing the same thing all the time? Doesn't she want to be adventurous and see another block? There she goes again. Excuse me for a moment.

I just went outside (first I made certain that I had both sets of keys and that the door was left ajar even though the damn door has enough jars to last it until the cows come home) and asked that rollerblading girl why she was only going back and forth and forth and back on only this one block. She looked at me as if I was an overflowing toilet and rollerbladed right past me without speaking a word. Can you imagine? That rude redheaded rollerblader just bladed right on by me and that was that and I could take it or leave it because that was just the way things were going to be, redheaded rollerblader-wise. Sometimes I think the world has gone mad. Sometimes I think we're all just rollerblading on the same block and not discovering all that the world has to offer. Sometimes I think we should stop and smell the roses, if you get my meaning. If someone asks a question in a nice tone should we just rollerblade right past them with nary an acknowledgment? I tell you I am in a fit of pique, dear readers. I have been shunned by a redheaded rollerblader. I have been ignored, passed by. Am I supposed to just take it lying down, like a piece of pickled herring in sour cream?

As if I weren't fragmented enough I have discovered something on my defragmented computer that I never knew existed. What is it you might ask and I might tell you otherwise you might fall victim to fragmenting. What I have discovered is that you can play solitaire on my computer. Who knew? You just go to a thing called "games" and there it is, solitaire. Well, as you might have guessed, I have become obsessed with solitaire on the computer. First of all, there are no actual cards so it is much less cumbersome than playing with actual cards which can be quite cumbersome in case you missed the point of this sentence. And isn't the word "cumbersome" truly cumbersome? Just asking. Anyway, the first day I discovered solitaire on the computer I sat for three hours playing game after game after game. Now, I don't know about you, dear readers, but when I play solitaire on the computer and I lose I immediately suspect that the computer has somehow rigged the deck so that I cannot win. I think the computer does this on purpose. I think the computer is having sport with me. I think the computer is trying to torment me, trying to drive me to the point of insanity (a short drive in my present fragmented condition). And so I scream at the computer. I hurl vile epithets (no mean feat) at the computer. I rail at the computer. And do you know what? The computer does not give a flying Wallenda. The computer, of course, just sits there like so much fish and conspires for me to lose more often and faster. Has anyone realized that I have not said one word about the musical theater or my close personal friend, Mr. Stephen Sondheim? What the hell kind of column is this anyway? I think this here column needs defragmenting and defragmenting right now. Perhaps I'd just better end this section of the column right now, because frankly it's starting to resemble the new tour of The Civil War: Don't people know when they're beating a dead horse? But enough about me.



I had the pleasure of attending the Sondheim in Jazz concert at UCLA and, though not a perfect evening, there was plenty to enjoy.

First of all, let me say that UCLA is a very confusing place. There are simply no signs that tell you if you are going to the place you'd like to be going to. Hence, after parking in one of the structures, you walk in a direction which you hope will lead you to your destination. Luckily, there were other people walking so I just followed them. Unfortunately they were going to a different concert in a different building. Once I found that out I then had to backtrack and follow other people, and these people, thank goodness, were going to the Sondheim concert. I was then shown to my seat, which was in Row Z. Now, let me just say here and now and also now and here that I do not like sitting in any row which starts with "z". But, the tickets were free so who was I to complain? However, when I see the letter "z" I immediately begin singing the song from the television program Zorro. And so, there I was, in Royce Hall Row Z singing the theme from Zorro. This caused the other people in my row to look at me askance. I looked right back at them askance and finished the song. In fact I'm quite certain that my askance look far outaskanced their askance look. I mean, what did they expect? Put me in Row Z and you get the Zorro song, like it or not. But soon the house lights dimmed, the curtain slowly rose and the show began.

The opening number was the prologue from Follies, with the Trotter Trio. It was quite ravishing, as Mr. Trotter is quite brilliant, as are the others in his group. However, as an opening number it did not set the right tone for the evening. Too languid, too slow, and it did not tell us what type of an evening we were in for. What we needed from Trotter and company was any of his uptempo openers from say Company or Forum or even Passion. Something fun and with more jazz elements than the Follies number, which, for all the jazz harmonics was fairly straightforward. But, as I said, the number was beautifully played, so there you are. We were then treated to Jackie and Roy (who have their own Sondheim album and who are fairly delightful) who, I felt, were not at their best here. That said, they did do a nice sprightly rendition of Love Is In The Air. Then we had a singer named Gary LeMel, who is also a record producer. He's a terrific record producer and a merely okay singer. And I took great exception to the song he sang, Somewhere from West Side Story. I mean, let's call a spade a spade. This concert was called Sondheim in Jazz. Not Bernstein in Jazz. If one is doing a jazz concert it is not the lyrics which are in jazz it's the music and Mr. Sondheim did not write the music to West Side Story. Later in the evening, one of the other pianists performed I Have A Love which I found equally specious, albeit well performed. I don't know about you, dear readers, but I do not like specious things. Frankly, I find them specious. In fact, I find the word "specious" specious. I mean, look at the way it's spelled. What does that spelling have to do with the way the word is pronounced I'd like to know? If such a stupid word has to exist then spell it the way it sounds - "speeshus". Also, have you noticed that when you say the word "specious" out loud you sound like you've had a few too many drinks? Where the hell was I? Oh, yes, the specious singing of Somewhere which had nothing whatsoever to do with the evening at hand in my humble opinion.

Other performers included the great clarinetist Eddie Daniels, who performed Pretty Women and a couple of others. I am a big fan of Mr. Daniels but hadn't seen or heard him live before. I became less of a fan because it seemed to me Mr. Daniels was more interested in showing off his prodigious technique than serving the music. We had Terence Blanchard, the great trumpet player, do his take on Poems from Pacific Overtures. I'd not liked his take on Poems from Pacific Overtures when I heard it on the Color and Light CD, but I liked it a lot at the concert. The Trotter Trio did several songs from their albums and they were, as always, great. They were occasionally joined by Oscar Castro-Neves (the producer of the Color and Light CD) who is a splendid guitarist. Dianne Reeves sang I Remember nicely and then later in the program did Liasons, a strange choice since it's such a character piece. I would have much preferred to hear her do something from Into The Woods, a show whose score was not in evidence at all. Jeff Clayton did some pretty terrific sax solos on various numbers. Maureen McGovern came out and did two songs (then had to run to the airport to catch a flight) and she was splendid. Kurt Elling, a jazz vocalist, gave the evening's most surreal performance doing Green Finch and Linnet Bird as a vocalese. It was a true Mel Brooks moment. The program promised a song from Wise Guys but it never materialized. The evening's low point was the act one closer, Every Day A Little Death as performed by Dianne Reeves and Jackie Kral. As most of you know, that song is my favorite in the entire Sondheim canon. Everything about the song eluded the two ladies including several lines of the lyric. It was a mess and certainly not a wonderful way to end the first half. For me, the evening's two unforgettable highlights were Terry Trotter doing No One Has Ever Loved Me from Passion (breathtakingly beautiful - and there was not a sound from the auditorium for the entire six minutes playing time) and Lea DeLaria (she of Broadway's recent On The Town) swinging and scatting brilliantly through The Ballad of Sweeney Todd. She simply brought down the house and received the evening's biggest ovation. Frankly, the concert could have used a few more things like that. The pace of the concert was way too slow. Had the pacing been better perhaps the show would not have seemed so long, but as it was there were endless long pauses between numbers while things were moved around on the stage to accommodate the next performer while the audience just had to sit there and watch. The host for the show was the charming and affable Charles Kimbrough (one of the original cast of Company) who was his own droll self but didn't have enough interesting material and was frequently left looking like he didn't know what he was doing. But enough nitpicking. It was wonderful that such a concert even came to pass, it was wonderful to hear how melodic, beautiful and timeless Sondheim's music is. And even more heartening the concert was a sellout.



Has anyone noticed that the Stephen Sondheim Stage has a whole new look? Mr. Mark Bakalor has been slaving away over a hot computer (defragmented, of course) for months designing the new look and he has finally unveiled the new look and we have seen the new look and we are here to tell you it is spiffy. Yes, you heard it here, dear readers, this new look is spiffy. And do you know why? Because Mr. Bakalor did not create the new look in a jiffy. Had he created it in a jiffy it might have been iffy but instead it is splendidly spiffy. Mr. Bakalor's design skills have also been put to use by the producers of the upcoming London concert of Sweeney Todd, starring the original and only Sweeney, Len Cariou, and the delightfully deft and daft Judy Kaye as Mrs. Lovett. In fact, Mr. Bakalor is actually going to London to attend the concert and admire his very own handiwork. Whilst in London we trust he will partake of some what is it fish and chips and drink ale from a pub.

The other exciting news is that on Monday, February 7 in the year 2000 we are going to have our second live chat. It's been two years since our first live chat. There have been several dead chats in between but we don't count those. At nine o'clock East Coast time, or six o'clock West Coast time and various other times in various other locations around the country. Oh, we'll have fun and I hope all of my dear readers will stop by and chat live with me. There are several things you must do to prepare for said live chat. First, you must prepare your cheese slices and ham chunks and shrimp bits on toast, so that we all may sup while we are chatting live. Second, those of you who have your official One From Column A T-shirts must wear them. Third, have some questions prepared and I will have some answers prepared and perhaps the twain shall meet, whatever the hell that means.



Let's face it, dear readers, art isn't easy. Now wait just a darn minute. "Let's face it". Why should we face "it"? What if we don't like "it"? What if we can't stomach "it"? If we don't feel one way or the other about "it" there is simply no reason to face "it". Let's not face "it" because right now I'm annoyed at "it" and I'm thinking about calling "it" a "day". Has anyone noticed that I'm blathering incoherently all about "it"? I don't mind blathering incoherently All About Eve but blathering incoherently all about "it" seems like a big waste of our collective time. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, art isn't easy. I, for one, have no talent whatsoever in the art department. But, as most of you dear readers know, I have been collecting art for a couple of years now. In past columns I have shared some of said art with you and I thought it was high time I shared some more. The type of art I've been collecting is known as illustration art. That is, art used to illustrate, whether it be for a book cover, magazine cover, story, advertisement or anything else of that nature. I have always loved this type of art, having become enamored of it like most people through the wonderful covers of the Saturday Evening Post. Even before I knew who Norman Rockwell was I had fallen in love with his vision of American life as portrayed on his many wonderful Post covers. Through that love affair I went on to discover all the other brilliant artists whose unique visions have entertained and touched everyone for so many years. It is great fun to be able to own these original paintings, especially when they can be displayed in tandem with the magazine or book they were used for. So, here are some of my more recent acquisitions for your viewing pleasure.

Isn't that just too too? That painting was done for the November 1956 issue of Coronet Magazine. It is by one of my favorite illustration artists, Victor Olson. I love the humor in his paintings, and he captures that Davy Crockett coonskin cap mania so wonderfully it makes me want to weep (peew spelled backwards).

Isn't that wonderful? Isn't it just too too? The artist is named Jan Balet and the painting was used as the cover of the November 24th issue of The Saturday Evening Post. Soon thereafter the Post, which was one of the leading lights in terms of illustration art, would begin to do photographic covers and sadly forego the style which made them the most beloved magazine for over six decades.

This wonderful gal was painted by W.T. Benda for an early thirties magazine, probably Collier's. I just love her face and the detail and the style.

Isn't that fantastic and just a little too too? This painting done for the Louis Dow Company in 1937 is by Gil Elvgren, arguably the most famous and wonderful of the pinup calendar artists. This painting was used over the years on various calendars and is entitled "Sure Shot". I'm happy to say that it's featured in the brand spanking new coffee table book on Elvgren. Next we have another pinup painting, but it is unsigned, therefore I don't know who the artist is, but I do know that it's someone with a lot of talent. It looks like it could have been used for a thirties pinup magazine called Film Fun which had similar types of covers.

Isn't she great? I love that outfit, don't you, dear readers? If any of you have an outfit like that please take an activity photo so we can put it in this column immediately. I had an outfit like that but it seems to have gone missing. But if and when I do find it you can be certain I shall don it and have an activity photo taken posthaste. Here's another great pinup piece, this one by a famous pinup artist named Earl Moran.

Earl Moran was famous for doing a bunch of pinup calendar paintings with the very young Norma Jean Baker who, shortly thereafter would change her name to Marilyn Monroe. And finally, we have this wonderful cover painting from the January 1956 issue of Calling All Girls by Freeman Elliot.

I just love that. It's too too and very purple, and from a time when things were simpler, sweeter and more fun. The one problem I'm having is that I'm running out of wall space. I may have to go to the store and buy some more walls very soon. I hope you've enjoyed this little show and tell. It's fun to be able to share this stuff with all of you lovely dear readers.



Yes, the what if department is back which I know will either be cause for great elation or great revulsion. Can someone explain why "elation" has a "tion" and "revulsion" has a "sion"? It seems so arbitrary tion or sion-wise. Oh, well, let us not dwell on it because, as you may remember, we are mad at "it" and we are not facing or dwelling because that's the way "it" is.

Anyway, what if Irving Berlin had written West Side Story? And it goes something like this (to the tune of You Can't Get A Man With A Gun):

When Jets start to grumble,
There's gonna be a rumble,
So you'd best pack a knife or gun.
'Cause when they rumble hard - oh
You know Riff and Bernardo
Will be dead when that rumble is done.

When Jets start in dancin'
There's no time for romancin'
When one's White and one's Mexicun.
And when Tony starts hummin'
And singin' something's comin'
Then you know he'll end up on the run.

On the run,
On the run,
People die and then he's on the run

But he'd drink Sangria,
If he could wed Maria
In the hot Puerto Rican sun.
But because of the tiff and
Bernardo stabbing Riff and
Tony killing her bro
What the schmo doesn't know
Is that Chino is packing a gun.

When finger's start snappin'
Then something's bound to happen
All that tension can't be much fun.
Still Maria feels pretty
While somewhere in the city
Chino's still on the prowl with that gun.

The Jets try to stay cool
With dancing that is way cool
While this tragedy's almost done.
But while Tony's confessing
Maria is undressing
On the street Chino waits with his gun.

With his gun,
With his gun,
They have sex while he waits with his gun.

Anita gets taunted,
And Chino is undaunted
As he fires his loaded gun.
Tony runs for Maria
He's one dead quesedilla
Tony's shot in the chest
She's depressed - very stressed,
And yes now West Side Story is done.



Have I mentioned that I am feeling fragmented? Perhaps if I answer some of your letters I shall feel less fragmented, or fragmented-lite. I'm also feeling very nauseous right now because of the after-effects of eating too much spicy meat products last evening. Yes, you heard it here, dear readers, last evening I partook of spicy meat products and as usual overdid the eating of said spicy meat products and am now paying the price ($3.49). Well, nausea be damned, let's just answer some letters, shall we?

Allie demands that there should be more Ruthie Henshall on this page. I know it's a demand because at the end of her one sentence letter are fourteen exclamation points in a row ("Get more Ruthie Henshall on this page!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"). First of all, I'm not certain that Ruthie Henshall would fit on this page. Second, why would Ruthie Henshall want to be on this page even if she did fit. If she were on this page then she would not be able to continue doing Putting It Together and that would be a fine kettle of what is it fish. By the way, I like Ruthie Henshall and I hear she is quite wonderful in Putting It Together, which, as you probably know by now, will be closing shortly. However, it is being taped by a new entity called The Broadway Network for airing, I presume, on The Broadway Network. It will be shot on High Definition Video and recorded in Dolby Digital 5.1 sound. Isn't that exciting? Especially the .1.

Emi jane writes to say that she hasn't written in ages, and wants to wish this here column a happy and lovely day. Emi jane informs me that she, like one of our other dear readers, has a pet named after a Sondheim character. It is her cat who is named Sweeney Todd, The Demon Kitty of Northeast Street.

PatLaceyBulb says that if I'm Tim Flavin (as one of our dear readers has guessed) he will laugh his ass off. Wouldn't that be uncomfortable? To suddenly laugh and then be sans ass? I laughed my ass off one day and it took me hours to get it back on. And wouldn't you just know that someone came over while it was off and the first words out of their mouth were "Where the hell did your ass go" and then, embarrassed, I had to point to it lying on the floor like so much fish. Where was I? Oh, yes, Tim Flavin and how if I'm him PatLaceyBulb will laugh his very own ass off. PatLaceyBulb enjoyed Tim Flavin on the recording of Sandy Wilson's Divorce Me, Darling. Why that is a cause for laughter is unknown at this time.

Ben van Tienan read this here column for the first time from the State Library of Tasmania (Hobart Branch). He liked my lyrics to Mr. Porter's Anything Goes and Ben feels that Broadway will be a damn sight better when his musicals are produced. Frankly, I am ready for a Tasmanian musical, because all we ever get are those damned Tasmanian straight plays like A Streetcar Named Tasmania and The Glass Tasmanian. We want musicals from Tasmania and that's all there is to it. Sweeney Tasmania, The Demon Barber of Hobart Branch, or A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Tasmania.

Norton Mockridge just read my comments on the Carol Channing-Charles Lowe divorce. Mr. Mockridge informs me he's an old dear friend of Miss Channing and asks if I know a way to contact her. Well, the easiest way to get some kind of contact information (usually the agent) is either through the Screen Actors Guild or Actor's Equity.

Pat King (he of Wheaton North) has had his first taste of New York, New York and loved it. The point of his trip was to visit various colleges. Whilst in New York, New York, Pat stayed in Greenwich Village which, by the way, is pronounced "Grenitch" for reasons that were obscure to begin with. You see, the discoverer of Greenwich Village, Mr. Throckmorton W. Grenitch didn't like the way his name was spelled, so he just changed it willy and nilly but kept the pronunciation the same. Apparently, whenever anyone asked Mr. Grenitch what time it was, he yelled and cursed at them, hence the expression "Greenwich Mean Time". Pat spent most of his time in mid to uptown Manhattan and found himself frequently humming Uptown/Downtown by my close personal friend, Mr. Stephen Sondheim. Pat saw three shows while he was there: Wit, Kiss Me Kate and Amadeus and liked them all. Pat visited Juilliard and NYU and the office of Harold Prince. Pat would like to end up in New York, New York no matter what line of work he ends up in.

jc asks how, where and why I learned to take everything so literally. The interesting thing is, that I took nothing literally until I started writing this here column and then it just seemed like the right thing to do. Not the left thing to do mind you, no, it seemed like the right thing to do. Have any of you taken something literally and if so how did "something" feel about being taken literally? I was taken literally once but that's another story for another column.

Tom Guest (of Oz) has been rediscovering the pleasures of Mr. Tom Jones' and Mr. Harvey Schmidt's wonderful musical The Fantasticks. I've written about that score in past columns, and it remains a favorite of mine. I also love 110 In The Shade and I Do! I Do! as well as most of their other less well known shows. They can do very little wrong in my book (Chapter 543 - Schmidt and Jones: The Men Who Did Very Little Wrong and Lived to Tell The Tale). Tom asks if I have any information on a new Kander and Ebb collection about New York, New York. The only Kander and Ebb collection I've seen recently is the one by Brent Barrett. I haven't heard about any others, although that is not to say that there won't be one coming about New York, New York.

Seanm (formerly Sean) was happy I wrote a bit about Ragtime as it is one of his favorites. Seanm (formerly Sean) who, when last he wrote, was auditioning for the role of Motel in Fiddler On The Roof (not to be confused with the role of Hotel in Grand Hotel) got the part. Our congratulations to Seanm (formerly Sean - does the "m" stand for Motel?). Seanm (formerly Sean) asks if I've heard the new Die Silbersee recording. I haven't. The only recording of Die Silbersee that I've heard is the one on which Joel Grey appears. I was lucky enough to see Mr. Grey in the production of Die Silbersee, which was splendid, and I like the score by Kurt Weill very much indeed. Seanm(formerly Sean) asks my opinion on the musicals Chess and Grind. Well, for starters, I think they'd be better if they were combined into one show, ChessGrind. I like the score to Chess, but the book has always been problematic. Perhaps if they did the book to Grind and sang the score to Chess we could finally turn those two shows into one hit.

Dave writes to ask who he gets permission from to quote lyrics from Sunday In The Park With George for a new non-fiction book. I would call The Flora Roberts Agency in New York, or Mr. Sondheim's publishing company Rilting Music which can be reached via Warner Chappell in New York.

Colin has just discovered the Stephen Sondheim Stage and he is thrilled. Colin feels he must apologize on behalf of his hometown, New Orleans. "Behalf". Are you looking at that word? Why isn't it "bewhole"? Why half? I don't want behalf when I can have bewhole and that's all there is to that. Anyway, Colin feels he must apologize on bewhole of his hometown, New Orleans. He has yet to see a local Sondheim production which sits well with the Blue-Hairs and Seersucker Gentry (sounds like a song from The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas). It seems that they'd rather see the umpteenth production of The Sound of Music than sit through things like Passion or Follies or Company. But we can't take New Orleans too much to task because the food is so good. I mean, with beignets, catfish, red beans and rice, gumbo, and other New Orleans delights we can forgive them their Sondheim sins.

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Questions? Comments?


Well, dear readers, it is time to close the book on another column. Of course, when you close the book on a column the column gets all wrinkled and unseemly-looking, so, let's not close the book on the column and say we did. Of course, then we'd be lying and we'd rot in hell and be stricken with bad vibes. So, let's not close the book on the column and not say we did. That way we get the best of both worlds, this one and the alternate one where there are multitudes of doppelgangers (and Amys). I, for one, would like to meet my doppelganger because I feel one simply must meet one's doppelganger at least once. I would also like to meet the person who invented the word "doppelganger" so I could congratulate him for creating such a stupid word. I no longer have any clue as to what the hell I'm talking about. This is because, as you are all now painfully aware, I am not defragmented and have blank spaces in my brain.


Until next time, I am, as I ever was, and ever shall be...

Yours, yours, yours, yours, yours.

The Real A

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Assassins is about how society interprets the American Dream, marginalizes outsiders and rewrites and sanitizes its collective history. "Something Just Broke" is a major distraction and plays like an afterthought, shoe horned simply to appease. The song breaks the dramatic fluidity and obstructs the overall pacing and climactic arc which derails the very intent and momentum that makes this work so compelling...”
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