I'm searching town on foot for a vanished couple. I fear they're kidnapped or murdered. Long search. Walk a shop-street. Signs lead round the corner to a small fantasy bookshop with a long history of small theater and music performances. The place has a big recessed nook at the door, making a good impromptu stage for street performers, sheltered from sun and rain. A folk couple's singing originals. I stop to listen. Not bad.

Next act: a guy in tuxedo and top hat does like Fred Astaire when he danced on the walls and ceiling in that musical. But this isn't camera trickery--the guy scampers up into a huge, chaotic net or spiderweb ten yards across, spanning alleys and storefronts. And trapped at every node is a black thing... not gigantic flies. Manual typewriters!

Astaire explodes into dozens of him! Monkeylike, his clones roll crawl dance all over the stage, clamber up the web, dance to the typewriters, and start, like the chimps in the parable, typing. On the Web. Presumably in hopes of cranking out Shakespeare.

Their dance goes on and on, of course. And will--for the rest of time.

"This," I sigh, "is the curse of Experimental Theatre."

NOTES IN THE MORNING

Dang. I'm afraid this is how I write. Scattershot. All over the... web. Hoping I'll get lucky. If I just write enough...

Thank God I'm the only one!

Oh, wait. I'm not.

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