How in the fockin' hell did I get here? I was just rattling around in the room after an evening at the Fifth String (sorry, Lloyd--see you next week), wondering why no matter how hard I play the damned harmonica I can't get any decent callouses on my lips (shaddup, Spaw), and all of a suddent I'm standing watching Alison and Gene Kelly dance "American in Paris"--it seems Leslie Caron is down with the flu, too--when things started getting fuzzy again and sorta clarified into a dark rectangle about four feet wide and eight feet tall, then I could see into the darkness a bit and and this kinda seedy John Denver lookalike was talkin' dirty to a girl in a wedding dress--and she was actually inviting him to her wedding. Strange. She looks sensible enough, except when she takes greedy glances at the possum which keeps creeping out of his pants and leering at her. Lemme tell ya, a leering possum is an awful sight, and then I recognize Bert and he's waving a picture of a truly disgusting leering possum and there's some guy trying to herd a bunch of big pink birds into what looks like a hot tub while a bunch of women with towels draped fetchingly around their bodies burst through a door in the opposite wall, screaming to the guy that the damned birds had already filled the crystal creek with pink poop and they'd rather not have the hot tub full of it too. I finally arrive at the bar where the barkeep is trying to introduce folks to a drunk in a trench coat but the guy keeps complaining that there's no jazz on the juke box so no one wants anything to do with him...

--seed