Oh thank you Rick. I can finally purge the memory of a gig at a certain pub on Madison Avenue here in Toronto. It's a hugely sucessful place, populated mostly by University of Toronto students intent on becoming catatonic before the evening is out. They have a little section in the middle of the room with a grand piano, at the keyboard end of which is a little cubby hole set into the wall. This cubby hole is about two feet by four feet. It's the "stage". Over the performers head are not one, not two, but three TVs, each tuned to a different sports network. The TVs are on a shelf which is only barely six feet off the ground since the original intention was for a pianist to SIT DOWN under there. The top of the piano sticks out into the room, and also serves as a sort of big round table top. As the evening wears on, these vacuous yuppies in training gather around the piano to stare blankly over the performer's head at the latest news on the hockey/football/Bulgarian Tiddlywinks, whatever. And the only time they acknowledge your presence is to request either Brown Eyed Girl or American Pie. Repeatedly. Those are the only songs they know. It's part of their religion. That and Labatt's. I once heard two real estate agents bragging about how much their respective wives' breast implants cost. By the end of my six-nighter there, I was in danger of losing my soul, so I had to say things like "Thank you for that warm round of indifference. Hey kids, have you ever wondered how many accidental pregnancies got started in this very room ? Here's another song by that band you've never heard of: the Beatles..." And the place was recently voted best pub by a local weekly arts and entertainment rag. Somebody stuffed the ballot box there...