Life without Braces…Run Forrest Run!

Like most awkward teenagers, I had braces and made sport of popping off the ones glued to my molars by eating candies that were harder and unhealthier than gravel and I had to get them replaced by the dentist who, to lure kids into his drill bin, had a barrel of toys so I was excited to visit while putting ceramic and metals inside the holes in my teeth from drinking too much Kool Aid for lunch.  When we moved from Indiana, he said they could come off as I had them because I had the rare lack of overbite; that was the excuse to metallicize my chompers which today would probably get me on the TSA terrorist watch list for setting off detectors in airports.

After he took them off and we moved it took me a while to realize it; I’d look at kids with no braces and still get jealous until I ran my tongue across the front of my teeth and realized hey, I can be jealous of me.  It took a while for me to sink into organic looking teeth.  And for the jealousy to fade.

Friday I picked up my new bike! I fulfilled the prophecies set down in the Book of Longing, Ch 19, vers 1-6, and rode over the Brooklyn Bridge and headed to Long Beach and listened to waves of the Atlantic in the dark.  When you do something you haven’t done in ten years that you’ve wanted to do, there’s fifty five different feelings that swell with it; for me, the first time I heard the whistle in my  helmet almost made me cry as it was a sound I took comfort in while distracting me from my burgeoning sink hole of a life scenario in San Francisco. I didn’t think I’d hear it so soon here.  So beautiful.

Yesterday I left her idle as it was like half of America shoved up Satan’s unshaved armpit with the weather and I dislike hot hot weather. Go to Venus for this kind of climate.  But i looked around and seeing people on their bikes I got a pang of jealousy and realized hey, wait, my braces are off my teeth, baby.  It’s funny how long emotional habits have to scrub themselves out before they finally dissipate.

The other portion of this is that I don’t have to get on the subway nearly as often.  That’s like being released from prison and put on parole.  Like Morgan Freeman’s emotional prep for his speech to the Parole Board in Shawshank Redemption was him pretending it was the MTA executive board he was talking to and he just bought a Hummer or Nissan Stanza or whatever he drives.   But like Tim Robbins character, the moment I escaped it’s head for the beach, sand down boats and hire my ex inmate friends, escaped or paroled, as helpers for my projects. I guess that’s life.

The last other portion of this is the last time I rode a motorcycle was in 2002 when I left San Francisco in moderate to heavy disarray, selling my Honda. So a little scar tissue floats around but like athletes when they get some of their knee fluid drained or cleaning out bone fragments and that sort of jazz it will all clear out.

One thing for sure is that I own the finest bike every assembled by man for me.

Now, onto the business of striking down the next in the hit line of jealousies. Getting back on stage.  Now I’m going to do that. Let’s do that.  Some parts of life have dragged on too damn long. This lack of performance is one of them. When that happens, other than mass mood swerves comes practicing material on whatever animate or inanimate object can not escape.

By the way, donate to my Frenemies campaign if you have the money and you want to see distinct filmmaking get quickly into the 3rd dimension and you were going to donate it to cancer research.  This film will do more to cure cancer than the American Cancer Society. If you don’t believe me, ask cancer. One goal is to have it dubbed in dramatically heightened fake German. All the more reason to give….

20% off 2012

Someone asked me what I thought about 2012 and if I was worried. Sometimes I don’t know what I think of things until someone asks me and then I get it in the rock hard third dimension through words.
“No, I’m not worried. On December 22, 2012 I’m still going to wake up in the morning and rent will be due on Jan 1, 2013. Even if the poles switch and Quetzecoatal comes back and makes us all eat his new cherry granola bars even if they taste like shit and we have to pretend they’re magic and NYC is under 27 feet of snow, my landlord will still want rent on or about the 5th of January, 2013.”  I believe that if NYC were hit with tidal floods and locusts on top of it, being New Yorkers, we’d get up the next morning and swim to work with bug spray tanks on our backs because we have work to do.

I do believe the earth is changing and that our higher oder DNA strands are on standby and amazing things are possible and hopefully on the hotter side of likely; I don’t think it’s going to happen Emmerich brothers style; truth ruminates in stranger places.  Most people want the world to end I think because it’s easier than taking responsibility for their own lives or because death ends pain. In theory. Since the first spore took a breath on this planet the next spore started shouting about the end of the world.

One thing I know for sure is come December 22,2012 I’m going to Barnes and Noble in Union Square and counting how many 2012 books are going to be in the $5 section. I know some are great in teaching about the bigger picture; I mean those ones, yes the ones slim pickin off fear.

All I know is that there’s two types of burning stomach; one that’s caffeine based and that’s not. When I have the second, like tonight, it could mean madness and beauty round the corner or I need to start doing Kung Fu.

In other news not involving my stomach or 2012, I went to an open mike on Tuesday and after reading my material, was met with the glorious silence of feeling like I was speaking Dutch.  Cross that place off the list.  I know what’s possible with this material.  I reaffirm to my overlords that I will find a performance home. I’d perform every day if I could. I have the energy and reserves for it, like the Space Station.   Maybe that’s the burning sensation, a bevy of cosmonauts floating in my belly eat dehydrated space borscht.  Come on Universe, lay off the comets and find me a performance home.


B side Resurrection Sleeper

I was talking with a friend tonight and she asked me about all the screenplays I had written and it got me digging into my old writing and when that happens you find parts of your past still sticking on the page and when that happens, it’s like archeology and my digs usually have a soundtrack.  One of my early scripts involved a song I wanted to use by Edwyn Collins, the ex Orange Juice member who wrote a tune called ‘Keep on Burning.’  And then it made me think of 1995 when he released Gorgeous George and I was living in Iowa sort of peeling through the wreckage of what I call my ‘Screamers’ slick where my soul got turned inside out like the way old vacuum bags used to get cleaned because I had just finished grad school and was on core meltdown a lifetime in the making.

I would listen to his album over and over because when life has been a bit raw there’ s always an album to keep me afloat or tie the wreckage together to float and paddle to safety so I can recharge and rebuild. If you haven’t died a few times in life I think you’re missing out on some great potential tunes.  Listening to the songs again now it still pokes at something a little sore, a little cool and it makes me want to write a better script just to honor this song, I like it, I like his sound and make this latest comb for remaining wreckage on the sea bed floor something I can rock to or dance to or make love to with someone amphibious.

Edwyn Collins “Keep on Burning”

peace and diligence,

Rev 66 Peachnuts

Gospel According to the Eavesdropping Olive Tree

When I can among the boiling pots on the stove I tend to this piece called Out of Hell Comes Christ, a passion play of sorts and one that when I have hours not currently usurped and embalmed by my job, I can complete with a full fervid thrust, which it needs because it has many mouths or one mouths with forty throats, as it should; in it, Jesus returns, not to preach to millions but to one. To pass the torch. And to find his woman Mary Magdalene, the sexual molecule that turned water into wine.   It’s just bits and pieces but give the heightened state of nowness and urgency surrounding every breath and movement I make to plunge into that invisible doorway that follows me around, I’m posting a monologue.  As Jesus says in the play, ‘It’s time, Judas, to break open the Bible and see what falls, or flies, out.’

Jesus (to Judas/Joe)
This is how it came to pass before we met.  Every night Judas, every night it is what speaks and what does not speak, what asks to be expressed, what begs to be, and what needs to be kept in stillness. Some nights they feel as constrictive as an eggshell, these voices of a life time. I kept telling myself, it’s only flesh, it’s only flesh, the spirit can crawl through it and envelop it, the spirit becomes master and for  years I struggled, pouring every ounce into this battle, this supreme awareness where my eyes widen and sharpen, my limbs become tight as a leopard, my senses became enlarged, they became more than what they were meant to do, as if they could swirl together and create something new, several new senses and I could see all of history unfold like the tongue of a snake, and then through the window of a snail,  and I could spin myself in any direction and see what happens next in any way I wanted— Then, like the Universe, it expands and I am beyond the vision of the mind. This battle continues, more epic, deeper, more invisible and visible, I can hear the rotation of stars.  I can even feel them, Judas, like a razor on my face.  I marched up and down, at night, feeling alone and seeking a solution to the growing inner strangeness that I could not explain to anyone, could not describe but only pray was some defect inside me, something that crafted itself merely from my wild imagination or some dusty roadblock of my inner sanctum.  That this strangeness was unnatural and becoming more of a burden. I began to lose sleep, then it would cycle away for a while and I felt at peace and then it would return without an invitation but some almost rude presentation of itself with my head on a platter, Judas.  My head!  My soul, too.  I realized this strangeness felt both of myself and something outside of myself.  That it was a carefully prepared storm cloud of magic and love drowned in flesh; that second part I got from her, for she both soothed and overwhelmed me, Judas.  She was sorrowful and replete with such deep understanding I need not even reach out to her; she gathered me in like a broken branch floundering down rocky rapids.  Her nightmares were my understanding and the reverse I felt was also true.  And with her came a wisdom so powerful, and so complete that I wondered if it were Love in it’s purest form or some sort of mimicry, some sort of imagery that was concocted for a purpose, to capture me, drown me, fulfill some prophecy that I wanted no part of nor felt any obligation towards. But she loved me Judas and I loved her; and somehow, we managed to maintain that contact through a wild system of rules of the Universe that only mystics could explain without giving away the ingredients. It was beyond romantic notion, it was a sexual perfection that expanded the heart to include the seventh sphere of unity, between two entities so inclined to the ritual. And I use ritual here as a positive, loving and generous exchange between two souls that can inhabit space and time while honoring what is beyond those limitations.  

So every night, when you go to sleep, and you feel you’ve sinned by not honoring your entire soul and you frown, know that there is something inside you that demands full attention now, and that is the only thing that will lighten you, relieve the burdens I know you carry like an overstuffed burlap sack on your back;  these miniature little forgivenesses that rest inside you need to be released. It is time Judas. It is time. It is time. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? I’m here to remind myself; I get lost too Judas. 





Enter Pete’s Dragon

Finally, after much effort, a promotional trailer for Frenemies has been completed.  I love to mix pleasure with pleasure and so I’ll get it posted.  I’m pleased and look forward to the hundreds of thousands of dollars it will attract like a hungry magnet so I can film this ditty.  I look forward to the orgasmic powers of delegation as I was an artistic  Doctor Octopus and wrote, directed, starred, did the basic editing, scored and played the instruments and designed the dress Kate is wearing.  It’s been a great experience and probably saved me $100,000 in film school loans. Look forward to sharing soon and today, after a weekend of tying it together, is a comedown day where my brain feels like it’s drinking airline mini wines in a hotel near an unscheduled layover near Dallas Forth Worth International; exactly like that.

Now, a Kickstarter campaign will be posted to raise funds to hire someone to raise funds;  I once had this idea of having a fundraiser for a fundraiser in regards to my play Whorapy; how prophetic.  I just wish manifesting didn’t drive in the damn slow lane all the time;  if it’s got 8 under the hood, use it once in a while and squeeze the lemons out of the speed limit and let’s see how fast we can put dreams into the thirdest of dimensions.


Somewhere Bruce Lee swirls around inside me like a animated leviathan, full of muscular justice and righteous passion and when it surges to the surface, I try to funnel it into rhythm and words and slick movement through moments and sometimes, it gets away from me and I feel so large I can hear Jupiter squeaks when it turns.  Such are the reflections of a rainy Monday, where the body and mind feel contracted, to rest. 

Sinatra’s swinging for Jihad

One thing that’ll always stay caught in my memory nets is years ago my ex in California had this theory that Frank Sinatra’s soul was meant to come back as the AntiChrist because he had anger issues;  I guess she had some insider knowledge she got from listening to Lady is a Tramp backwards; I never tried it;  she had a mystical link or two going so at the time it seemed a reasonable theory; another reason I steer clear of those gorgeous young ladies of Scientology handing out cards in Times Square; I’m impressionable; I’m like hot tupperware; I’ll bend but eventually I’ll snap back into place; it just may take years;

I just finished another solo piece, based on my finding my birth parents;  it’s Yellow Alert around this household so push push push and then give birth to these quintuplets; the thought of working tomorrow is heinous to me and I’m sloshing about wildly in a quiet fervor of moving forward in life; it’s all good but the amount of grays on my little beard are keeping score;  it’s not whether I quit; it’s what I wear when I do and what parts of my body will be showing when I dump off my laptop;  will they be something basic cable would pixellate?  I don’t know;  what next? what next. what next$#^,=.

A couple of lines from and for Lona; haven’t had a chance to work onPoint of Venus. Sorry my dear.

The lines of the world can be found running down the sides of your body;

somewhere behind your legs where they bend at the shins are mournful liquids where eels of harmony and discord swim alongside each other and when you walk you both calm and ionize the air around you;

I can hear the ocean breathing inside you; it is more sacred than the Talmud; it is the forgotten clay of the Bible molded together to speak through your breath. 

The Bermuda Triangle of Reaganomics, Puberty and Catholic Sex Education

Inside of this unholy trinity lies my adolescence floating and bobbing in a sea of shy virginity, personally named acnes and intense, lubricated and watery and strange shame filled encounters in my bathroom with the Philadelphia Eagles cheerleaders along with enough bathroom cleaning product air residuals the Scrubbing Bubbles started reciting the Constitution to me in German.

While living in Indiana, in 1983, I was left alone with the Catholic Church once a week through CCD, and forced to take Sex Ed;  last year when I visited my family I found the text book used and read parts to my mom, who was horrified and said ‘If I had known that’s what was in there, I would pulled you out of there.”

I was, and still am, shy. I was, and still am, a psychic and sensitive perfectionistic sponge; I was, and still am, a man with enough Scorpio in his chart to have Sex Machine spinning on my internal juke box like Kennedy’s eternal flame at Arlington, never off, never off; orgasm is at minimum a five syllable word; In India, one more common practice is to look at a newborn’s birth chart to measure the life path, tendencies, etc… if they had looked at mine, they would have said ‘Keep this Sexbomb away from the Catholic Church. Very very far away. If so, he must never ever be allowed to become Sexy. He must never become SexyYoda.’

Below is a snippet of the classic “Reverence for Life and Family: Catechesis in Sexuality’ by John E. Forliti, D. Min. which looks like Democrat, Minnesota but is not;

In Chapter 6: Challenges to Integration, section 8, he states:
In its pastoral care of young people who experience masturbation, the Church advises the following guidelines:
First, avoid the extremes-the one extreme which sees masturbation as something “normal” and not having any moral content at all, and the other extreme which sees it as totally degrading and morally reprehensible. The truth lies somewhere in the middle;

For a repressed Catholic dude, not too bad;

Now, let’s skip to Chapter 10: The Choice for Chastity, also section 8:
The three main sins against chastity for the unmarried are masturbation, premarital sex, and homosexual activity. Masturbation is sinful because of its selfish orientation and because it is against the norms of marriage…

Imagine the delight of my 13 year old eyes reading these two passages and making my equipment want o blow up like Fem-bots;  does the Catholic Church pay reparations for attempted psychological sexual homicide? I took everything to heart; thank God my loins were smarter;

Blurry American Line between poetry and prose and comedy and the Infinity +C

Yesterday I went to an open mike inside a downtown Brooklyn diner; outside of myself, the age range of the participants was from early fifties to a very lively 92 year old man who sang and soft shoe tap danced his poem/song/dance as it was something he created the night after he lost at the Kentucky Derby in 1942, I think he said, sometime in the forties while I was still a young man in my last life; hell, we probably drank together then;  I read two poems, one a straight on love poem poemy poem and one I just ripped off a couple of weeks ago in response to my internal resistance to Twitter as a form of communication with people that may or may not actually be there; I don’t even like emailing when I have something important to say; they seemed to like this poem, which I consider more a rolling commentary slick than a poem; my old internal Professor Crustaceous with the slight British Accent and horniness for form and rhyming disapproves; It reminds me when I lived in San Francisco and within a week I went to an open mikes for poetry and after the poem someone from the audience yelled ‘do a haiku on the penis’ which sounded painful but I rambled off something and they howled; and then at my standup open mike someone yelled ‘bring the guitar back on stage!’ when they didn’t care for my humours;  I realize genres can be a distraction when pursuing a career;   you just want to breathe out, breathe purely;  you can’t please everyone but pleasing someone is a good start;

So when all genres are soaked up whatever’s left is the unknown;  Infinity + C; in math, because of the  imprecision of finding an area under a curve (known as integration), +C is the amount the formula can’t estimate when going from -infinity to plus infinity, even if you know the formula; looking back I find comfort in it;

Here’s the poem I read, maybe someone else can tell me if they would call it a poem;

Dating the Internet

Hi Internet; they say this is a conversation;
I’m very shy Internet. I didn’t even know what gender I was until I was 13. Imagine my surprise.
I spotted you the moment you walked into the bar with Al Gore.
or in these tip-toey days what they now call a lounge; How often do you meet someone in a joint like this who looks the same the morning after? Outside of unrealistic films, that is…
I love the coolly emotionally detached
house music they’re playing; I have a sudden craving for a Stoli and lime and a pedicure.
I guess I am ‘bot.’
let me buy you drinks
’til I look like taylor lautner’s abs;
I know you’ve probably seen enough of them all around inside you Internet; Can I call you Nettie? Allright, I guess not.
Let’s go to my place; it used to be a Radio Shack;
sometimes I hear the ghosts of crappy remote control cars at 2am.
we can split an Amy’s frozen burrito
and try to find the bad stitching on my slightly damaged Calvin Klein boxer briefs
I got at the discount store for $6;
nice 2 play game with someone else other than my dog! She cheats though I let her.
Midnight hangs around here til 3am some nights;

Are you a vegan, Internet? No I know you’re not; hell you’re probably powered by pink slime; that’s ok. I’ll cook your meat and pretend it’s kale. I can overlook it.

Let’s get the elephant out of the room:
If you steal my kidney when I’m passed out, get a good price;
send me photo of Tony Stark keeping it in a glass case as a Christmas ornament.
so I know it went to good home;
didn’t end up in perfume bottle or vaccine. Tks!

Yes, I thought of joining Occupy
cause I have anger; would use it to get arrested and increase my chances of getting laid when I’m bragging about it like the dude in the juice bar ahead of me the other day, so much the wheatberries in the jar sprouted. Would that turn you on?

Relationships are this gorgeous achy necessity…it’s in one of my scripts; maybe Harvey Weinstein needs a kidney?

I guess I got blind spots; some have gravitational pull of a black hole; stick your hand in someone’s blind spot you might turn into infinity and pull out a bag of love letters at the same time. Have you ever been in love Internet? If you have a thing for the International Space Station I can tell you long distance relationships don’t work unless you don’t like committing;

They call me The Breast Whisperer. I can hear the screams trapped in them created by the men who think they rule the world. Allow me to earn my nickname. In those moments, I am most definitely not ‘bot.

I know you feel a guilty about ruining the art of conversation; It’s not your fault; I know a good therapist; Maybe my little ache and your cluttered little techno-ache can clang together and create more than a cliff bar, a latte, a fake phone number and some nasty tweets the morning after. Please don’t give everything I say to you to the FBI. Must you remember everything? See you on the prowl, Internet. Stay free.

Spiropractic adjustments and the toastmouths

Most of the time things happen in the world and then things happen inside the inner world and they seem like they pop along independently each other, only to drop by and flirt for a few minutes or have a quickie at the least famous motel in town and then you feel in snyc with what you’re saying and doing with the inner world that tumbles around  inside, curling and flaring and crayola-ing like the surface of Jupiter being stirred with the knife of your own conscious whips;  and that’s most of the time, at least for me;

Then some days things happen and then things happen inside and they feel linked together strongly by leftover cable wire used to build the Golden Gate Bridge with a splash of Canadian Orange paint.  Some days things are strong and curious and unquestionable and you feel right and pure and adjusted, something knocked back into place like having an inflatable anvil fall on your head and suddenly remembering where you dropped your keys twenty years ago or what you whispered to your dying wife three lifetimes ago; tonight, after dealing with a weekend of professionally frustrating situations, I met two men at Whole Foods who were fascinating, a little intimidating, and some sort of energy level that jarred something back into place.

One of the gentlemen, a musician, stared at me and uttered a rhyme about creating art and living art and rolling in the largeness of life like heaven and earth were mixed together in a mad confusing beautiful compass of expression and change pockets of grandeur; OK, I’ve souped up what he said but the crux of it reminded me of something, I guess to let it rip; Nothing is by coincidence; I was deeply livid, deep in the pond pissed, over my screen partner casually canceling and his words dropped a match;  as Mickey says,
“Kid, you’re gonna eat lightning, and you’re gonna crap thunder! You’re a greasy, 145 pound Italian tank!”

I’ve never crapped thunder but it sounds like I would never need toilet paper so I’m ok with it; one thing is for certain, a good dose of rage relief coupled with a random stranger epiphany adjustment can really hit the spot and open that large jellybean mouth of life.

Another snippet from my patiently waiting novel Point of Venus; I think I’m going to have to hire someone to sketch Lona, the main character, designs in the book. I want to include the sketches as part of this novel, which is written partly inspired by fashion, healing myself, joy of writing, interplanetary fashion, and romantic prophecy as based on a dream I had several years ago and I am since affected and caught with flashes of the future; we’ll see how it pans out, out of a lion’s mouth or in it’s stomach; Happy Dimanche:

She heard heartaches, she heard young lovers who had known each other since grade school fight through years of growth to become what they always wanted – one. One story after another and when she had reached the last whisper, the man’s voice, her strange mirror angel, and she could hear sadness in his voice, like an echo inside a page, and she allowed the scroll of that diamond to melt into her skin, to swim into her bones and settle, thinking that what might be left is an imprint, a map to guide her, to cut her dreams in pieces and glue them together to form a broken bell, a broken bell to ring to create that aching opening that makes one awake like a predator for a moment, to hold that broken bell in the hand of the heart and let it ring for something, feeling the human heart as a pile of broken bells that mesh together to create a song that burned inside Lona. His bells rang inside her bones and made her feel like a skeleton of soil and embers that made her realize what a diamond really was: a fossilized Promise to be Thawed. Her bones felt covered in pieces of lips that history stole and replaced with filler; one whisper led to thousands and Lona slipped out of her trance and her body shook. 

Quiet insurgence

I ate chocolate covered espresso beans by conscious accident and intentional subconscious brushfire; now my extremities feel like a classic Warhol painting looks; when  lately I’ve had moments with my solo material of stepping into hyperdrive at later hours and sometimes a little Jolt Cola equivalent can help or sometimes it can be too much like now; oh well;  all of the projects are brimming at the same time;  I pulled my back out over a month ago trying to prevent a bull rush of a dancer on stage from falling down and the muscle near my sacrum tweaked so loudly I could hear it do I’ve been laid up;  it makes me cranky and when I’m laid up, my dog’s laid up and she’s been limping now;  pets psychically link to your energy;  today’s the first day I felt the engines start to rev and when I got my my dog was hopping around like a firecracker; it soothes me as at her age when she slows down I start drifting into thoughts of her ascending into Doggie Heaven via the giant spinning bagel. I am not ready for the giant spinning bagel to descend upon my household and have a carb-overloaded Jesus Dog take my little squashie away;  hopefully as my back heals completely she will too and chunky Jesus Dog can go to Dunkin Donuts two blocks away and chat about the Rapture with the seventh day adventists who hold their meetings over crullers;

Th achy back has forced my to screw my butt into the chair and wrestle with my material;  and like every artist I’m pretty certain there’s grappling with walking away from survival into  a faith door, the floating faith door that follows me around and maybe it opens or maybe it’s locked or maybe it doesn’t exist but I do know that it’s squeaky and noisy and anytime I move away from what’s death, what’s callous and cold and old in my life there is noise;  the noise of life, the little blasts of compromise that come from behind;  some areas are bleak, some are coated with sugar, and some float on barbed wire but the door stands and floats;  as soon as my back clears, I’m back on stage;   and I can wear my sexypants; this is my purpose in life; this is what the gods whispered to me right before I populated my mother’s womb: Lee, you must ride these sexypants to glory; this is your purpose, for which you were built; if you don’t all the dead talk show hosts will revolt.

I am on OKCupid and honestly I had forgotten what a grueling process it is to reject and be rejected;  I have soft clay heart that beats strongly but in in Swiss time precision;  people look at my ad and I look at theirs and I feel badly not responding to those who rate my ad 4/5 stars but when I see they drink heavily or like dating raccoons or having sex while having raccoons watch I get a little discerning;  I am looking for one person in particular;  it’s scary marbles out there;  one woman said contact me if ‘you’re not an asshole with something to prove.’  That paints a bleak picture of my gender;  I’m giving this site seven more days; after my juice cleanse when my bowels are  as slick as a waterslide I’ll be clear  about it;

I leave with a clip I wrote on the back of a figurative napkin in a bar sewn together by thoughts with dreadlocks; from my novel in progress:

Lona swam through the store as men dropped to their knees and for a moment, Lona could fly through each diamond, as if she could read them like tea leaves, wrapping their history around her torso, searching for the answer and after a few minutes of this spontaneous musical number, as men became dancers around her, in velvet vests singing like blooming ostriches their mandate of passion and giddy malaise without their object of hunger, one of the men had proposed to another man’s girlfriend;