Integrity? What’s that? I’m here for the show.
We find ourselves in this place. A point on the edge of…what? Is that the edge of the stage I see in front of me? I dare not look over the edge.
It is spellbinding.
What we lack is, well, clarity.
Shards of meaning. I can almost piece the truth together. Beauty…truth…all that jazz.
Some semblance of sense materializes. I can almost picture what must have transpired that day, not long ago.
Back in the day, the Tenderloin was the district for, there is no other way to say this, cheap thrills. It bordered the theater district. Gentlemen of means would go there after leaving the theater. It was convenient. Think Tina Turner and her “Private Dancer.”
There was a darkened theater where the audience could be heard but not seen. Then, there was the splash of light and the opening curtain, brilliance against red. The performance commenced.
A somewhat rotund female opera singer is belting out notes like a scat singer. Her genre is whatever she likes, like her gender; subject to change without notice. she’s smok’n hot. The curves jiggle in time with the jazz riff. This was back in the day when showing your ankle was the height of pornography. These days you can practically perform a cavity search on Tumblr.
The audience roared. She was a monster at her art. The performer always performs. Tell the truth and you’re no performer. Just keep expanding the scintillating bubble of the reality you spin. “Swing it baby” -said Austin Powers. But that was Sixties, this was Thirties.
