thette: Because my computer is being a pain in the butt, I give you my train of thought.

Have you encountered The Eyre Affair, by Jasper Fford? (Yes, double F.) It posits a highly classically cultured culture, where various sects of realistic artists engage in gang warfare against surrealists, there are little kiosks with puppet Shakespeare characters who recite lines for a dime, and forgery of important literary and artistic works (a fake first draft of Wuthering Heights, for example) is a crime worthy of having an entire government department to crack down on same. (And it's prevalent enough that the whole department is needed, understaffed, and underfunded.)

In this world, there is a cult following for Richard III. In Our Narrator's neighborhood, there is a playhouse that does this one night a week. Cast members are selected from the audience, they play it, and the audience inserts assorted witticisms a la Rocky Horror.


When "Now is the winter of our discontent" rang out over the crowd, and they put on sunglasses shortly thereafter, I was immediately minded of Miles, doing the whole thing himself on fast-penta. No sooner had that thought departed the busy brain than "Hmm, I wonder if Miles would do that on stage!" popped in.

(no subject)

The aloe we planted at the old apartment still thrives. Today is ribbons but no cloak. I may be a touch late.