Book I—In which the author endures an unfortunate! omen. A brief tumult ensues which will surprise the reader. Also an architectural rendering containing grave matters and a short extract from the sublime.

CHICAGO “AAWWWWWWGGHHUUUGGHH...” Cutting through the opening act’s Fender din, wafting over the whining protest at the backstage door, slicing across the blue haze of kiddie-boy greetings and dealer’s quarrels (“So where are the papers, shithead!”), practically sizzling my bare eardrums is this awful noise—like a prop jet regurgitating an engine full of mutilated swallows. Even the frazzled bouncer who guards the entrance to Valhalla has momentarily loosened his vise-like grip on the tiny, moon-eyed urchin at my side to suss out this mutant blast.