by Sherry Steiner
The freeze of the frame - high fashion one-reeler's.
Etienne's intellectual activity dissolves between
form and fiction. Bach's fugue the Beatle's and the
Ted Mack amateur hour light up the sky as the confessional booths caravan their way to 53rd and Broadway. Formal distribution of peppermint patties cause the crowd to swell - impatience flail as ludicrous amounts of perspiration fog the windshield of the bow-tied hipster driving the cab of the truck that is pulling the caravan of the confessionals blaring carnival music on a conflicting four track that are at odds with each other. One track is off track, the second is on the third track, the third track is trying to project sounds of the rainforest while the fourth track is holding out for more money. Lingering adaptations of insinuating tempos - sequential events - unfortunate cause and effect. Heavily plotted they line up by two's, three's and fours to enter the confessionals. 100, no 400, 723 tops. 5 confessionals - 5 bedtime storytellers. Come on in folks, step right up, just fall to your knees and tell it all - tell it all to me and please don't knock over that porcelain collection tray on your way out. And out they go. One by one in chronological order referencing Elvis and muttering incessantly as Etienne makes like he is Bergman on location in a very nonchalant sort of way melting concrete implications that were once popular two weeks ago, no three, five tops.
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