“MY MOM IS HIGH”
	What a headline that would be, if it were only true! Alas, the strange calumnies of fate would have it otherwise. It was only for medicinal purposes. We walked south on Gay Street, where the patrons were lined up outside the Tennessee Theater. Poison Pie asked one gentleman who was featured on the bill but the surly fellow snorted rudely and jerked a thumb up at the theater marquee. We craned our necks up and squinted into the afternoon sun. Lo and behold, the marquee announced the debut performance of none other than 33 Contemplations on the Form of the Bear. Poison Pie whipped out a needle-sharp number two pencil and stenographer's notepad
			from his enormous back pocket. Aping a reporter, Poison Pie milled through the crowd. A pair of dapper, young gentlemen, one garbed in a muave seersucker suit, the other, curiously		in a gaberdine, standing hand in hand outside the theater, caught his eye. "What brought you to this performance?" asked Poison Pie. "Like anyone else," they said, "we've come for the		gratuitous sex and violence." "Naturally," said Poison Pie, "Who wouldn't?"