This seems important:

Paul Auster, in talking about his father, hits on something that resonates with me:

My father's capacity for evasion was almost limitless. Because the domain of the other was unreal to him, his incursions into that domain were made with a part of himself he considered to be equally unreal, another self he had trained as an actor to represent him in the empty comedy of the world-at-large. This surrogate self was essentially a tease, a hyperactive child, a fabricator of tall tales. It could not take anything seriously.

Now I'm onto a translation of Brecht's Three Penny Opera. Natch.
Oh the shark's teeth may be lethal, you can see them bright and red.....

OK! MOVING ON!
Chris Harris is back! And came to see me in the store last night, which coincides with Natalie showing up again (she's dating Jason McMann, totally out of left field on that one....) There was a killer show last night, starting with this band called Baby Cunt that was this weird multimedia thing with a screen and a television and a puppet of a house screaming. It was like PeeWee Herman on LSD......MORE LSD. At the end of the show, I made the girl in the band (kate?) promise to drop of their dvd at the store.
Then there was this weird second act with a smoke machine and a dude who looked like a Jewish John Cusak (or a more goy Bernstein) who sort of spasmed around the stage with a vocoder until my ears bled.
The third act was like the Decemberists/Dresdon Dolls/Rasputina string-thing, with an accordian, xylophone, viola, and cello. And some chick singing in a scary dolls voice. It was beautiful. Chris grew a beard and it looks super hot.