The one-man show is perhaps the most difficult, and perhaps the most rewarding, form of stage entertainment. There’s a space. There’s an audience. As the actor, its your job to transform that big, empty space into something shared by yourself and that audience. This, needless to say, is a daunting task.

In yet another attempt at talking about music in terms of ideology and not melody, this week’s column is an attempt at drawing out some of the meanings behind underground and mainstream music. To do this, it’s helpful to reference my previous effort. Do you actually remember what I wrote two weeks ago, in the last installment of the critically acclaimed "The Price of Coffins is Gonna Rise"? If you do, you are a big nerd. Only a nerd would lead a life that was so boring that an interview with obscure hardcore band Orchid was actually a memorable thing.

It’s a strange phenomenon: sometimes the biggest designer label fashion snob is most comfortable wearing a pair of sweatpants from K-Mart, and sometimes a gourmet chef has an inexplicable craving for Arby’s. Just like those fools, every Wednesday night, we find ourselves searching for any available TV on South Campus. There’s not much we wouldn’t do to make sure we have a TV available: we allot 30 minutes for finding the TV, we pretend we’re interested in playing the German edition of Monopoly, and we don’t mask our disdain for the Oldenborg kids trying to study in their own lounges. All this, and for what? It’s Fox. It’s reality TV. It’s "Temptation Island".

A room is like an unopened bottle of whiskey: full of adventurous possibilities, some good, some bad. But when all is said and done, there will be stories to tell, and a twelve-step program.

1. Get to know the spirit, or aura, as it were. A spiritual advisor or meditation can be helpful to bring you closer to understanding your room, her needs and her desires. Have a séance to discover the past escapades your room has had with her previous occupants–you don’t want to sleep with her if you don’t know where she’s been. When you sleep in your room, you’re sleeping with everyone who has slept in her before.

I have been up eating Stay-Awake tablets for three days, so I am going to be blunt about this: if your CD collection does not include a copy of Dionne Warwick’s Greatest Hits, the Bacharach stuff, then you are either ignorant or too cool for your own good, or both. No doubt you have other character flaws as well, but I am not interested in your problems just now.

It’s Friday night and I’m lampin’ in the cut at the restolla when I get a phone call from my man DJ Cockswell. Now Cockswell is always up on the hot shit, so when he tells me he knows about the bumpin’ party and that it’s gonna be "off the hizzle for shizzle my nizzle," of course I know that this joint’s gonna be no hoe, so I jump in the whip and hit the freeway.

There has been a certain proliferation of films in the past few years that seem dangerously close to subversive cinema. By proliferation I mean, of course, Road Trip, which somehow negotiated multiple sexual taboos, and You’re Out, Pffft, He’s Just Ducky, which is a movie I made up last week in my stats class last week and involves me, the cast of Survivor II, and various isolated sexual liberations. I gave it three stars, and you don’t get any stars, traitor.

It’s true. My favorite song on Selmasongs, Björk’s newest album which serves as the soundtrack to Dancer in the Dark, is the only track on which Bjork does not sing. I love Björk, in a musical way. In general, I much prefer vocals to non-vocal/classical/instrum

ental music. However, the first piece opens the album slowly, with a low hum, building into a wondrous orchestral crescendo. Aptly enough, it is entitled "Overture" and begins a great, mechanical, industrialized album full of playful anguish.