Manchester

Explosive lightning just crackled to the ground. Momentary light carved in the sky, the negatives of vericose veins cutting into the dark. Striking, inspriring. There is no rain, it's only electrical, the storm. Sharp, jagged. When I was growing up, a friend's mother was struck by lightning. Burned all over her body, even from the underwire in her bra, they said what saved her were her rubber boots. I've never feared lightning but were I out in this, I'd surely run for cover.

Twenty minutes later, the rain has begun to fall. In buckets. And huge drops. I'm on my way to Manchester, New Hampshire, on a Peter Pan bus.

Manchester, ManVegas, Manchattan, whatever you want to call it, is a trip. There's a little bit of everything. A very little bit. My friend Tony says, "It's almost big enough." Or, "It's just a bit too small." And coming out of Tony's mouth, that's especially funny to hear. He's in NH for theater. Musical theater. I've never understood it, but hey. It's all him. Getting all dressed up, dancing, singing. I saw him in a show in college. He was the spirit of this kid who committed suicide. And Todd Studebaker made him wear feathers. As though they made it ethereal and other-wordly. So here was Tony performing a contemporary dance, portraying the spirit of this tortured kid, with plastic feathers pinned to his shirt. I'm no theater expert, but really, Todd, bad idea. I'm staying with the Tonester this weekend. On a quick getaway from the city.