|  |  m beating around the bush a little here, because what I have to write next brings me so much pain. 
 We had decided to keep the reading simple. We only had a half-hour, and we needed to be thematic. We all knew what the crowd wanted (some of the ruder acolytes had been chanting, Dirk! Dirk! We is One. Dirk! Dirk! all through the Pynchon reading.) They expected it to be the best reading of the Millennium, and they expected it to be mostly Dirk.
 
 The holographic clock that had been lit up in the center of the stadium 
      since nightfall grew larger with each seconds click, as did the sound 
      of the heartbeat chronometer. We considered these obstacles to a successful 
      reading, but not insurmountable ones. Dirk wanted to hang backstage until 
      it was his turn, which made for another distraction, howling 
      faithful disappointed, and groaning and moaning for five solid minutes, 
      until Dirk himself spoke over the P.A. system, ordering the masses to allow 
      us to read, and to pay attention, which they did.
 
 Frank screamed, Hello, Los Angeles! and the crowd roared. Then 
      he read one of his poems, To All the Girls Ive Loved Before, 
      Look at Me, Im Famous Now, Dont You Wish You Hadnt Dumped 
      Me followed up with his infamous soft-core porn/art poem, Still 
      Life With My Pecker. Then he and I read selections from Williams 
      Poem For Money, after the roadies and 
      the nurses rolled Williams gurney onstage. William didnt move 
      much, but the monitors showed signs of cerebral activity. Then we did the 
      hip-hop song William wrote about sleeping on a park bench while we were 
      in Paris titled, Im Drunk and Dont Speak French and Homeless 
      For the Night, Pass Me That Bottle of Red, My New French Friend. The 
      Beastie Boys came out and scratched the vinyl with us. It was 11:45. The 
      projected hologram clock was about 30 yards high. The telltale heart noise 
      was thundering. The cast of Stomp! came out and did a tap-dance type 
      drum roll while the announcer from the Chicago Bulls announced Dirk. All 
      went to black and a vast array of lasers pulsed concentric circles of green, 
      red and blue, amoebic variations, hypnotically pulsing.
 
 Ominously.
 
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