From above, probably on a helicopter, we see an island in pandemonium. In the center of the island there’s a volcano that is just spitting magma all over the place, smoke pouring upward, the whole place is rumbling. But what is that we see? Down at the base of the volcano, somehow not engulfed in lava? We zoom in. It’s a hero, and he’s, like, meditating up on one leg. He’s got his shirt off and he’s ripped. Then… his eyes snap open!

Spring Street. Stand clear of the closing doors. This train will skip Bleecker—I do not care for it. Transfers to the 4, B, D, F, and M trains must use my brother Rodney’s special car service.

Act 1

A square in Seville. On the right, a tofu factory. On the left, a guardhouse.

A group of soldiers relax in the square, waiting for the changing of the guard and commenting on the passers-by (“Sur la place, chacun passe” “That One is Definitely Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell). Micaëla appears, seeking José. Moralès invites her to wait with them. She declines, saying she will return. José arrives with the new guard, followed by a crowd of D.A.R.E tee shirt wearing youths. As the factory bell rings, the tofu girls emerge and exchange age-appropriate banter with young men in the crowd (“La cloche a sonné” “Come Hither, You Lactose-Intolerant Boys”). Carmen enters and sings on the untameable nature of love (“L’amour est un oiseau rebelle” “No Birds Were Harmed in the Singing of This Aria”). The men plead with her to choose one of them for a committed, monogamous relationship, and she throws a flower to Don José.

I lie back on the table, naked, draped in paper, awaiting my exam. I assume the position, heels in stirrups, exposing my privates to an air conditioned gust. Time crawls by and I’m thinking, “Why didn’t they let me read magazines in the lobby where the light’s so much more flattering?” I hate being alone in this room so prone to ruminating.

My ten year try at true love had turned loveless two years before. Then, I’d rushed into a frantic romance, which ended soon as the guy recognized it as a rebound. This was followed by the realization that my last period had put the period on my menses, and probably put the period on men. Menopause? More like Men-o-stop. My allotment of orgasms had apparently expired with my eggs.

Last year’s Paris Conference on Climate change has focused the world’s attention on global warming. Especially Canadians, who are wondering when exactly it will get here, already.

Trusted celebrities have issued warnings that we must act now for the sake of our children’s future environment. However, I don’t think the children really care that much, given the condition of their rooms.