You see lots of weird stuff in this job. Tons of naked college-kid butts, of course. But weirder stuff, too. Like the time a five-year-old came through on a plastic tricycle. Had correct change, even. Bands on tour sometimes hand out swag; t-shirts, tickets, y'know?
Last night, a big, black tour bus picked Tyson's row. No band name. I couldn't see in, but I could hear, like rattling. And scratching. Tyson's face was white when the bus rumbled away, belching black smoke.
"What'd you get?" I called.
He showed me a little cardboard square. "My return ticket," he said. "Pre-punched."
Cho on the Practical Merits of Genre Structures
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