This is a “blast from the past” post from time-traveling Andy.  I’ve pre-dated it to a time when I was asleep in a ca. 1973 beater RV in my uncle’s driveway in Chula Vista, CA in order to post about a play I saw a few weeks prior to that with the fiancee’s parents. I didn’t travel all the way to the night we saw the play because I like how the RV smells.

So, we were at this play put on by a local (and excellent) theater (theatre?) troupe (troop?) when I began to fear for my life. It was a stage presentation of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast (Disney seems to insist on it’s name being part of the play’s name) but, I swear to Buddha, I thought it must have been Outbreak: The Musical.

It has been a long, long time since I have heard so many rude sons of bitches coughing loudly during slow or quiet parts of a play. I know winter is cold season, but in a house that seats maybe 350 or 400 patrons of the arts I wouldn’t expect dozens of them to have whooping cough at the same time.

Then it hit me:

The dead don’t cough.