Nostalgia: A Performance

A small room, no more than 300 sq ft, lit in the back with two 60 watt bulbs, a few candles scattered around, according to taste, somebody's taste, whoever takes charge, partially, briefly.  A bearded man in a stovetop and black fitted clothes accentuating height stares, breathing loudly (hopefully discernibly) out at the audience for at least a few minutes.  When the bearded man, feeling something incommunicable no doubt, begins to take yellow pansies and mexican sage blooms out of his pants, at least two humanoid creatures of indeterminate gender rush the stage from the back of the audience, shrieking ABRAHAM LINCOLN ABRAHAM LINCOLN ABRAHAM LINCOLN ABRAHAM LINCOLN.  They continue shrieking ABRAHAM LINCOLN for the remainder of the performance.  Meanwhile, the bearded man in blackstuff stuffs deliberately, choosingly, as if delecting, the pansies and sage into his mouth, filling his face up, recycling it.  The humanoids have aprons with spuriously positive phrases on them, but the phrases are obscured by what could be vomit. When the bearded face is full, the two backlights drop and a projector light falls on a screen. ABRAHAM LINCOLN ABRAHAM LINCOLN ABRAHAM LINCOLN &c... A Windows screensaver appears, and the bearded face hovers over a laptop, intent yet unchewing.  The audience sees a slow start-up onscreen, fumbling off & onscreen, perhaps even other dramatically invigorating actions .  The shrieking continues, now with more animated handgestures, none of which are recognizably semantic.  From somewhere deep behind you and probably no good, this song begins: www.youtube.com/watch?v=tDl3bdE3YQA

On the screen, one sees that the bearded face is logging into AIM and surfing via Internet Explorer via Ask Jeeves for Britney Spears pics, nude.  Dear God, it's dial-up.  One can hear...ABRAHAM LINCOLN ABRAHAM LINCOLN muma ABRAHAM LINCOLN mu muuu mnnnnumm &c...Shrieking continues, now interspersed with small pleas, puppysounds.  For a long long long time,the bearded face empties itself of flowers like a flourbag with a small tear or an eye with the same (if eyes could empty the body of sadness), and one pic uploads, pixel by pixel, of some girl slightly resembling some other girl you thought you might could know when famous bent over ruched linoleum, with what might be an oiled snake writhing out her ass.  No one on AIM has messaged the bearded man back, despite his entreaties, and only when the bearded man gets Skype running and receives a video-call from someone more or less boring do the pleas, grown ever frequent, cease to a low whine and the loop of "What I Am" fade out into whatever's left still of silence.