The band is stuck in the sky, circling overhead, while the roadies get a little woolly with the sound check, tangled up in cracking spiral headphone cables.
Don’t follow that penguin’s umbrella; don’t lean into the cracking spiral. Cupula so heavy we’re spinning. Was it the fish? Is it the in-flight Fast and Furious screening? Something’s making the captain nauseous.
We’re calling and calling, but none of our usual channels of distribution are answering. I look out the cabin window, and see the apparition in the clouds. The apparition shrugs, “Sorry man, we’re all out of motion sickness bags. The roadies took ‘em all. They’re wearing them as masks, gracelessly prancing around the stage.”