Coming to you Live from Los Angeles at the Arthur Gilbert Theater, it’s the Very Late Show with Your Host, Guy Blanco!
The tack piano and C-trumpet blared a vibrant golden fortissimo, as the stage lights to the premiere late night talk show lit the stage like sunbeams. The moon descended from the rafters as a sea of red curtains parted to reveal the Los Angeles skyline, rendered technicolor by months of meticulous brush work. For those who listened carefully, just barely audible was the voice of the stage manager.
“You’re in on three…two…one…go now!”
With a controlled gait, The Host stepped out to the middle of the stage putting each foot before the other in a motion practiced millions of times beyond the point of perfection, well into the realm of instinct. Yellow brightness bounced off his brown Amadeo Testoni Oxfords. The host adjusted his dark red tie, before grabbing the microphone from its stand. The Host had always preferred older style ribbon microphones, he had insisted on sourcing this particular one from the estate of Johnny Carson. It wasn’t about money: The price was irrelevant. He had always said that he had a reverence for the forefathers of his art.
The host raised his left hand towards the band, and the iconic music of Lou Harrison’s 1950 Ballet faded into the background.
“Welcome to the Very Late Show!”
A chorus of “whoops” and hollers rose up and out of the 1,500 seat audience. Based on how each individual noise reverberated in the space, the host could tell it was a full house. Not that he needed to count. It was always full.
“I’m your host, Guy Blanco!”
Another chorus, this time louder.
“Thank you folks, thank you. We have an excellent show for you tonight. Isn’t that right Esteban?”
The host turned to the drummer of the house band, and on queue the spotlight illuminated his kit and symbols. The white face of his ponderous kick drum, worn and battered, was reminiscent of the moon as viewed through a telescope. The drummer, as rehearsed, smiled, clicked his sticks, and threw a “snare-crash” back towards The Host. The Host placed his hand over his heart, as if he had been shot.
“See folks! He’s so excited he doesn’t even have any words! Seriously, it’s going to be a great show. One of our guests this evening is John Smith, here to discuss his upcoming one man adaptation of John Milton’s classic epic poem, Paradise Lost, as part of the Blarvel Cinematic Galaxy.”
The host paused, knowing the audience would interrupt him out of their excitement.
“And of course, I can’t forget our exciting music guests, B52, the K-Pop sensation sweeping the nation.”
A lot more whoops, especially from younger women, exploded from the audience. The Host had ensured exclusivity of the band on their US tour, much to the chagrin of that…other host.
“But first folks, it’s eclipse fever all around the country, so without further ado, let’s welcome to the stage esteemed physicist and science communicator, Doctor Eliza Shnitke.”
Less cheers this time. The Host had expected this, of course. All that mattered is that he had the momentum he needed to make this guest work. The Host motioned off to the side of the stage as a middle-aged woman in a lab coat walked on. As rehearsed, The Host walked over to Dr. Eliza Shnitke, the two hugged, and sat down promptly. He had been careful to instruct the physicist to wait several beats before speaking, as the audience always gave one final cheer before the show could begin in earnest.
“Thank you so much for coming Dr.Shnitke- Sorry, I mean esteemed doctor of science Shnitke.” The Host changed his town, implying a lack of sophistication on his part. The audience laughed.
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“Thank you so much for having me Guy. It’s such an honor. I’ve been watching your show since I did my PhD back in the 90’s. I can’t believe I’m here.”
“Oh thank you, you’re too kind Dr. Shnitke,” the host paused, holding his finger out to the audience, begging for a moment of correction once more “Sorry, esteemed doctor of science Shnittke.”
Another laugh from the audience.
“Eliza’s just fine.” the mild-mannered physicist gave a slight smile, and waved off the host’s jestful moniker.
“Eliza! Okay! And you’re sure-”
“Oh yes, the ‘doctor’ in my name is really for more-”
“Esteemed places?” the host jested. The audience laughed once more. “C’mon Dr.Shnitke, you don’t need to hold back. Tell me how you really feel!”
The scientist’s face was flush red.
“Oh no I meant academic-”
“I’m just joking!” The Host winked.
“Oh thank goodness.” the scientist adjusted her seat.
“So, Dr.Shnitke, everyone’s talking about it. It’s the elephant in the room-”
“B52?” she asked. The Host hadn’t planned this joke. Thankfully, it landed.
“The eclipse!” The Host slapped his knee and laughed, as he had done many times before.
“Oh sorry, I was distracted by those hot korean men over there!”
The camera quickly switched to a close up shot of the South Korean boyband laughing, before quickly switching back to the doctor.
“So yes, this Saturday, there’s going to be the first Solar Eclipse in the continental United States in over twenty years tomorrow.”
“Wow, I can’t wait to burn out my eyes!” The Host joked.
“You won’t burn out your eyes,” Dr. Shnitke reached into her lab coat and pulled out a pair of solstice-viewing glasses “if you’re wearing these.”
“I don’t know if I’m esteemed to use those right! I can only imag-”
A surge of energy coursed throughout the wiring of the studio. The lights sparked and glass rained to the ground of the set. The Host had not planned this. He had paid a lot of money to make sure things like this couldn’t happen. The audience gasped, and the set was officially in the dark. The Host immediately took control.
“It’s okay folks! Things like this happen all of the time! We’re going to go to a commercial break! We’ll back in ten minutes to continue our talk with Dr. Shnitke!”
The host walked backstage, and put his hands over his temples.
On tonight, B52 night? Of all nights?
The stage crew was already hard at work, and several on site paramedics were treating minor lacerations from the accident.
“Do you know what caused the surge, Maurice?” The Host asked his stage manager.
“No, not yet. Nothing from Los Angeles Power on it yet.”
The Host sighed. The show would be fine. Perhaps it might even turn viral. Not all would be lost. The show must go on.
The lights of the stage kicked back on. People went to their places and the count in from commercial break began. The Host sat back down, behind his desk as he waited for the replacement lights to surge to life. A fine, unnoticeable layer of dramatic tension hung over the set. Or rather, nearly unnoticeable. The Host’s disposition did not betray any notice.
******
Absurdia
Under the Peaks of Perpetual Winter, Rock (the Thoreskyn Prophecy) felt a sudden bursting headache overtake him. Immediately he knew something had happened. Part of him had come true. Something had crossed to the other side.
Reality will crack
there will be no going back
“Shit, I got another call I gotta take. Big magic outage in Garlicopia.” Rebecca stood up from the meeting of the three fates, and dialed another number on her talkstone.
Time was running out.