To the Mall!

But before the dance can begin, you must lay in provisions. Costumes must be procured—fright wigs and bulbous pants, bits of shiny metal that glint and wink as you move them beneath sun- or strobe light—you need dancing shoes, dancing socks, wicking breathable dancing underwear, several faces worth of makeup, and by then you are just beginning to get underway. I know, I know, it's a shame you cannot just throw on a wrestling singlet and go at it. I have tried before, and the results were just disastrous. Perhaps this would fly in Sri Lanka, but here, in America, folks like their entertainment gaudy and overblown, an assault on the senses so entire that it leaves audience members whelmed and disoriented, filled somehow with a vague urge to purchase something, anything.