A girl named Tooth sits on a stoop, wistfully braiding her bangs. Twisting, twining, plaiting, tying. Then she undoes the rubber band fringe along her forehead and begins again. So it goes, this precise ritual of binding and unraveling staged on East 7th Street, where a beagle in a black crepe ruff vomits papyrus and a pair of Daffy's jellybean underpants dangles higgledy-piggledy from Mister Fu Manchu's fire escape. He is a German cabaret singer with a voice like a gravelly junkyard accordion, and I learned from him that when you find an eyelash on your pillowcase, by all means blow on it—pouf!—and make a wish, because it can be humbling and hard to exist... More >>>