(transcript courtesy AudioGuide, Inc.)

Maury Povitch: . . . and you think it could only happen in other countries? Think again! Just watch this!

Narrator (always in malevolent voice): San Diego. America's Finest City. But is it? Oh yes . . . beautiful, nearly fecal-free beaches. A musical paradise. A creative Shangri-la. A climate to die for. And that's exactly what happens each year . . . each October . . . when San Diego's beacon of glorious music, the San Diego Troubadour, mysteriously disappears, never to return.

Or does it?

Maury Povitch: You won't believe what happens next. We'll be right back.

Segment Two

Maury Povitch: So, you think America is free of haunting mysteries? Think again! Parents, we want to warn you: some of what we're about to present is disturbing. You may not want to tape this and have people begging, even paying you, for copies. So, please keep that in mind. As we continue . . .

Narrator (as always): But why would a mystery overcome an oasis like the beautiful San Diego? With so much fun . . . with music coming from the alp-like mountains and echoing on the sandy, urine-soaked beaches, when the month of October arrives . . . the month of goblins, witches, Charlie Brown's Great Pumpkin, and other mysterious and terrifying omens . . . the friendly, ringing voice of their own beloved Troubadour . . . is stilled . . . is silent . . . is . . . dead.

Maury Povitch: We'll be right back.

Segment Three

Maury Povitch: You won't believe what happens next. You may want your children to go out and smoke a bowl. This is unbelievable.

Narrator: The residents of San Diego, located in the southern-most area of the western state of California, are a fit and happy bunch, generally unperturbed by the troubles of the outside world. They sing; they sail. They sport and they spend. They follow music always, until October arrives, and they find themselves without a trusted guide. For suddenly, nearly one month to the day before Halloween, the San Diego Troubadour disappears.

Inserts

Joni Mitchell: You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.

Jose Sinatra: Still, it's nothing to get upset about, really . . .

Narrator: Nothing to get upset about? Well, according to one person, maybe. But every large city has its share of the malcontents, the misinformed, the missing-brained, the monthly columnists who think it's just business as usual . . . obstinately oblivious to the crooked, cavernous crater created in the crotch of creativity, of eagle-crested dreams.

Maury Povitch: Is Jose Sinatra delusional? Can an idiot lounge metal god have the answer? You won't believe what he has to say . . . when we come back!

Segment Four

Jose Sinatra: So, the San Diego Troubadour just ups and disappears in October, in San Diego. It's clear something's really gone wrong. And if you think you know what that something is . . . think again!

Narrator: Bad things never seem to happen in San Diego. Here it's sunny year 'round. Sewage spills don't deter the surfers, who are strong and fearless enough to swim in what amounts to an unflushed toilet. Christmas comes without the snow, but with the brisk joy that could chill the fires in the red-hot rhoids of any grinch. At Easter the bunnies bask and breed in a bounty of vacation vistas. But in October, the joy begins to abate. The leader, the guide, is gone. For there is no Troubadour in October. And in the end, the ghosts, the goblins smile wantonly, demanding treats, while the Troubadour tinkles in the memory, which entreats it to return.

Maury Povitch: Coming up next we have someone you saw briefly earlier in this expose, who agreed to come on only after our producers assured him that he could make a brief statement without interruption. You won't believe what he has to say!

Segment Five

Narrator: While the Troubadour tinkles in the memory, which entreats it to return.

Maury Povitch: If you think you know the mystery of the San Diego Troubadour, think again! We have with us one of the columnists from the Troubadour. Please welcome Jose Sinatra!

(audience applause)

Jose Sinatra: Thanks, Mo Po.

This is my fourth September column, the one that appears before the Troubadour's one-month hiatus each year. It's usually been the easiest to write, seeming like a sort of a 'shot-my-wad-from-November-to-August' exhalation, generally an opportunity for some summings-up, spiffy plugs, and see-ya-laters. Up until now, I haven't used September to focus on anything too heavy or substantial by worldly measure. Nothing yet, for example, to comfort the needy (that's generally in February) or chastise the sleazy (usually December) or moisten the loins of the arid desert that some of us call 'Life.'*

(audience applause)

What's really necessary at this time is that people know we'll be back in November . . .

(audience applause)

. . . thank you . . . and that without people like you, the readers . . . along with angels at Winston's, Lestat's, Claire de Lune, and dear gifts like the Troy Dante Inferno, Joe Vecchio, Scott Slaga, Teddy Wigler, Buddy Blue, Barefoot Hockey Goalie, and Anya Marina, the Hose wouldn't have more than a handful of other people to thank for allowing him to bring his message from the page to the stage during the past year.

So bring an open mind, a greedy libido, and the cultured forms of your beautiful virginal daughters to The Passion of Jose Sinatra at the Adams Avenue Street Fair as well as to the love sessions with Jose Sinatra and the Troy Dante Inferno at Octoberfest in Del Mar October 28-30 and Claire de Lune on September 17.

You see, Maury, that's the kind of thing I usually put in my September column. But frankly, it's become as boring as paternity tests.

Maury Povitch: You are the father!

Jose Sinatra: Duh.

(audience applause)

And I also wish to thank Liz Abbott, of course, Steve Poltz, Gregory Page, Bart Mendoza, my Dad Dub, Scott, Jesse, Looee . . .

(audience applause renders seven more names unintelligible)

Maury Povitch: You won't believe it, but we're out of time.

Jose Sinatra: You're right, Mo Po, I don't.

(audience boos)

Chaos and destruction 'til November? No, perhaps some sweet emptiness.

Maury Povitch: Thank you for your exclusive words, Hose. (to audience:) If you think we don't believe in the tragedy of the Troubadour's absence each October, think again. Until next time, America.

Jose Sinatra: Are we off?

Maury Povitch: Unh . . . unh.

Jose Sinatra: Wow. T.V. sucks. It's a Mo Fo, Mo Po. Hey, by the way, that's not a microphone, dude. It's my lap.

(audience gasps in rethought disbelief)

November through August