Last Sunday, we paid another visit to directress/raconteur Erica Werner in her faux-Titian dorm room. Outside it was cold and dreary, but inside we found Ms. Werner in fine fettle, cooing merrily at her Bonsai tree. Clad in a chain-metal sheath and matching elbow-length gloves, both by Gaultier, with hair by Vidal Sassoon, Ms. Werner discoursed savvily on topic ranging from the Knights Templar to the common cold. As always, we were impressed by her smarts. But we were not where we were--that is, in the presence of genius disguised as high fashion--to engage in idle chitchat, but rather to query Ms. Werner about her latest artistic endeavour.

FIFTEEN MINUTES: Would you care to tell us a bit about your latest artistic endeavour?

MS. WERNER: I'd be delighted. I'm pleased that you're interested. That's what I'm here for: to nurture a spark of interest in people that they in turn will be able to fashion into art.

FM:But wouldn't you be worried about the competition if everyone started writing rock operas?

MW: Damn the competition!

FM: Let me ask you a related question. "Jurassic Park: The Rock Opera" was an unprecedented success, earning rave reviews from critics everywhere, and sparking a rash of suicides. Does that put an uncomfortable pressure on you?

MW Think of the Beatles. Who thought they could top Revolver?

FM: But they didn't. Sgt. Pepper's was worse.

MW: It was not, you miserable little worm.

FM: But you know it's a common phenomenon that, for example, authors of successful first books will then develop writers' block.

MW: Please do not confuse me with "authors". I am not "authors". I am simply a nice girl who grew up on a farm and likes cows.

FM: scribble scribble.

MW: However, I must admit that I was somewhat worried for a short time that I would be unable to repeat my unprecedented success, until I hit upon a concept. And when I say I hit upon a concept, I actually mean that a concept hit upon me, for it revealed itself to me in a dreamscape, and when I awoke it was a foregone conclusion.

FM: Wow! It must be really great!

MW: It is.

FW: Well, what is it?

MW: I'm afraid it would be imprudent of me to tell you at this point of time.

FM: (rendered speechless) But...but...why?

MW: Well, quite frankly, the point of this article is to generate intense interest that is all the more intense because it is not satiated, like that ad campaign for that car.

FM: Mmmmm.

MW: Lights cigarette, makes a kissy-face.

FM: Would you at least give us a hint?

MW: Hint: it's about the time in which we live.

FM: And what time is that?

MW: Time for you to stop asking me stupid questions.

FM: Could you divulge when this event will come to pass?

MW: Not until after Spring Break. But it gives you something to look forward to.

With that, Ms. Werner grasped us firmly by the ear and showed us the door. That evening, as we sipped our lonely pint in the neighborhood pub, we reflected that perhaps a career in journalism was not for us. On the other hand, we didn't know what was. How we envied the Ms. Werners of the world, who could jet off to Aruba whenever they felt sulky!

We sighed, and took another pull of our brew. Well, we thought, there's no shame in being an honest, hard-working chaps. And yet...and yet...

There had to be something more, something higher than the cesspools of misery we waded through every day on our way to work, something...1sublime.

What was that thing? Where would we find it? What if it eluded us forever, until we died, stinking of unrealized desires and compromised ideals?

Was love the answer, as the poets proclaimed? Riches? The pleasures of the flesh? We remembered what Prince had said: "Fancy something, and something something/ It'll save your face, but it won't save your soul."

Then it occurred to us that Ms. Werner must have the answer. Of course! It was perfect! We wanted to drop everything and rush over to her boudoir immediately, but we restrained ourselves. For we felt sure that the answer would be revealed in her next production.

"It's about the time in which we live," she had said. Yes...yes...

Suddenly, everything seemed bearable.