To squee or not to squee...

that's not in question. Some years ago, in Dallas, I me hied to Moby Dick—a gay bar, not the best one—whose evening's entertainment was supplied by the spiritual offspring of Chuck Barris: a Gong Show, wherein purveyors of song (or lip-synch, feh!) would earn the judges' harassment, laughter, and eventually, the gong. Exhibitionist that I am, I rose to sing "Three-Minute Hamlet"—which so foiled the room that bartenders were throwing anything they could find at the gong to seal my doom.

And now! I find my name, its letters wrong-adjusted, can also spell 'Derisory Gongage'!