Actually, we will be there. In fact, we never really leave. Our silent, invisible ghosts drift eternally through the corridors and theaters of the Village. In the dead of night (besides Saturday*), if you pay attention, you may come across us. On the breeze of the A/C (when it's turned on, dammit), you might hear Alex and Aaron swearing at the Box o' Death as they drag it into position. In the men's restroom you'll look up from washing your hands and in the mirror you'll just make out Stevo trying mournfully to remove his Frank glitter, scrubbing and scrubbing with minimal success. Outside, if enough people are smoking, you may catch a glimpse through the haze of Brad about to conduct a cast meeting, and with distant and Stygian wails Sarah will call that he is high on pot, and Kevin will politely ask everyone to shut the fuck up. The White twins will scare the hell out of you in a hallway like in The Shining, and Chibbi will be sexy out of the corner of your eye. Just before dawn, a damned chorus of bitching and gossip will arise in the lobby, and as the sun rises, the dressing alley behind Theater Two will be briefly and ominously saturated with a gumbo scent of makeup, sweat, and weed. Then the light of day will crawl reluctantly over the horizon, and this whole stupid bullshit haunting thing will migrate to Denny's to bug Lucky and some rednecks.
*Because Saturday, this week excepting, we're actually there. Duh.
I'm Little Miss Logical. Look at my perky tits.