SPAM: Living the Dream, Sleep walking

Dear Fan,   I woke up at 5:45 a.m. and all of a sudden, decided to play Montgomery St. BART station in San Francisco for about 3 minutes after getting some tea and a muffin at the national chain cafe.   I think my motive in this crime was my desire to have certain songs reach their target audiences, and in the case of two songs, "Debt Instruments" and "Credit Default Swaps", their target audience is people who work in the financial services industry.    I'm not saying that people in other industries don't thoroughly enjoy songs about bonds and derivatives that tank banks and loser insurance companies.  I'm just saying that you don't feed dogs chocolate or raisins.   And so I went to the heart of the San Francisco financial district, Montgomery St. BART station, and wondered what i was doing there, feeling a bit foolish but definitely not bored.   During my 3 to 4 minute show, some woman walking to work was nice and smiled, and i smiled back, but the guy at the newspaper stand 20 feet in front of me would stare blankly at me when i smiled at him or made eye contact.   I showed the video to the spider in my apartment up by the curtain rod, and she said the video reminds her of Martin Scorsese's "The Last Waltz" when Rick Danko is wasted and playing "That Old Time Religion", but I have a feeling she was trying not to hurt my feelings.  The clip reminds me of when an investigative news show uses secret cameras, and they have trouble aiming them at their subjects.   And so I ask, "Did I deliver these songs to their target audience?"   Well, maybe, but mostly no unless people watch the stinkin', time wasting video, and even then, they're tough to hear.  I suppose I filmed a non-event to try to make it into an event, kind of like when protesters call the media to amplify their voices or the media coaches the protesters, but hey, so what?   If a tree falls in the forest, and there's nobody videotaping it, who will play the tree in the re-enactment?   Paulette Plays Montgomery BART     Teleologically Yours,   Paulette