In the early spring of 2010, I broke into an abandoned house and put on a 13-night run of shows for nobody. No one was invited, and I told nobody where it was. But if you happened to be a curious pedestrian you might have looked up at my abandoned house between eleven and midnight to see it full of candlelight and the front door propped open, the smell of incense creeping out onto the street. If you had the nerve to climb the steps and walk inside, then you would have gotten a morally questionable show from a man in the center of a gutted 1-bedroom shack, wearing a vintage tuxedo and sporting a nasty black eye.
(For the easily bored: the show starts at 13:15)