Our jukebox is the real thing.

We are doing pretty well right now. We got all the tricks we need, we just need to concentrate on hitting now.

We don't serve drinks or ice cream in foam containers -- everything is placed into authentic glassware I basically obtained from auctions or yard sales.

We have a lady who drives down from Gladwin for a cherry Coke.

There's a touch screen where you can assemble snippets into a mini-show. Imagine you go to a jukebox and punch in a number of tapes, and it plays your show.

Each of us is aware he's a material being, subject to the laws of physiology and physics, and that the strength of all our emotions combined cannot counteract those laws. It can only hate them. The eternal belief of lovers and poets in the power of love which is more enduring that death, the finis vitae sed non amoris that has pursued us through the centuries is a lie. But this lie is not ridiculous, it's simply futile. To be a clock on the other hand, measuring the passage of time, one that is smashed and rebuilt over and again, one in whose mechanism despair and love are set in motion by the watchmaker along with the first movements of the cogs. To know one is a repeater of suffering felt ever more deeply as it becomes increasingly comical through a multiple repetitions. To replay human existence - fine. But to replay it in the way a drunk replays a corny tune pushing coins over and over into the jukebox?