The scene: Late at night, just after seeing the Cirque du Soleil show LOVE.
Describe your fellow traveller: The passenger is ME. The driver is a hippy-ish looking 60 yr old.
The review: The cab picks up me and my friend and sees we've just left the hotel where LOVE (a Beatles-themed show) is playing. He tells us all about when it opened, and how he drove the guy who produced the Beatles' records to the premier. "I can't remember his name, though. Man, I really wish I could remember his name...really famous guy..." he says, trailing off.
"George Martin," I tell him.
"Famous guy...George something, I think."
"George Martin," I say, more clearly.
"Damn, what was it...George...something..."
"His name is George Martin."
"What? No, that wasn't it. This was a tall guy. Must have been six foot three at least. Skinny. Older."
"Yeah, his name's George Martin."
"I don't think that's it. Tall guy. Older. It'll come to me."
(driver starts to reminisce more about that night and how he saw the show the next night as 'the producer guy' gave him tickets)
"Damn. I just wish I could remember his name. Tall guy."
"HIS NAME IS GEORGE MARTIN. TRUST ME ON THIS."
"NO. GEORGE MARTIN. HE PRODUCED ALL THE BEATLES' RECORDS."
"George MARTIN - that was IT. Hard Rock, here you go."
(I wearily hand him a ten and we get out.)
Verdict: Will to live ultimately lost.