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Moseying along in his studebaker---for the great, ancient automobile was more an instrument of observation than transportation at such speeds---Bob scoured the street for signs of postmodern infiltration. This would be the place, he was told; these unassuming 2-story houses were the bulwarks of infiltrators and smugglers of Marxist abominations into academia, and thus the hearts of impressionable youth. They'd have made up names like Miron Swellesque and be Professor of Social Psychology and other disciplines more pretentious yet; they'd sip wine at galas, complaining at its cheapness, flaunting their menacingly short shorts as they'd subversively scribble profanities on walls. "The Golden Rule is, there is no Golden Rule" was the harlotry of the day. With such norms, any human worthy of the name is plunged into Meaning Crisis. But whoa there! He was compelled to stop for an aging postmodernist hastily backing out of his driveway.

Blake left the driveway in a hurry, backwards direction notwithstanding, noticing the ludicrous man from campus who was often seen carrying a set of props to god knows what end. Once, wearing a nylon devil costume clearly too small for him, he was escorted off campus. This menacing boob, gaping impatiently at him with the intention to pass, has now, oh my god, started honking like a complete ass. Blake instinctively felt the scorching judgment of the human-rights lawyers across the way, his neighbors peering out of their window from their high ground. Incidentally, they were the only folks on this side of town who weren't card-carrying plural people.

As human rights lawyers, as Buddhists, as true pluralists (not to be confused with 'plural people'), Art and Gilda were appalled at what their street had become. Now they watched their brutish neighbor, the erstwhile darling of the art museum and university press, also a rumored (reformed) homophobe, hammering his horn at another troglodyte. The Great Compassion Mantra had its way of kicking in for such trials - at least for Gilda. Art had more debilitating karmic traces to root out, and his rage often got ahead of him in deciding what to do next. This had made him a good lawyer, as his rational faculties were quite intact in such frenzies, but it had also made him prone to veer from the Path. The late Master You, from whom he'd sought instruction in the Way, would never transmit any lasting endowments upon him before passing into nextness. Art would always consider this his own personal failure, perhaps his greatest. But this he spoke of no more - he'd ultimately sided with Gilda in relying on ways that are not ways, Zen being one. But that Mantra she'd constantly recite, invoking the blessings of the bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara, told of worlds just as full of gods, demons, and other spiritual beings as You was won't to hint at. At any rate, listening to the softly flowing syllables, he now noticed two fully enlightened beings who had stopped honking at one another and were now driving the speed limit in opposite directions.

Liska was Jessica Rabbit Professor of Post-Modern Dance at "the Booger Barn" - the first educational institute to have its name assigned via "the wisdom of crowds". This was the only form of intelligence acknowledged by people like Liska, who'd elected to bear her ridiculous name in order to increase her chances at employment at the Booger Barn. Though "Jessica Rabbit" was also an artifact of collective wisdom, the "post-modern dance" part was hers alone, and her aptitude in the field could not be understated. Her body made constant mutiny with her intentions, and this muted struggle would arrest the attention of any true pluralist, but appear meaningless to the uninitiated. It was therefore assumed (by people as different from one another as Bob and Art) that she was a talentless vulture feasting on the corpse of higher education (at least /modern/ dance had still involved talent). The illustrious Liska, arising at near noon, belched as she caught sight of the coffee pot of the hive (to which she'd been connected four years ago) long emptied. Letting out another plosive, louder, she threw open the cupboards.