So you are in this bar, sipping, listening to what the DJ plays. You know there’s cameras in the bar, and that people can look in here through webcams, but you already forgot that they exist.
In comes this woman, with her bodyguard. An actress with a gloriously exotic name; you can see posters advertising her acting classes all over town, though noone has ever seen her on stage. Yes, she has a bodyguard with her, the usual type, tall, muscular, frozen face. Strange visitors at this bar that is mostly populated by young and not-so-young precariati.
So she gets a fit, and noone knows why. She dances, starts throwing things around, yells, tries salto mortale, hits her head somewhere and yells that someone has beaten her, oh these brutal people, a scandal, she sits down and misses the chair and so on. The bar people try calming her down, but the bodyguard prevents anyone trying to come closer. All other guests slowly drift to the tables outside and watch the spectacle from there. The DJ, in his self-consciously hyper-cool fashion, is outraged. Everywhere else they would already have thrown her out. (Yes, so what, that this bar is not in the throwout trade is one of the reasons why we keep going there.)
Already early in the morning, the phone rings. The last of the waiters, still busy cleaning up the mess after the storm, picks up.
It’s a call from the other side of the globe, from San Francisco. The caller watched the spectacle all night through the bar’s webcam. He found it so interesting and exciting that he just had to call in and say so.