But that's not actually interesting. That was what I was musing about, watching the folk singers. In a smoke-filled back room, in a bar in Oakland. Forty-three of the angriest and most sincere, gathered there. Talented, and willing to speak up. More courageous than I am.
That was a little uncomfortable, to the be only non-folk singer present (I was bringing them wine coolers because the bar needed extra staff). But not actually very uncomfortable.
It got very uncomfortable when their flesh merged and they became a sixteen-foot tall mega-folk singer. Still attractive, in a disheveled, free kind of way. He, she or it looked at me benignly.
"I'm communicating with the giant squid right now. We've never seen a living one. They fight the sperm whales for idealistic reasons. They have technology there, but it breaks up when there isn't enough water pressure. It's not superior to human technology, but it's pretty good. The giant squid are kind of gentle and kind of ruthless. I can't really explain it, though - you could only really understand if you were a giant squid. The giant squid have no trade or commerce, only gambling. The giant squid could offer us a lot of relationship advice, but they'd prefer we discover it on our own. The giant squid have over ten thousand semantically different words for snow. The giant squid deliberately duck away from scientific submarines because the color yellow is taboo and unacceptable in their culture - they know contact would be nice, but just can't bring themselves to it. The giant squid are... they're like... they always eat... Oh, I can't explain it."
Then they separated out into folk singers, and composed a song about Teddy Roosevelt.
Was this a hive mind? How did they all fit back there, anyway?