What if you and members of your rock band were shot in the street and your ex-husband didn’t call you but then he frantically texts you while you’re re-recording your entire album to come see a waitress at a random diner. And he’s been paying this waitress half a million dollars to pretend to be your dead daughter who you watched die. So you tell him to pick up the phone next time someone tries to kill you. This happened to my good friend Lestat de Lioncourt












