Perhaps there's still some audacity to singing a doo-wop tune about fucking James Dean's corpse, but despite that disconcerting act-closer, Southern Indiana boy Thornton's latest iteration of a Fringe staple, the coming-out monologue, is mostly undistinguished and masturbatory (literally and figuratively). And he doesn't deliver on the one thing that could have set it apart. Thornton sells his performance as something of a rock opera (he plays with a rock band, Waves on Waves), but the songs are few and far between, functioning as interludes to the spoken word, and not terribly interesting interludes at that -- they have the sheen of a folk song gone musical theater (Webber not Sondheim), and include some clunkers like "things that mean everything and nothing." The show is separated into two parts; of necessity, we've reviewed part one, with part two's first performance coming after publication. Wednesday, 7:30 p.m.; Saturday, 7:30 p.m.; Sunday, 4:30 p.m.