Red State Comic Strip
("Galaxy Michael" Second Feature)

 

"What wise, whimsical parables lifted from a shitty life!"

********************

If "Galaxy Michael" was a little bit short for its own good, why not add on this "second half" of amusing shorts to keep the audience writhing in laughter in their seats?! Shot for peanuts, it's more bang for the buck!

1) "Nintendo is a BLAST, Kids!"

HERE IS A BACKGROUND:

Back in 1989 or so Nintendo released an official breakfast cereal on the shelves that tasted exactly like "Fruit Loops". They had an inane commercial with bonking computer music that lulled kids already inside the cult of video games into pestering their parents into buying the sugar-laden crap. The refrain on t.v. was "Super Mario Jumps!", and "Zelda Runs!" and in general pushing us little urchins in the direction of being completely disconnected from the real world.

The beginning of the skit would show two fat kids sitting around playing Nintendo on the carpet in the living room. They're playing "Super C", the sequel to "Contra"-- the Japanese company, Konami, picking up the lingo from recent political developments in Washington & the skullduggery in Central America.

"When I grow up I'm going to be a Super Ninja Commando!" says one, shoveling a handful of "Frosted Flakes" in his mouth. This, a shot of him from the television's perspective as game music plays.

What I wanted to do was showcase the increasing amount of violence in the world with the inane bonking music-- "Super Mario Jumps!", "Zelda Stabs!", "Donkey Kong pillages!", and showing shots of the games intermixed with scenes of increasing mayhem-- rioting crowds and people screaming with their hands over their heads, while a voice is repeating "Nintendo!" in a bonking voice, culminating with planes crashing into the twin towers, and the buildings collapsing in a cloud of dust. Someone keeps jamming the "Reset" button over and over, then a nuclear blast goes off and a creaky old man sits on a porch smoking a cigarette with shaking fingers, a death wind blowing over him, a faint glow in the distance. He turns to the camera, and snarls out "And I ain't even never lived!" before collapsing back with his tongue hanging out. The skit ends with the kids exclaiming, "Oh boy, let's buy a SUPER NINTENDO!" and it cuts to a shot of the world exploding like a mudball.

A red sign appears, a classic arcade motif as stars fly by: "GAME OVER"

Here is a link to the original 1989 commercial right here on YouTube:

2) "Scrub Your Mind With a Mental Hygiene Film"

Narrator: Yes, with these classroom films of progressive education we shall demonstrate attitudes and ideals that will enable boys and girls to make their places as efficient and effective members of a democratic society!

Scene I

Opening shot: Kate riding to school on a bicycle with a wicker basket situated between the handlebars. She is wearing a dark beret.

Michael stands by the bike rack in a preppie sweater, books under his arm lamely.

Michael:"Hi, Kate"

Kate:"Oh. Hi, Michael. (As she chains up the bicycle with 12 padlocks, a series of iron balls, and TNT)

Kate lights a cigarette, mounts her leg up on the bicycle seat, and straightens out her pantyhose.

Michael:"I um, ah" (mumbling in sexual befuddlement). He's 15 and a sophmore. She's 19 and a senior. "Maybe you ought to do that by-- uh, the smoking tree, but watch out for 'The Pepper Tree Gang'."

Shot cuts to: Hooligans standing by gnarled and twisted "smoking tree". Clearly under a "Negro" influence, for some wear fur coats that trails behind them and a pimp's hat with a feather in it. They kick around, chortle, and spit.

Michael:"Or then again, maybe not!"

Scene II

Michael is sitting at a table in the library, his chin resting upon his palms. In a reverie, a daydream, an interior dialogue is going on in broken sentence fragments as he contemplates his love-shy predicament. Wistful strings play: 1950's, wholesome.

Michael's inner dialogue:"Gee-whiz! Maybe I don't have what. . . . . what it takes. If only I could lure-- maybe LURE her into the film projection room where I could wow her with 'The Miracle of Moss' and 'Insects are Interesting'!"

Inner Dialogueis interrupted, when young hoods bump up against his quiet table. Shot of torso only, in a Tommy Hilfigure jacket.

Hood #1:"Clear out, we be takin' over dis table for we-selves an' our bitches".

Michael fumbles for words, shocked.

Michael:"Now-- now-- wait a minute, fellahs. I was here first and it's always polite to ask about these things and all. . . . .".

Hood #2 says nothing and simply drags Michael's backpack off the table and off into the middle of the floor. Next goes his binders, pencils, and books.

Michael:"This isn't the key to good citizenship! What about sincerity, honesty, and good sportsmanship?".

Hood #1:"It be 'thug code' now, soul brutha".

Hood #2:"Move yo' honky ass!".

Michael:"What in kingdom-come are you talking about? Neither one of you fellows are black!".

Hood #1:"We be transplants to de' African nation", raising his eyebrows and holding out a clenched fist while nodding slowly and with significance.

Michael:"I don't care if you're transplants from Poontacanna, but you really should study up on the matter and tell "The Pepper Tree Gang" all about it! Then we can gather around the piano and sing 'Jimmy Crack Corn!'".

Scene III

Shot of Michael strolling down the hallway with books under his arm, a distraught expression on his face.

Narrator: Yes, in the sum total of things Michael appeared to be just a hapless white sack of shit.

Michael turns around as if to say something else with his finger in the air, but is met by fresh peals of hyeana-like laughter.

Narrator: How would he ever impress Kate-- the smartest, crustiest, most cynical girl in school? The one who made his heart pump aspartame, saccharine, caffeine, and potassium benzotate (-- a preservative) in his bloodstream?

A cartoon figure appears on a bulletin board, Colonel Cosmic.

Colonel Cosmic:"Greetings, earthling! I was passing through your orbit when I listened in on your conversation through my scanner, and I think you have real sales potential!"

Michael:"Gee, you really think so, Mr. Spaceman?"

Colonel Cosmic:"Yesiree! You have what the rest of this planet sorely lacks. . . . . a sense of gung-ho idealism!"

Michael:"You can say that again", holding up his binder with a sneaker print on it wistfully.

Colonel Cosmic:"Indeed, what does it take to run a business?"

Camera pans over the orange tiles of the Parkmoor restaurant, the Mobil gas station, and the St. Louis Bread Company.

Colonel Cosmic:"Without the spirit of entrepreneurship, we would look like this:"

Cut to shot of weather-beaten Navaho woman pounding out corn with a stone.

Colonel Cosmic:"Always beware of mass movements that sap the imperative of rugged individualism, my boy. Fascism, socialism, communism, and political-correctnesss-- they're all alike. No more private property, no more YOU. That's why we outer spacemen believe in the American way!"

Michael:"Hully-gee!"

Colonel Cosmic:"According to my computer wrist-watch, Kate is going to be selling boxes of cookies door-to-door to raise money for the senior prom! They're hiring a D.J. who wears so much gold jewelery the wiggers have to carry him in!"

Michael:"Oh, I get it. . . . . you want me to be her sales-partner as we go selling door-to-door to little blue-haired old Clayton ladies with puckered assholes!"

Colonel Cosmic:"You got that right!"

Michael:"I'll do it! I'll do it!"

Scene IV

Shot of Kate and Michael walking together down a ritzy suburban street. Rolls Royces parked in driveways, black cast-iron little jockeys by the lightposts. Kate is wearing beret and long black coat that hangs down to her ankles. Michael is wearing a British pea-coat.

Kate:"I hate it, I fucking hate it. Being forced to sell these shitty fucking cookies for a Prom I won't even go to. They never play my kind of music anyway!"

Michael:"You mean like 'The Archies'?"

 

Close-up of Kate rolling her eyes.

Michael:"Gee, you seem awfully moody today, Kate. Perhaps you need. . . . . one of these!"

Michael holds up something that would elicit gasps from a polite 1950's audience. The tender-sensibilitied swoon and faint.

Michael:"See this blue polyethylene on the side? That's a special moisture-proof shield! Don't thank me, but 'The Story of Menstruation' in the library film can!"

Kate holds her palm up to forehead, closes her eyes, and begins laughing in spite of herself.

Narrator: Somewhere between a funhouse and a psycho ward, Michael's imagination roams like a leper jacked up on methamphetimines. What do YOU think?

**End of Segment**

3) "The Education of Michael Adams"

Opening shot of St. Louis Lambert International Airport, the ratty exterior of our fair city's travel hub, Airplanes are taking off and landing, the business of the world as black porters outside the terminal in the weather load up the ticketed luggage in black caps and white shirt sleeves with a heave-ho

Cut to various shots of people talking on the phone, waiting for their flights, standing in line at the ticket counter. Life is very ordinary and routine

Then there is myself at the age of 17 years old walking through the teriminalwith long hair, a "Wayne's World" hat, a flannel shirt, a Metallica t-shirt, and a light carry-on bag. I have some time to kill, feeling like a man of the world. I spy a video arcade over my right shoulderr-- focus on arcade behind me so I'm blurry (-- video game sounds) then focus back on me as I look straight ahead contemplating. Then I walk into the arcade.

Cut to shot of "Final Fight" machine, giant wrestler beating the shit out of hoodlums. Grunting sounds as he body-slams opponents in righteous fury-- "RRRUP!" "RRRUP!" "RRRUP!"

Next I'm playin pinball, the ball getting jolted between bonus bumpers. But sadly, the ball falls between the flippers and it's "Game Over". I'm clearly having a good time, caught up in my own tuned-out world of teenaged obliviousness.

Someone is watching me, the camera tracks me over their shoulder so I'm blurry-- a big kid without a clue-- as I walk over to the change machine to get quarters

The person walks forward ominously, predator and prey

A hand reaches out and tugs on my sleeve

I turn around in surprise, and behold the piteous face of a medium-built black man in an army jacket staring on with sad, pleading eyes. He stares on for a beat, then tells his story

As the next couple of scenes go he leads me outside of the arcade and claims that he's a foreigner stranded at the airport, pulling out a letter as proof with a logo of the African continent on it that says his family was killed in a helicopter crash in Nigeria. He's "too embarrassed" to go to the help desk or to contact a security guard, and he needs my help. Wide-eyed, I agree as a "Good Samaritan". He weaves this grateful story of desperation, thanking God up in the heavens with raised hands as people indifferently sit around and go about their business. He has $700 in U.S. cash that he can't convert into Nigerian dollars and he wants me to keep half for myself and give the other half to charity because I seem like such a fine, upstanding individual sent by God. He leaves, then comes back later. He's working me like this for 45 minutes into this tale of intrigue, telling me to "wait around" (-- as evidenced by the moving clock) . When he comes back the last time he asks if I can give him any money to get him through the trip back to Nigeria, holding the check. I tell him I only have the four quarters that I cashed at the change machine. They're warm in my hand. He goes, "shit, man!" in a south side Chicago accent and stalks off-- making me look like the fool. I stand there slack-jawed, barely comprehending what has happened. Indeed, a hapless white sack of shit-- unhip to the ways of the world.

Big logo appears: "THE EDUCATION OF MICHAEL ADAMS"

Now we are at Union Station, a downtown mall in St. Louis where bumpkin tourists are wandering around the concourse-- bald, overweight, and wretched-- the American plain. The fountains gurgle enticingly with the lure of instant gratification, all flowing like water, as pretty girls walk by in tight jean shorts.

I'm walking forward with my father and younger brother, and I turn around to look at the girl's behinds like a lecher and smirking to myself

We enter a candy store-- one where all the delicious varieties sit in giant barrels-- hearkening back to St. Louis' history as a railroad hub-- and folks milling around the store like cattle, my family and I in the store pawing at the goods

I'm studying the candy, moving from barrel to barrel and swiping a caramel and eating it with an easy, slick expression. My brother reacts in horror and whispers furiously that it's "thievery", the middle-class "goody two-shoes" My Dad looks up from his distraction to see what all the commotion is about as he sees my brother hyperventilating like a moral absolutist, whispering so others don't overhear, and Father smiles with a frowning expression of lapsed Lutheran absurdity. It's not exactly "kosher", but forgivable enough. One is o.k. Two is pushing the margin of trouble, and as a a placid old elephant, he doesn't want trouble

Now we're sitting 3rd floor food court and there ice cream stand rests in center of food court with the pathos of minimum wage capitalism. Light is shining down from the skylights. Crowd sounds. I ask if I can get an ice cream (-- an emphasis on I, because obviously I'm acting like a scurrilous egotist), Dad reaches into his wallet and gives us a $5 bill

Now we're contemplating the flavors. I'm furrowing my brow and thinking, the camera swinging back and forth between French Vanilla on one side of the cooler and Rocky Road on the other. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

I look down at the money and then up at the menu which nags there

Next is a profile shot that moves past my face, of younger brother  studying the ice cream in the cooler below

Trying to hide the cynical manipulation in my voice, I say:

"Uh, Jesse-- why don't you order first. I still have to make up my mind. . . . ."

He orders his ice cream from the unsuspecting woman working behind the counter, who herself is caught in the grind of this miserable, demeaning job for low pay

I hand over the money, and raise my eyebrows slightly raised as the register makes sounds in the background. She puts the money in my hand

I order a double scoop ice cream-- one of "French Vanilla" and the other of "Rocky Road" and the drudge fixes it as I look down and swing my body from side to side with hands in pockets in mock casualness

But alas, I'm a quarter short and "I'm so sorry". The woman gets flustered, looking at the ice cream that's already made. My hand reaches across and gives her the money I have

I begin to make a beeline to the table, but stop at the newspaper bin.

Cut to shot of newspaper bin-- "The Thrifty Nickel". "FREE TAKE ONE", the bin reads. My hand reaches down and grabs a copy with the snap of greediness, like a fox

I return to the table

"Hey Dad, look what I got! It was free!", showing off the paper and snickering.

My brother throws a hissy-fit, demanding another ice cream because he only got one scoop. But Dad says he isn't about to part with anymore money. I snigger about how I was short, but ordered the ice cream anyhow

Jesse panics and begins to cry at my moral decreptitude

Dad frowns down at the paper and assumes that I stole it

"You're turning into quite the little operator there, Michael" he says with concern.

"You got to be slick, you got to be aware to 'get ahead' in this world", I say like a wise-guy. "You got to take advantage, or you end up like those guys" as I gesture with my head toward the employees slaving away at the ice cream stand.

Cut to shot of said employees across the food court like monkeys in a tree house

"Here, I'll do this-- " The sense here is that I'm reveling in my ability to pull the system like a god. "Gimme a quarter"

Cut to shot of Dad getting out a quarter from his pocket

I walk up the ice cream stand and give her a quarter-- in her simple-mindedness, she's still peeved and disgusted However, I'm looking down at her bosom. Cut to shot of me arching my eyebrows with subtleness-- a cheap imitation of Christian Slater. She tells me to "fuck off"

I looked shocked and hurt, reverting to my stable, acceptable middle class insticts, then walk back to the table and resume my sociopathic sway

Cut to shots of crowd milling around. The feeling is the anonymity of the public, the fact you can "get away with it". Voice-over as shots shift from one sorry group of stupid Americans to another

"You see, Dad-- It's all about 'the big score'-- if you can somehow stack doofuses up in a pyramid and climb over all of them so you can get to the top, then you got it made!"

"That's wrong!", my brother exclaims with desperation.

"Well," my Dad ponders with reflection. "It all catches up with you someday".

********************

Open to a shot of a well-manicured Protestant church, old folks leaving the church. Why there's even an old woman on a walker!

Myy car speeds by blaring "Pusherman" from the "Superfly" soundtrack and I toss a beer can out of the window where it clatters on the curb. Blaxploitation music, exploitation themes. A hustler-- "a hustler with a plan to stick it to 'the man'!" as the Curtis Mayfield  song goes. Photo montage of blacksploitation movie posters of pimps "livin' large" like scrappy materialists of conspicuous consumption

I stop at a roadside kiosk and pick up a free copy of the dubious alternative newsweeklie, "The Riverfront Times" with this ugly, dubious cover:

Next is a shot of my Mom's fancy Frank Lloyd Wright-esque house

I'm sitting around my flaky "New Age" mother's dining room table and flipping to the employment section. "Pusherman" is still playing my eyes fall down to:

Aggressive Phone Sales $8/Hour
+ Commission Call "J" 555-8426

I dial the number on the cordless phone-- a callow, beardless youth with wide eyes taking a big risk

Cut to shot of man sitting behind desk from the rear, wearing a blue-button down shirt. You can see only the arm of his shirt as he talks into the telephone. He is upbeat and slick with an accent that is slightly southern like a country/western barfly. This is the lure of easy money, casino-like excitement, and personal freedom talking.

"This is 'J'"

Back to me in the dining room

"Hey", I say with enthusiasm, all of 17 years old. "I saw your ad in 'The Riverfront Times' and I'm interested in working for you".

Back to "J" the mystery man

"Really?" (As "J" switches the phone to another shoulder, picks up a pen, and clicks it) "That's great! Have you ever done phone sales before?"

Back to the dining room

"I worked for a politician's phone bank once, telling people to get out and vote".

Cut to shot of John Lewis speaking at the lectern, the candidate I worked for, and grim conservative activists sitting around a fundraiser dinner with great heaviness. Snippet of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" is playing, a humming voice of American courage and guts

Back to "J"

"What is it about telemarketing that appeals to you-- er what's your name?"

(Shot is still on "J" the mystery man as my voice comes through the phone)

"My name's Michael".

"Yeah. . . . . Michael", he says, as if he's studying over this like I'm prize beef. A real horse-trader.

There are now various shots of my Mother's dining room Mom's silly sculptures and artwork sitting on the mantel, a Zebra with legs sitting on the edge. This woman is all about rainbows, dildos, "Earth Day", and hand-holding holistic therapy that does not quite fit in with the high-octane world of sales

Shaking my head ever so slightly, I lie and say "Well. . . . . I enjoy the challenge of the sale".

Back to "J", who leans forward in his chair with a creak and says "Come on down!" with excitement like a Texas car salesman on late night television.

Now I'm driving over to the job to Guns N' Roses' "Welcome to the Jungle", passing car dealerships. I cock my head, and go "Car dealers-- kings of salesmanship. . . . . . HA!" with caginess.

Towards the office park!

Now I'm walking down the hallway, a camera tracking shot follows my back until I reach the door. In an unbroken shot, the camera focuses on the fake golden plaque that reads:

Suite 301: Helping Hand Charities
Jay Kane & Associates

In this unbroken shot, the door opens to reveal small single room of half-cubicles set around the perimeter in a semi-square, scruffy 20-somethings-- riffraff-- murmuring into headsets like air traffic controllers, having the unethical "seat-of-the-pants" feel of "The Jerry Springer" show. Phone cards, car title loan services, strippers, and crack pipes. Sitting behind the desk in the back of the room is this Jay in a button-down blue shirt and black pants, leaning back in the chair behind a computer and talking into the telephone. He is a short, ruddy, well-fed man in his early 30's with his blonde hair looking like quills on a brush, a trimmed mustache and beard cut neatly like a country/western barfly. Quite the ladies' man.

"I'll call you back in a sec", he says with smoothness.

The shot still unbroken, he bids who has to be Mike to sit down.

Cut to full shot of me sitting down by his point of view-- I'm nervous and well-mannered as I take a seat. Half-bold, but lacking the brass of the kid who called him up on the phone. (-- Over my shoulder are the telemarketers lashed to their cubicles like sled dogs panting across the North)

Jay looks at me and squints for perhaps three seconds, as if I'm not the same kid who called, and then raises his fingers with his left hand with a "let-it-go" attitude

(Ad-libbed small talk, on Jay's side like a man shuffling cards on a riverboat with a self-satisfied expression. I smile, getting into the spirit set forth by this charming rogue. It all seems so easy, as we pal around. And with a straight-faced expression that conceals a lie as his eyes dance with mischief, he tells me about his company, "Helping Hand Charities" and how it raises money for downed police officers injured in the course of duty. A populist concern, set up against raging criminals and frivolous lawsuits. I stare on with wide-eyed credulity like Forrest Gump. He tosses me a job application, and it glances off my fingers and flops off my clumsy lap)

"Here, give me a script reading!"

(I go into the script haltingly, trying to sound confident, camera cuts back to me struggling with it and Jay beaming and rolling a pen in his hands as I look up from time to time as the more ridiculous passages)

Country Music Script

Howdy, (person's first name)! (If they aren't home and ask who's calling give your first name) This is (your name) representing the "Missouri State Troopers' Association", telling you about our upcoming country music show benefit. You like country music?

(If yes): We got a great show coming up. We have Blue Lou Nash, Luann Honeysuckle, and Texas Bill. They're growing stars in the country music scene and you'll see them in person. Fun for the whole family!

(If no, don't loose confidence): Well, country music isn't for everyone but you still want to help out your state troopers, right?

The Missouri State Troopers' Association helps out downed officers and their families with the extra stuff. You know, nuisance lawsuits from angry criminals and all. It seems like crooks are getting more protection these days than anyone else, am I right (their name)? It also helps give temporary shelter if their houses burn down or if they're injured in the line of duty and need more to pay their medical bills. You know, that little extra care that we oughtta give to our men and women of law enforcement.


What to say if. . . . .

person asks what percentage of the proceeds go to them: Well, it all really depends on how much we raise all together but we give them all we can.

If woman says she'll have to talk to the husband: I know if my husband treated me to an evening of countryrific entertainment after a hard day's work I might bring her flowers and pearls more often (laugh).

(if man says he'll have to talk to the wife:) Hold on there, (name). I know that if I treated my wife or girlfriend to an evening of countryrific entertainment I might get lucky that night (laugh).


(THE SALE) We're so glad that you decided to help out the Missouri State Trooper's Association. We sell different ticket packages and we'll just run these by you. We have the super-duper-trooper 20 pack for $225 dollars. Is that too high for you? We also have the 10 pack for $115 dollars. You don't have to use all the tickets, all the tickets that aren't used will be used to seat handicapped children and retirement home folk. We also have the family 4 pack for $40. Or we sell the 2 pack for $20.

O.K, you'll have the tickets sent to your address in 3 business days with the toll-free Missouri State Trooper Association number if you have any questions. Thanks again. (their name).

Now Jay leans forward like a king, giving stage directions

"Great reading! You sound like a natural! But try to sound a little bit more southern-- more like their buddy. . . . ."

"Sure thing, Jay!", I say with enthusiasm, led down the road of sin.

Cut to wide shot of room, looking down at angle, telemarketers, Jay, and I-- all carrying on with our business. What is highlighted is the existential absurdity of it all.

Focus on the ticking clock-- transforming itself from 1:16 to 1:29 to a smooth fade-to motion

Now I'm reading the script again in country voice, this time to Jay's satisfaction. From his point of view, I deliver the script.

 I'm improved, but still wooden and green. I'm mechanically proficient, but there's no "soul" there.

Back to Jay: "Great", he says with mock sincerity, nodding once. His sense is that there is potential inside that will be mined out in time.

Cut to shot of me nodding with my mouth open-- like a young D.J. getting off in a radio booth with the thrill of it.

Jay slaps his hand down on the table

"Everyone take five!"

People are getting up and leaving in a hurry, pushing their chairs back and tossing down their headsets

Cut to shot of Rob, a beefy Ukrainian kid about 25 years old-- Jay's right-hand man with sleepy sociopathic eyes. Camera focuses on him with his arm draped around the chair as he gets up and joins Jay

The camera captures us, the cloud of unethical telemarketers walking forward down the hallway, followed by me, then followed by Jay and Rob. What is in the air is dead-eyed sociopathy and outright sleaziness

The telemarketers milling around outside, smoking cigarettes and scuffing their shoes, not saying much, awfully low-down like "bad dogs"

Jay and Rob stand away at a slight distance, lieutenant and commander on this corrupt enterprise, and I stand next to them. They both squint up at the late spring sun, their expressions saying, "It's good to be alive". Then they tuck "dip" or chewing tobacco into their lip. Chewing and sucking sounds.

"Making sales is like getting pussy" from Jay. An obnoxious straight-forward philosophy. "If you're relaxed and smooth it'll totally happen!"

I look down at the sidewalk and nod twice, slightly embarrassed. More chewing and sucking sounds.

"When's the show going to be?" I ask with genuine curiosity.

"Christmas Eve". More chewing and sucking sounds.

I jerk my head back, looking confounded, camera focuses on my face as if I'm thinking

********************

Cut to shot of dream montage of singing Anglican choir of children at nighttime, candles lit in church, hushed sacred silence as onservative people sitting in the pews and listen steadfastly

Now there is a shot of a subdued family gatherins, people sipping punch and opening gifts around a log cabin in pine tree sweaters, kids chasing each other around on the floor and noodling around with their toys

Cut to shot of marquee at tiny, run-down theater that reads: ""MO. ST. Trooper's Asso. Presents: Blue Lou Nash, Luann Honeysuckle & Texas Bill"

There is a shot of a tiny, run-down stage

Cut to tracking shot of Texas Bill back stage-- a surly, craggy, old-time cowboy slinging a guitar and walking out on stage where there is no one in the audience. He says: "I'm in the mood for some country mooosic tonight, folks. "Blue Lou Nash's truck broke down in Oklahoma, Luann Honeysuckle couldn't make it tonight, so I'm going to give you an extra special show, THAT'S RIGHT!" and starts strumming the guitar.

Cut to shot of lone uniformed janitor in back pushing along dirt with a push-broom

Cut to frontal shot of Texas Bill on stage, and guitar breaking with a twang

Now see the Casino Queen floating riverboat

There is the whirl of a roulette wheel, as Jay sits there dressed up like a 19th century gentleman in a silk hat sitting at the roulette table, surrounded by beautiful, buxom women as he laughs, winks, and raises his arms up in the air as he gambles the night away.

********************

Back at the sidewalk, my eyes are frowning and shifting as if thinking. Sucking and spitting sounds from Jay and Rob. They spit tobacco juice onto the ground, emphasis on an ugly brown splotch on the pavement with a "plopping" sound

Next, a bleary-eyed young man walks across the parking lot-- long-haired, on skinny legs, looks like a pirate-- carrying a yolk-stained paper-plate. He looks like the camera-man who shoots South American snuff films as I track him with my eyes

"Is he just eating breakfast?"

"Yup"

I look around confounded, as Jay looks exalted and announces: "Alright, break's over! Let's meet our quotas!"

Next I'm sitting next to Rob in cubicle who's showing me how it's done. There is the script and the telemarketing "tools of the trade" (-- numbered keypad and auto-dialer display that lists victim's name and telephone number in big fat LED characters) as he explains that our quota is $150 of tickets/hour and how pretty soon one won't even need the script. He bustles into the calls like a hyper-manic "good ol' boy"-- calling the person by their first name-- gets through the script once, and is rebuffed-- says "thank-you". Tries again, asking if they like country music and is cut off by a hostile party. Says thank-you again. Keeps trying and trying, getting through various points of the script, before finally making a sale.

Now it's my turn, and I rather woodenly address Agnes from Chesterfield. "How do you know my name?!" she crows over the receiver, about 80 years old. I honestly can't answer and stutter, losing track of the script. "You should be ashamed of yourself, young man! I'm calling the police!", as she hangs up.

I turn my head over to Rob and ask what I should do-- camera focuses on his sleepy face and he says just to ignore it. Unspoken is that it all comes with the territory

All of a sudden the camera focuses on "the pirate" who says "Thank you, mam" in a voice that sounds exactly like the concierage at the Ritz Carlton before he hollers "FUCKING BITCH!".

I look over at this flurry of cursing wide-eyed, like I'm in a slaughter-house. Indeed, this is the slaughter-house of telemarketing.

Jay sits behind the desk with satisfaction. "Rough one there, huh?". he calls out with cheeriness.

I gulp, cock my head, and turn back to the script

Cut to montage of myself from all angles-- left, right, up, down, diagonal directions-- faltering through this script 100 times.

Finally I'm having a conversation with "Horace" from Baldwin--

Cut to shot of ponderous weighty gentleman with a beard called away from his proper family sitting in proper dining room, and he fumes "Who the hell is this? This is my few, precious moments to spend with my family and I really don't want to be bothered by rude sales-calls, thank-you". He slams down the phone, and it--

Cuts to shot of me, cringing with a pained expression

Then there's Jay again, beaming from behind the desk

"How ya doing over there?"

I half turn-around in the chair and say, "Still working on it", visibly dispirited.

Jay gestures his hands through the air like a drama coach, squinting his eyes and narrowing his voice for effect-- "Loosen up a bit, be more natural"

Cut to shot of me nodding like a bruised boxer and getting back to work.

The camera looks down over my shoulder as I stare at the script on the desk, and put it aside.

The auto-dialer display that reads "Arletta Wyatt"

I ask in a real polite voice to speak to Mrs. Wyatt and that "I'm calling on behalf of the Missouri State Trooper's Association and selling tickets for their country music benefit to help out downed officers of the law and would you be interested in attending". The lady is not interested, but isn't angry at this softer approach.

The camera captures me doing this from all angles, but it's softer, not as quick-cut

Now there's a sinister shot of Jay beaming from behind his desk like a Buddha of southern-talking management. "How's it working out over there, Mike?"

I half-turn around and sound a little more hopeful.

"I haven't made a sale yet, but I think I'm really improving!"

The camera stays on me, as Jay calls out with upbeatness-- "Stick to the script as written and you can't fail". My face visibly breaks out into discomfort.

Then there's Jay agaom with his elbows on the desk and his hands cradled impishly-- an ominous shot.

"Trust me"

I turn back to the phone with weariness, like a bruised and battered fighter

The auto-dialer display now reads: "Greg Murman" as a laconic, dispassionate voice picks up the phone

I now muster up false enthusiasm and go into the script-- this is fireworks, and friendliness, and pyrotechnics-- I'm pouring my heart out into this, desperately trying to make a sale. He agrees that he likes country music with a "yup" and finally you get him to the point where you ask him how much you can put him down for and there is this long pause. . . . . "nothing". My face visibly gets crestfallen as I thank him, trying to keep up my buoyant tone. I wish him "good night" and wait for him to say something and he simply hangs up the phone. I sit there with my head in my hands for a good 15 seconds as telemarketing voices go on in the background.

Cut to shot of clock-- it reads 7:00

Jay slinks past, we only get a shot of his head

"Come in tomorrow at 9:00 AM-- Saturday?-- and we'll fill out the rest of your paperwork"

I sit there puzzled, watching the door close, asking out-loud to no one in particular-- "How am I going to get paid?"

Cut to various profile shots of telemarketers continuing on and on and on

Cut to wide shot of room, looking down at angle, of telemarketers-- Jay's desk is empty

The clock reads 8:30

Rob sets us loose with a "good job, guys"

The telemarketers leave, not even seeing "goodbye", gradually clearing out like free agents into the night of marginal things like leopards

There is a lingering shot of me standing out on the sidewalk outside of the office park and staring at the sunset, trying to fathom the meaning of it all in shadow as I scuff my shoe against the pavement

Next I'm at my house, sitting at the table with my hands folded, looking down at tthe cluttered surface, deeply depressed. The family cat walks by and I reach down and pet it gently, this soothing mutual relationship of warmth and goodness

*******************

Cut to shot of me laying in bed and the alarm clock going off at 8:00 A.M.

A view from the windshield of my car heading toward brick office park on clean, crisp Saturday morning. The shot continues and reveals that there are no cars in the parking lot. I go--

"What the--" as I pull the emergency break and come to a halt.

Windshield view of me walking toward the building.

Now there is a view of me walking toward the building through shaded glass. I pull on the door-- locked. I press the "Call" button but get no answer.

Cut to shot of me on the outside, fidgeting and getting nervous, not comprehending.

Next is a shot of me through shaded glass knocking on the window.

A lone shot of me standing outside, and a lone black janitor with a cap and blue coveralls coming to the window, miming that the building is closed, shaking his head, gesturing sourly with an expression as if he had bitten down on a rotten crawdad

I call through the door: "I was supposed to meet Jay at nine"

Finally, the janitor opens the door at my white boy insistence that must sound like a blatting trumpet and says: "Buildin' open at 10:00, sir"

"But I was supposed to meet Jay at 9:00!"

"Don't know no Jay" It's not his problem.

Shot stays on janitor as I ask "Mind if I come in?". Janitor scowls and agrees reluctantly.

Cut to tracking shot of me walking down to Suite 301 and trying to open a locked door. I knock.

Cut to wide shot of room, looking down at angle, of empty room with lights off as knock resounds throughout room.

I mutter "Son of a bitch!"

I sit out on the blistering curb looking bored and miserable, picking up twigs and scraping them against the sidewalk and throwing sticker-balls. In a series of shots, I keep looking down at my watch as the time passes by: Time reads: 9:11, 9:27, 9:40, 9:55, 10:08. It shows me all the while trying to keep stimulated with whatever I can find

Gradually the lot fills up with cars

A tracking shot follows me as I enter the building, get on the elevator, walk down the hall and stand on the door

A close-up of the door-knob as I rattle it

"FUCK!".

Sound of slamming door as I enter the living room, take a seat at the dining room table, flip open the same dubious Riverfront Times issue to the "Classifieds" section and track down my finger to the original ad.

The camera tracks down to underlined and highlighted ad.

I dial the number and the phone ringing ten times

Cut to shot of suite 301's office clock sitting on 10:43 AM with the "second" hand moving.

I hang up with a disgusted look on my face

Cut to shot of "Super Punch-Out" on the screen, a boxing game on the screen. I'm playing the game intently, having a good time away from toil and dubosity, sheltered within my own little world

I look at my boom-box clock radio which reads 1:25

With "The Riverfront Times" in my hand, I call from the phone in "The Nintendo Room" and get A voice comes over the other end of the line-- it's Jay, sounding assured and southern and slick and sanguine.

"Helping Hand Charities-- this is Jay speaking"

I speak with mock, singsong innocence, acting naive as if nothing had happened: "Hey Jay! What happened? I showed up at 9:00 just like you said!" (Silence on the line from Jay) "I waited for over an hour. . . . ."

"Car trouble" Jay says, with a faint hint of amusement in his voice.

"Oh, that's too bad. What time did you get in?"

"About 10:15".

At this I raise my eyes and nod my head up and down in mock belief.

"Come in Sunday at 11:00"

********************

Cut to static shot of suite 301, above everything telemarketers talking into headsets.

There is Jay dressed in t-shirt and black gym shorts that clasp around his fat little legs, squatting down to adjust some wires, so many wires, that snake behind the cubicle onto the floor. He jokes about his girlfriend, about how good "blowjobs" feel with an "oh man", getting a knowing snicker out of the telemarketer he's talking to on the subject "fooling people" and "sounding sincere"

I look on from my cubicle with a concerned frown

Jay's girlfriend coming through the door, a very naive, simple woman-- a bit space-eyed-- wandering around in a daze with her arms crossed and hardly noticing the scurrilousness of the entire operation.

Jay says "Hi, honey" and comesover to kiss her with mock tenderness.

Cut to shot of Rob raising his eyebrows slightly

Back to Jay and dummy girlfriend. Jay tenderly says, "Wait in the car, and I'll be down in 5 minutes"

The girlfriend leaving with her arms crossed, kind of like a dumb blonde cow

Sound of door gently closing

Jay makes a humping motion and laughs heartily, telemarketers joining in with knowing smiles as I raise my eyebrows with pathetic irony. I look down at my script, which has a splotch of tobacco juice on it

I go through a few calls, getting angrily cut off by hostile parties

I look down at the script, and once again set it aside

I'm doing it MY WAY-- the polite way. I'm going along a distance before--

Cut to shot of Jay's thumb pressing down angrily and cutting off the call.

There's Jay's face, looking down like an angry moon

"I PAY you to do it this way so DO IT!"

I look on in shell-shock

"Here, since you're making the least sales-- we're going to put you on the dummy phone until you improve"

He takes out a standard telephone, which I have to hold-- a mark of shame

Jay gathers his things and leaves

I planitively call out, "What about my paperwork? How am I going to get paid?"

Sound of brief silence in the room, heavy and oppressive

Cut to shot of Rob: "You'll get paid, trust me. . . . ." but he doesn't seem all that trustworthy

Back to the phone, I keep getting cut off. . . . . and cut off. . . . . and cut off. . . . . cringing and cringing and cringing as I keep shifting around the dummy phone in discomfort.

Cut to shot of telemarketers and their voices, the camera revolving around the room faster and faster and faster.

The auto-dialer display now reads "Barnaby Clark: Baldwin"

Now I'm stuttering through my way of doing it very dispiritedly, completely out of gas. The voice on the other end of the line is listening, a very lame, slipping-through-shit old duffer who's an unlikely prospect as he tells me to speak up and asks me what I'm selling

Cut to shot of the pirate, the long-haired kid who looks like he shoots South American snuff films, leaning back and peering over with anger

I'm struggling on futilely, like Captain Kirk hanging on to the last in an episode of "Star Trek"

The pirate gets up suddenly and cuts off the phone call with his finger in disgust

Now there is me and him, in emphasis of him breathing in my face in a Spanish accent-- blood feuds and the violence of romance-- "Look man, you sound like a fucking idiot-- real lame-- when you talk that shit"

"But--"

"I don't give a shit abut your problems, you pussy. Do it right. . . . ."

Cut to shot of Rob sitting back with his hands on his belly, not commenting on what needs to be said.

I falter-- "But, but-- that's not my way!"

He shoots back with disgust, "You are a piece of shit, man-- A PIECE OF SHIT", running his fingers under his chin in Iberian dismissal.

Now I'm  frowning, shaking my head, getting angrier and angrier and angrier, my face turning red in volcanic rage--

Cut to shot of "Final Fight" video game--

Sound of grunting as giant wrestler beats the shit out of scoundrels-- "RRRUP!" "RRRUP!" "RRRUP!"-- overlaid with hollers from telemarketers as mele breaks out

Cut to shot of room and destroyed telemarketing equipment-- Jay's computer is flipped over

Cut to shot of Rob looking panic-stricken, angry, and in disbelief. "WHY THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT?!", he demands with his hand in the air.

I answer quietly, the storm over, breathing with the adrenaline rush coming down-- "If you have to ask you'll never know. . . . ."

Cut to shot of my back stepping out and leaving, and now-unemployed telemarketers picking through the ruined equipment

Narration overlay, my own voice as a grownup emoting slowly and with wonder: "Though I never got paid, I sure got my money's worth. I always wondered what happened to Jay, though-- a shifty con-man like that. Where he'd end up, and if there was any true justice in the universe"

Cut to shot of burning flames of hell, red brimstone

There is Jay sitting naked and frightened on a slab, cowering against a red wall of brimstone

Cut to shot of Satan's hoof stepping down with a knock

Cut to frontal shot of Jay writhing on his hands and knees going "OOOHH! OOOHH! OOOHH!"

Cut to shot of giant Satan in profile sodomizing Jay with his forked tail and cape behind him, laughing demonically-- "HA, HA, HA, HA!"

Cut to shot of me, as an adult sitting at a table and pointing my finger: "For all you know, Satan may be waiting down there for you, if you truly sin against your fellow creatures and don't watch your ass!". I laugh satanically, stare upwards like I'm Satan with a demonic grin on my face, and "prick" my ears up with my fingers as if I have a hard-on. Sound-effect: "BLWEEE!" A really creepy, zany way to drive the moral lesson home.

Fade out

4) Pillars of Faith

Opening shot of myself at about 7 years old, watching cartoons on St. Louis' "Channel 24", a small religious station run by the Reverend Larry Rice, a benevolent caregiver who offers food and shelter and rehabilitation to the city's homeless. It's "Heathcliff the Cat" and his infectious giggle

I'm watching on

The show ends and cuts to a station break (-- the channel is commercial free) and flashes community services messages about helping the homeless, and then old religious messages from the 1970's that resonate with a strong, campy voice of authority. One shows a girl walking through the woods, seeing a tarantula scurrying up a tree, getting frightened, and bolting away-- running panic-stricken through the woods until she trips over a root. And falls down. She finds herself at the feet of a man, Jesus, who helps her up, comforts her, and they walk out of the woods together. A very moving and symbolic commercial.

Cut to shot of me asking my parents "Who's Jesus?", and they look to each other uneasily-- a high-strung secular Jewish mother and an easygoing lapsed Lutheran father and my Dad says that he was a very wise man who lived a very long time ago.

"Then why was he in that commercial?"

Cut to shot of my goldfish swimming around sluggishly in the kitchen. Obviously "Goldie" is sick.

I ask my mother what's wrong with "Goldie" and she offers a grim prognosis, smiling uneasily

Cut to shot of my Dad preparing for bed. I ask him if he'll pray for my goldfish. In a moment of gravity, of pinched absurdity, he promises he will.

It is morning. The day is fresh. Light streams through the kitchen "Goldie" is floating belly-up. I look at her with an "oh".

Dad digs a hole in the backyard with a shovel, and buries the goldfish in newspaper. I stand behind him solemnly with my hands folded before me, like a little parson.

Dad puts up a stick of wood in the hole as a "marker". I'm talking with solemnness in my little voice--

". . . . . and we'll visit the grave every day, and lay down flowers, and keep 'Goldie" in our hearts. . . . ."

Cut to shot of Dad and I walking slowly into the house, the funeral over as I continue talking-- getting carried away with piousness for this deceased goldfish. Piping voice fades

Cut to shot of "Goldie's Grave"

Fade to black

Fade back in to living room-- header reads: "3 years later". I'm throwing a storming hissyfit.

"But I don't want to bring a Bible to camp! That's for goody two-shoes who don't know how to have fun!"

My Dad is trying to reason with me, trying to explain that I'm going to a Y.M.C.A. camp where I might need one where it's "proper" and "appropriate". Finally, he grows tired of arguing and just stuffs it in my bag. I'm strong-willed and am still arguing until he shouts at me with rage. I back down at last. The camera captures the sense of violence in the room, stretching it to the limit. I'm an insufferable little brat who doesn't know what "respect" means!

Cut to shot of parking lot where busses wait, kids parting and hugging their parents, tearful good-byes, duffel bags loaded up

There is a black religious family dressed in their finest, seeing off their 10 year-old son

Now we're sitting in the boy's bus. Everything is rambunctious

I'm sitting in the window seat, facing out the window.

The religious black kid taking a seat next to me. I turn my head and say hello

Cut to shot of busses leaving the parking lot, one after another

The kid looks around naively, and goes on and on about "The Lord" and "Jesus". I look around uncomfortably, and look out the window. He offers me a stick of gum, and asks if I have been "saved". I take the gum and humor him, saying "yeah, I guess". He goes on and on about how this is the first time that he's gone to summer camp, and that he's disadvantaged, and that "the Lord God" gave him this opportunity through a discount at the office. I don't quite know what to say and nod on politely as he talks on obliviously and eventually peters out with a "Praise Jesus"

Cut to shot of buses rushing past a stationary camera-- this is beautiful, scenic Missouri

The kids on bus stare off to the side dog-faced like Vietnam recruits

The busses pull into the "Y.M.C.A. Lake of the Ozarks" black-top driveway with the shift of pistons

The kids look on expectantly, with excitement

I blurt out "There's Trout Lodge! I stayed there last year with my family!"

There Trout Lodge looms from the bus window, a resort that sits on the lakefront.

Cut to shot of hazy, dreamlike flashback-- the fancy dining hall with frosted mint cakes, and the media room-- a mauve "cave" with a giant projection screen "t.v". as I snuggle down and watch cartoons, sipping from a Mountain Dew with my feet up on the coffee table

However, the train of busses are leaving Trout Lodge behind

Cut to shot of me looking shocked, then dismayed.

"But that's Trout Lodge!" Aren't we staying there?"

I get up to look behind me as the bus rumbles

A view of the back of the bus driver's head who hollers "sit down!"

Our bus rudely "scritttches" on a gravel road and comes to a halt next to some ratty cabins

Cut to shot of boys getting off the bus, and counselors hollering "get your shit off the bus!"

I'm asking about Trout Lodge as they shake me off. They bellow about finding your cabin and getting ready for the swim test

Narration Overlay, my modern voice as I look for my duffel bags and drag them behind me: "Heh, heh, heh, this was the pillars of faith demolished-- how the world tended to work when your expectations kinda got cut out right from under you. It kinda reminded me of the time when I was five years old, and sitting up in my room. . . . .

Quick Cut (flack-back) to shot of myself, five years old, sitting on the floor with a pile of blocks, and my Dad coming through the door and asking with his fists clenched and bunched electricity in his voice, "hey, Michael-- wanna see a DEAD GOAT?" I clap my hands together and go "Oh boy, oh boy!"

We walk down the street toward an antique shop

Cut to shot of stuffed goat's head in the window, mounted up like a trophy. With sounds of cars passing by, this is a pathetic rip-off!

I then throw a hissy-fit. "You cheated me! You cheated me! That's just the head!". Dad tells me to "settle down", trying not to laugh, embarrassed at my rank disappointment

[Flashback is over]

Cut to shot of milling Y.M.C.A. mess hall, where we're all required to sing the "Johnny Appleseed" song before we settle down to dinner:

I'm looking up from my bowed head and passing my eyes around, frowning

Cut to shot of "Pop Stop", boys and girls getting their soda and candy bars from the store

Cut to boys keeping to themselves, and oggling the girls-- two species apart

Intermix with newsreel of smiling American G.I.'s from World War II. Dancing with hula girls, drinking beer, having a good time.

Now there are the older boys about twelve, myself tagging along, hanging out by the boathouse and telling dirty jokes involving women of the Far East and the triumphalism of the USA

Cut to shot of George H.W. Bush photograph as they're laughing

Cut to shot of horse barn, male and female wranglers strutting around like cowboys-- taciturn and literal-minded, kids hanging out-- waiting to get on the horses. We happened to get there a few minutes early

There is a shot of horse shit and flies darting around with a "bzzzzzzzzz"

I slap a mosquito

All of a sudden, an ambulance wails down the road at 90 miles an hour

We kids look surprised, looking to each other. This is an unusual occurance. Office phone rings. Sound of wrangler talking on the phone, stirred up.

A wrangler comes out of door and squints up at the sun, a sense of heavy and oppressive silence

"What happened?", I ask.

"Girl fell off a horse. Horse stepped on her"

Cut to wide shot of barn, looking down at angle, of wrangler, girls, and my ten year old self as the narration overlays: "It was then that the idea of God as an intervening force in the heavens above died for me. The world was just too grotesque"

********************

Cut to shot of Dad, brother, and myself wandering through flea market.

I'm looking at some old "Nintendo Power" magazines when a pretty 13 year-old girl comes up and taps my shoulder. I look into her eyes and blush, overcome by her smiling beauty as the sound of an organ swells. "Follow me" she says, and leads me over to the revivalist tent outside where her father is speaking into a World War II era microphone system, completely possessed by the spirit, pacing back and forth. I stand there, open-mouthed, looking at the adults sitting in plastic fold-out chairs. She goes out of the tent. I look out after her. As I look around there are a bunch of other boys of all ages standing in the tent with me. I hurry out as the preacher shouts "HALLEJUEAH!"

********************

Cut to shot of me laying down quarter for cheap candy at corner store,

I reach for copy of Weekly World News issue that screams, "Batboy found in Cave!"

 Narration overlays: "If something seems too good to be true, it probably is"

Here I am about 12 years old, playing X-Men arcade game and sipping soda in corner store

I walk back to the house my father, younger brother, and I just moved into, the moving truck outside, the boxes stacked in the driveway and there is a kid about 14 years old standing outside investigating like a skinny, vile street rat-- a pale face that tightly stretched out his jittery eyebrows, wearing a relaxed expression of malevolent calculation. His name is Damone, and he is like Huck Finn without a moral compass, as he greets his "new playmate" with a raspy salutation. He leads me to his house kitty-korner to mine down the street. And here it is-- beat up, like a poisoned mushroom at the end of the street. Overturned shopping carts and loose lumber fashioned into skateboard ramps littered the front yard like rubble. Windowless drapes fluttered in the ominous breeze and the unlocked door lay ajar.

The camera follows us in there, a tracking shot of chaos and woe and a half-mad, half-deaf, cranky grandmother who lives there fussing at us, asking me who the hell I am with cranky befuddlement. A baby boy howls in a crib. Damone's drunk Mom weaves around the kitchen like a charity queen from a 19th century Irish tenement. It was Damone's birthday a couple of days ago, and this cake sits on the table-- practically the only food in the house. She asks if I want a piece and I decline politely, freaked out at this dysfunctional family. We go to his sparse room, and there is a filthy mattress on the floor with tangled sheets. On the floor is a Nintendo and new games in boxes, a brand new boom-box and a bunch of cruddy heavy metal tapes. On the ledge of the window is a CB radio. He tells me to "hold on a second" and turns on the CB. Static fills the room, until he presses the MIC button and goes into a feral voice: "This is 'Battery-Charger' This is 'Battery-Charger'. On 'the end', this is "Battery Charger'". A voice comes over the CB, very vague and ghostly-- nothing can be made out. I ask Damone who he talks to. He says "Truckers" and that they're nice to him and give him things.

I look back down at the Nintendo games and the boom-box. They're bottom of the line, the kind of things you'd buy at a truck stop. Damone says I can walk with him down to the parking lot behind "Big Lots" where he meets the truckers. It's all casual and completely offhand

Cut to shot of idling big rigs in parking lot

I look around with an expression of perplexment, slightly uncomfortable

"I don't know. . . . ."

Cut to shot of me kicking a ball out in the backyard, it's blue outside with sunset's shadows

My Dad comes outside with grave expression on his face and with as much soberness and seriousness possible as an experienced social worker says, "Michael, I don't want you hanging out with Damone. I believe that he is trading sexual favors with those truckers for gifts". I gulp, wide-eyed. This is one of the darker "facts of life" conversations

Dad picks us up from our Mom's house and we're driving down the street in our own neighborhood-- we look out the window and out in front of Damone's house are about 15 wild young hooligans skateboarding. Among them is Damone. He eyes the car with a lingering bad-ass expression, "psyching me out".

I pretend not to see him

Cut to shot of me playing "Legend of Zelda" as Narration overlays: "In a world without God, the risk of complete annihilation seemed very great--"

Cut to shot of hero, Link in the game getting surrounded by enemies in a labryinth, overwhelmed, and killed. He spins around, around, and around before disappearing into nothingness with a little "plucking" sound as the screen goes from red to black

Narration continues-- "-- and could turn you into a total pussy"

Cut to scene in "Dr. Strangelove when the Peter Sellers character is sitting on the couch talking to General Ripper, trying to get him to "give up" and surrender to the army that's firing through the windows of the compound so Ripper will surrender the codes to recall the nuclear bombers. General Ripper is talking to himself, is holding a smoking machine gun, chewing a cigar like a hyper all-American while Peter Sellers is acting like the faggy, chirping Britishman trying to steer him in a certain direction. General Ripper goes into the bathroom and commits suicide with a pistol, blocking the door with his body. Peter Sellers rushes over to the door, trying to force it open, but can't. It is jarring-- death is permanent.

Cut to black & white shock of previous vignette in this series, "Scrub Your Mind with a Mental Hygiene Film" when wigger bullies push our hero around, taking his table over "for we-selves an' our bitches" with a ruthless force of will that overwhelms the weaker, nicer character (ME!) like a hapless white sack of shit

Cut to shot of high school art room before class, the camera focuses on myself at about 17 years old walking in and putting down my backpack. In the corner are a bunch of trashy girls. I'm very conservative, shy, and uptight-- especially at the sight of Chrissy, this elfin girl who is so dazzlingly good-looking that she looks like an anime character. They giggle and gossip amongst themselves like sluts, then one of them comes up and utters promiscuous suggestions in my ear before going back to their seats. Then one of them gets up on one of the art room tables and starts dancing like a stripper as they laugh uproariously. The bell rings and they settle down as the art teacher comes into the room, a languid Polish-American art teacher who carries on like the director, Tim Burton, but even more lugubrious. He sits down and crosses his arms, lost inside of himself, as other students file into the room. They are good kids, ordinary kids. The languid art teacher gives us instructions to symbolically "paint what we feel" in a drooping voice. Kids are drawing pretty landscapes, or flowers, or anything that comes to mind. I'm drawing a twisted, bleeding thorn bush under a dark, menacing sky. The sluts are just goofing off and giggling. A pathetic little wigger with jaudiced skin and a cap backward, dressed in yellow, is nodding along with the easy lure of sex in the air while the art teacher sits with his arms crossed, lost deep within himself. This is a dark, ugly scene where no one is standing up to this pathetic degree of evil in the air. The camera cuts to my eyes frowning, going back and forth from the girls, to the wigger, to the art teacher. 'Round and 'round and 'round. The camera focuses on the moving clock, the march of time, then the bell rings. I watch the girls leave, particularly Chrissy, with great frowning sadness.

Narration Overlay: "Ultimately, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Become a depraved rodent too!" (Show Picture of Duff McKagan in repose)

Cut to shot of "Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure" of two teenagers going "gnarly!", "righteous!", and twiddling their fingers in a petty, juvenile guitar solo

Cut to flashback shot of myself at 10 years old and my friend, Leo-- also 10 years old out on the playground, acting hyperactive and out-of-control-- laughing, and carrying on, and acting obnoxious. He is a short, frenzied kid-- profitlessly defending his buffoonish dignity, screeching insults, as he shoves back kids on the playground and I back him up as the muscle of this duo, thinking this is hilarious. Leo is Italian. Maybe half-Korean, but he's bronze and talks like he's from Brooklyn or Philadelphia

Narration Overlay, as Leo frenetically slaps the buttons and jerks the joystick at a video game machine an an arcade down at the bowling alley: "I remembered my old friend, Leo back in summer day camp when we called ourselves 'the terror twins'. It was all about the change in your ripped jeans' pockets, the quick fix, and the hip dodge. . . . . FUCK RESPONSIBILITY!"

Cut to shot of "Yellow Key" Auto Insurance Commercial. Gist is this-- a guy waiting in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles and told flatly that "You need proof of insurance, sir". The man is stunned. Then out of nowhere: "Excuse me", a black guy in short sleeves putting his arms around the hapless white sack of shit like a hip cartoon character. He then gives you the pitch for the service, his Afro-ed head tilted back in ironic comment. What is required is 1) Driver's License and 2) Paycheck Stub. As the guy runs off to get those things, the black pitchman flashes an easy smile and gives the camera a thumb's up. Livin' large.

"To get back a semblance of what used to be, in this rotten world that stole my youth"

I dial up Leo's number out of the telephone book. A slurred voice answers, speaking in monosylablic ebonics. Conversation goes as such-- myself speaking in reserved, uptight voice

"Uh, um, er-- I may have the wrong number, um uh, but I'm looking for Leo Rudowicz"

(A pause on the line)

"This be Leo"

"Really? You sound different"

[Silence]

"Well, um, uh, you may not remember me, but my name is Michael Adams and we used to hang out years ago"

"Oh. . . . . yea"

"I was wondering if you wanted to hang out again one of these days"

"Sho'"

"How does Friday night sound?"

"Coo'"

"7 o'clock?"

"Right"

"Great. See you there!"

My family station-wagon pulling up to the duplex. Teenagers are hanging out like stray alley cats. They nod bemusedly at my presence, the straight middle class kid who doesn't "fit in", and see it all as a "big joke". I quietly sit down, as Leo rocks on his feet in a tanktop with a beer in hand full of idle boasts and misadventure. For the next two minutes, the conversation is ad-libbed, the camera going from me, to Leo, to the gang, and back. Some young hooligan says "we need some beer". Someone points out that I have a car. Leo decides that he and I will go to the liquor store for provisions

We get in the car, and drive off

Leo and I begin a conversation as it begins to drizzle. It's dark outside, and rain droplets smatter against the windshield-- the orange streetlights streaking against the windows. Leo is facing out the window, or staring straight ahead. He doesn't know what to say, numbed by the alcohol and the drugs

"So Leo. . . . . Good to see you. I haven't seen you in years! What have you been up to?"

"Prison"

"Prison? Really? What for?"

"Burglary"

Narration Overlay: As I would learn later, he robbed his next-door neighbor, ran upstairs to his house, and was caught under his bed by the police

Cut to quick-shot of Leo crawling through a window, running off with a VCR, getting spotted by a neighbor with an "oh SHIT!", running up the stairs to his house, and the police lifting the cover up where Leo hides

Back to the car

"For how long?"

"Six months"

"Did you join a gang?"

"No"

"Oh"

We pull into the liquor store, "Arena Liquor"

There is a shot of Leo and I sitting in the car, our faces lit by the neon signs

"You got any 'grip' man?"

I look puzzled

"Do I have any what?"

"'Grip'"

My brow is furrowed, my head cocked as if I don't understand

"Grip. Money, man!"

"Oh".

With the camera still on me, I writhe into my seat and bring out my wallet.

"Would $8 do?"

"Yea"

Leo gets out of the car, the door slamming behind him, and he quickly swaggers across the parking lot into the liquor store

Through the window we can see Leo picking up a case of beer, hefting it onto the counter, paying the little Pakastani clerk, and swaggering out with the beer with brisk attitude

The car door slams, and I say: "Wow, I can't believe you pulled that off! They didn't even card you!

"Just gotta find the right places, man"

Cut to shot of family station-wagon pulling up in front of duplex, more hooligans are outside

Leo and I approach the stoop. I have my hands in my pockets conservatively

The case of beer is set down on the steps. Eager hands take one or two a piece. When all is said is done--

Cut to shot of me frowning and holding up one beer. Raising my eyebrows in irony, toasting myself, and drinking conservatively amid guzzling sounds and spirited laughter.

I sit down on the stoop while they "whoop it up" wildly. Leo stands on the sidewalk, rocking on his heels with idle boasts, with beer in hand.

Cut to shot of moon moving through the clouds in fast motion

Leo and the gang still whooping it up

I ask Leo if there's any soda in the house. With an ebonics-slurred "follow me", I follow him up the steps

In an unbroken shot, camera pivots and follows me as I follow Leo up the stairs to his parents' apartment. Two black poodles bark up at the top of the stairs in consternation. Camera follows my back as I walk through living room where sits Leo's father, a very nervous man sitting with all his toys-- a widescreen television, a DVD player, and a fancy computer. The sense is that the family is chaotic and has no financial discipline. Leo's father asks who I am as the camera swings on him, and Leo says "he cool", before the camera swings back on Leo walking through the kitchen. The fridge door is open to reveal a threadbare assortment of food, and a bottle of Sunkist orange soda about 7/8th's empty. Leo just hands me the bottle and says "here".

Back to the porch-- another personage is there, and he is mellow, evil-- like a character out of a Charles Dickens novel, vaguely

The camera follows me coming down the steps with my bottle of orange soda and standing momentarily in the doorway. The mystery character is halfway turned around, he spots me, his eyes widen in malevolence, and he turns around all the way, arching his eyesbrows.

Cut to flashback shot of 14 year-old Damone staring down the car with a lingering bad-ass expression, "psyching me out".

Now 19 year-old Damone turns around all the way, his eyes opening up as far as they will go with evil electricity and with a rapid-fire sense of absurdity going: "Whoa, wait, what. Who the HELL are you?". He pauses for a second, then goes "Hey, wait-- I remember! YEAH!"

"What the FUCK is your tame ass doing here?"

Narration Overlay as I stand there awkwardly with my soda: "For all my sense of social dislocation that moment, I might as well have been a man in a Mickey Mouse suit waving at Disneyland-- or maybe a cheap imitation knockoff!"

Cut to shot of man in cheap rat suit waving to the hooligans on the porch, lit in the doorway

Back to Damone-- he is charged up with power, slightly older than the rest-- the leader. "So you want to join us, man? You have to pass the test! Walk on up to Oaknell park. Let's go!

The gang gets up and walks, finally finding something to do. We're walking down the street like a shifting gang, making all sorts of noise like young bullmoose

We walk down the hill of Oaknell Park

We gather around the fountain, the rock outcroppings like alley cats

Damone lights a joint and leans forward: "Smoke this!"

I study the joint burning between his fingers and then crack a joke: "This is like all those times in the guidance counselor's class when they were telling you to resist peer pressure!"

The gang exclaims "What?!" in disgust

Damone looks over with a bemused smirk: "So you're saying that you won't take the initiation?"

The gang chimes in: "Yeah, smoke the weed!"

I hold up my hand and insist that "pot isn't my thing"

Leo throwing an empty bottle of beer into the pond

Damone leans forward with a malevolent expression and shrugs "whatever, man. Hang out with us, we'll get you a girl, we'll get you some attitude, you'll be a big fat fuckin' pimp daddy!"

I look embarrassed and awkward, smiling slightly, as hooligans laugh

Narration Overlay, as it cuts to shot of gang hanging out by fountain idling: "Why did I continue to hang out with these kids? To feel 'more real' I guess, like I was 'in touch' with a sense of danger. And most importantly, to get a shot at Chrissy"

Cut to shot of Chrissy posing like a demure 1980's model, a true "Glamour Girl" with the sound of a flashbulb

Cut to shot of hooligans walking, then running through the shadows on the way to Damone's house. I ask why we're sneaking around, but they give me evasive answers.

Now we're standing outside of Damone's house-- the yard is filthy and the air of evil and marginality saturates everything

Cut to shot of Damone's hand pulling the chain that turns on the single 60-watt bulb in the kitchen

Damone picks up a boombox and plugs it in, turning it to a "gangsta rap" radio station

There we are sitting around the table, drinking malt liquors and smoking cigarettes, saying little. It's one of those hot, steaming St. Louis evenings so the gang are peeling off their shirts in the humid, smoky atmosphere. I'm self-conscious about my weight, so I leave my shirt on-- it only goes to show how I don't fit in with "da crew"-- wearing backward baseball caps and doo-rags

The half-mad, half-deaf grandma coming in and fusses that "it's too late for this nonsense" with a cranky expression, upset with the company and the noise as the hooligans look straight ahead impassively

Damone pushes his chair back and tells her to "go to bed!", standing over her with menace, getting into some kind of confrontation when he's telling her to "shut up, bitch". Eventually, she turns around and hobbles away, fussing

Leo takes out a tiny bottle of "151" from his baggy pants' pocket [Note to reader: this is the kind of pure, 200 proof alcohol that you pour into giant punch bowls, it's so strong!]

The gang passes it around, taking small, communal sips with significance

I squint and ask "What is that?"

Leo answers in dumb Ebonics voice that it's "151". He doesn't explain much further, and I'm naive

Now it's my turn I swig from the bottle, swallow, and cough it back up, spraying it out of my nose and mouth, gasping and choking

Cut to shot of gang panicking

"Someone get him a soda!"

I'm of me gasping with great whooping breaths, grabbing the soda and sipping through the straw

Damone's 15 year-old sister coming through the door with a meek, scruffy 20 year-old hanging onto her arm possessively, her eyes lit wide with frightened compassion. She is spunky, ungainly, rough, and cute-- and the only one who is showing any bit of decency as I catch my composure and eventually hurry past past her to get into the bathroom

There is a blurry shot of myself heaving up in the sink. There is a knocking sound on the door as she asks if I'm alright with tender feminine concern. She also adds, as an afterthought, that "the toilet is broken!"

Cut to shot of demolished toilet, camera canted down at a pathetic angle

I reemerge standing there in the kitchen, and saying that I have to go home. sniffing, my face inflamed-- like I've gotten a shot of tear gas. Paris meanwhile is going "oh my God!", the mele settling down

I turn around and leave

The gang look to each other around the table-- Damone raises his hand in the air, raises up and down as if to say "I'll handle this" with a sly, criminal expression

I step off Damone's porch and walk down the sidewalk. Damone comes out after me and asks if I'll be O.K. like a pal. I suppose outloud that I had too much. He tells me to take care of myself, as if to sow the seeds of friendship and concern

There is a shot of the moon in the sky, sound of crickets in humid night

Cut to shot of Leo's apartment (-- or rather, his parents' apartment). Clean white walls, sunlight of afternoon shining through, as gang sits on couch and chairs around the table. Damone is pacing

Leo is flipping through the phonebook, then dialing a number with a cordless phone. He asks in a polite, ebonics-slurred voice if "this hotel will rent out to adults under the age of 21". He gets his answer, says "thank you", hangs up the phone with the press of a button and exclaims "SHIT, man!" with outraged frenzy

Damone walks up and baring his teeth in worry

Then Leo's nervous, spineless father comes into the room and says, "Leo, if you had any sense at all, you would not have this party. This is stupid. Really FUCKING STUPID. Remember the last time you had a hotel party? You all got rowdy and the cops came! You're on probation, for Christ's sake!"

The gang looks down at the floor, not saying anything

Leo half-looks at his Dad and says, "we won't do nuthin'"

The father half-throws up his hands and leaves the room. So much for parenting!

Damone takes over the phone with a "here"

I raise my eyebrows and look away Sound of light tromping coming up the stairs, getting louder and louder

Next Chrissy comes into the room. She is lithe, feminine, gorgeous, and tuned-out-- looks over the gang without interest, and takes a bored seat next to Leo, crossing her leg and resting her head on her hand in complete stoned vapidity, staring at the wall

Cut to shot of my shocked, agape expression-- sound of thumping heartbeats, as if in slow motion

This is contrasted by the gang drinking beers, turning them straight up

Then I make  fluent, pointless conversation with them-- trying to seem clever and smart and catch Chrissy's attention-- manic as hell, half-turning in Chrissy's direction as if to catch her eye, but on she stares at the wall

Cut to shot of gang looking puzzled, not getting what I'm talking about as I talk about N.O.R.M.L-- "The National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws"

I pick up my chair and carry it over to where Chrissy sits, unmoving. There is my intent expression as I ask her if she's ever heard of "N.O.R.M.L"

Cut to shot of Chrissy not reacting

There's my eyes widening and darting around, wondering what's going on, if I'm talking to a statue. Someone calls out, "Hey, Chrissy-- he's talking to you!"

Chrissy wakes up from her stoned reverie, as if she's being poked. She smiles, and regains her concentration, if she ever had concentration to start with

I ask her if she ever heard of N.O.R.M.L.

She sighs, "Normal