[Audience chattering.]
Good afternoon!
I am Reinaldo Garcia.
And you are the audience.
[Laughter, applause.]
Okay! Um, turn off all cell phones, please.
And, we're in a residential neighborhood,
so, no drag racing down the streets of quiet Carmel, when we leave.
The show is about an hour and 10 minutes long.
There is some harsh language in the piece, okay?
I'll be taking confessionals in my booth over here,
after the plays are over,
[Audience chuckles]
if anybody wants to unburden their hearts, okay?
So, welcome to "Dream Butchers."
[Applause.]
[Acoustic guitars]
[Sings] You crawled across dry thorns
and chewed cut glass.
Please come through my door, lay down on the grass.
[Guitar phrase]
I don't care where you've been, in the dark side of town.
Your history might be shameful.
I will always let you in, I will never let you down.
[Guitar chords]
I'm entertaining angels.
[Acoustic guitars]
Now you're down on your luck, your spirit's broke.
I see your beggar's cup filled with busted hope.
Let this new day begin, before the sun goes down.
I'll know I served an angel.
I will always let you in, I will never let you down.
I'm entertaining angels.
[Guitar flourish.]
Hello, stranger. Drop your things. Come on in.
There's no danger. I see the wings beneath your skin.
I am no holy man. Just a human
who must obey the plan for a communion.
It's a mortal sin if I would renounce a man
whose life is painful.
I will always let you in, I will never let you down.
Because I'm entertaining you angels.
[Guitar flourish.]
[End chord holds.]
[Applause.]
[Spoken] I played baseball in 2 different baseball leagues around town.
And I also umpire, uh, baseball.
And our opening piece, "Low and Inside,"
is about a local man
uh, whose career, whose professional career was destroyed.
But there is a romance to baseball.
And I wrote this song up in the San Jose Giants stadium.
Uh, I recommend going to Minor League baseball.
You get right up next to the players.
They are the future stars of the game.
It's really exhilarating to me.
So, I wrote this song, as the players were warming up.
It's called "The Church of Baseball."
[Cheerful acoustic guitars]
The ground crew rakes the infield, they line the batter's box with lime.
[Guitars]
Then they spray the baselines, dust is down 'til players take the field.
The church of baseball. Warm in summer air.
The church of baseball. It's all prepared.
Now the players stretch and run. Boys of summer filled with dreams.
[Guitars]
The fan girls scream when the local boy warms up in the sun.
[Guitars strum]
The church of baseball. Blesses all the minor leagues.
The church of baseball. It'll last for centuries.
[Guitars]
Local talent sings the anthem. Out of tune loudspeakers squeal.
[Guitars]
Now the home team takes the field. Bonus babies, tall and handsome.
[Guitars]
The church of baseball. It's a sacred space.
The church of baseball. Steal a base.
For Willie, and Maury, Even Ricky Henderson too.
The church of baseball, It welcomes you.
[Guitar flourish.]
"Low and Inside." [Applause.]
[Announcer] I get it.
Baseball is a historical game. I like to compare different things,
compare different eras.
But how in the world, John Ruck, can you compare a guy
getting all these hits in Japan, and then add it up with the Majors,
and then say he truly hit came from a paper on point. You can't.
The people should know. What Pete Rose has done is incredible.
[Announcer commentary]
To say he has passed Pete Rose, as all time hit leader, we can't do that.
[Announcer voices continue.]
Hey Neal. [Drunkenly mumbles.]
[Sports announcers continue]
Uh. Hm. Uh. [Laughs.]
[Sports announcers]
Gimme a 7 & 7. And go easy on the 7-Up.
[Announcers continue]
Would you turn down the -- turn the TV off?
[Announcers continue]
I gotta give a reason? I been comin' here for 5, 6 years?
Because! I don't wanna see, hear, or read about baseball.
Whatever the [bleep] is happening!
[Announcers stop] [No audio]
And another, por favor.
No tab tonight.
I'm leavin' no debts.
You remember Jason? Big, body builder type?
Yeah! With the rash down his neck.
You know any hit men? Ahh, just kidding.
I think. You remember Roosevelt? Black guy, with a face like a badger?
He went over big time.
R - R - Rosie? Neal. You live upstairs.
There's nobody here. Can I stay a while?
Gracias, mi amigo.
Ahhh. [Exhales.]
You know me. I'm a friendly guy, right?
So does professional baseball.
It was in Marietta, Georgia. Pre-season sessions.
Director of officials tells me I've been elevated to crew chief.
Working beside of me, two guys with me.
Jason Olivetti, and Roosevelt Truman.
"Jason Olivetti!" I said. "Oh no. No, no."
"I heard he's a piece of work."
"Rico!" he says. "You're the kind of
natural-born leader who can get along with anybody."
"Mentor the kid."
Them's my marching orders.
Two years away from the Majors, a lifelong dream. Hmm.
Through Berman, Chatanooga, Jackson, Pensacola, Knoxville, Montgomery.
Mobile, Cogsville. Athletes! Dripping testosterone and doubt.
Adonises driven by a dream. And, there I am. Deep within it.
Benevolent, dispensing justice. Witnessing brilliance.
John Smokes. Matt Holliday. Juan Fiera. Ah! Ahh.
A cavalcade of future stars. Passing through my station
on their way to immortality.
The baseball field is a timeless Eden.
And, into my crew chief's ear slithered Jason Olivetti.
Dwelling in a body stocking of a rash.
You know it even discolored his weiner?
Yes! I looked. Ahhhh.
Don't be naive, Neal. Everybody looks.
Ahhh. Ehhhh. [Laughs.]
Ahh. [Exhales.]
You know.... I...I...I....
Taking charge of a ball field was always second nature for me.
I was a catcher in college. Field General. I ran the pitchers.
Directed the fielders. Worked the umps.
And when I wasn't drafted, I went to umpire school.
Vero Beach, Florida. Dodger Town. Heh-heh.
Ahh. Sailed right through. Through rookies. Single ed.
By my 3rd year, I was already crew chief. Two guys under me.
In a van supplied by the Majors. First class hotels all through the South.
Ha-ha! The future World Series ump!
Tell me...tell me. How does a guy who gets along
with everybody, grow to hate a man?
Who the mere sight of provokes nausea and vomiting? Eh?
Jason was a -- a strapping farm boy who was seduced by big city ambition.
Prostitutes. Marijuana. Hm? Ah! I'll show you what I mean.
We checked into a hotel.
During dinner, Jason is flirting with the waitress.
Flirting. Ha. How's about this.
[Hick accent] "That was one fine meal! Mmm- mmm - mmm!
But it lacked some spice.
Why don't you come up to my room later, and let me taste your pussy?"
[Audience groans.]
[His own voice again] Then, he was down at the front desk.
Proclaiming, bitching that his towels were not white enough.
He would weiner-wag the maid, when he came out of the shower.
Couple of times, he came back to his room to find it ransacked.
Well deserved, I'd say.
Hm? Oh, on the diamond? Okay.
Jason's behind the ditch, right? Guy hits a home run.
As he's circling the bases, Jason picks up the bat,
and leans on it, like Mister Peanut leaning on his cane.
Right on home plate! Hmm?! Ahh.
No, he never smoked it in the van.
Well, just the idea of driving through the South, with my protege,
holding grass -- terrified me!
No. Nooo, no. I could never report him.
You have no idea what it would do to my reputation.
[Laughs] And his taste in music.
We had -- we had a rule.
The guy behind the wheel chooses the tunes. Hmm?
Jason wouldn't be out -- we wouldn't be out of the parking lot,
the hotel parking lot, not 5 minutes.
Jason slides in his "Greatest Hits of the '70s" CD.
"Afternoon Delight." "Summer Breeze."
Da-da-da-da
"Blowin' through the jasmine of our minds."
"One Toke Over the Line."
From Mobile to Jackson!
Jason is the reason I drink these 7 & 7s.
His official beverage of choice.
I, I enjoyed them, to -- establish rapport.
Roosevelt, too. Drank in the back seat.
Tapping away at his [bleep]ing iPhone.
Watching porn. Aiming the camera at the front seat.
Making what he calls his 'POV dramalogue.'
Ahhh.
Okay. So. So! So.
We are in 'bama now.
The Barons pitted against their arch-rivals, Huntsville Stars.
Battling for the title. Two games left.
Two games, and Jason is out of my life!
Yeah. The Barons, and the Stars.
Huge rivals. Mutual hate.
So.
It all comes down to two outs, bottom of the 9th, bases loaded.
Barons down 3.
22 year old defector Cuban. 22 year old Cuba defector Oscar Morales
is a 5'2" phenom.
Already, he has tripled, and stolen home.
Now, he slides to the plate, with a hit on the line.
Huntsville pitcher launches a fast ball.
Inside and low.
Ball one.
The catcher -- the wisecracking, Polack misfit
Anje Prozinski, asks for a clean one.
"Gimme a ball you can see."
Hm? Of course! I tossed him!
The guy turns on me. Huntsville keeper leaps out of the dugout,
restraining Prozinski with one hand, and screaming for an explanation.
"I dunno what the guy said."
"You're not allowed to argue balls and strikes. You know that."
The manager looks at this catcher. Says, "you say that?"
"Yeah. Hey. If Blue here grew an eye, he'd be a Cyclops."
Huntsville manager nearly breaks his ribs, he's laughing so hard.
The fans are going ape-shit. The pitcher comes in to the ditch.
Jason and Roosevelt run up to restore order. Hmm. Ugghhh.
I'm coming to it. Gimme a sec. Wait a minute.
And then, the pitcher says,
"Hey, Blue. We know you're blind. We've seen your wife."
Just a minute here. I'm coming to that.
Okay. Now, back to the game.
Okay. So. The pitcher, the new pitcher delivers a rising fast ball.
Morales fouls it back, knocks off my mask. I go down to my knees.
Someone in the Stars dugout yells,
"Hey, Blue! Get up off your knees! You're BLOWING the game!"
I wobble over to the Huntsville dugout. I give 'em the 'stink eye.'
That settles them down.
Next pitch, Morales slams way down the right field line.
Fouled by inches. Counts one and two.
Next pitch a slider, outside.
But Morales, already, you know, what we call a professional hitter,
fouls off the next five pitches before taking a ball
millimeters over the plate.
The new catcher goes, "Hey Blue!"
I go, "Ah-ah! One peep out of you,
you shower with your friend."
Guy goes, "Peep!"
I swallow it.
Morales fouls off the next 3 pitches too.
Eh? Good -- good hitter? You better believe it.
OK. So, now...
So now, the Huntsville pitcher hangs a curve.
Oh-ho-ho-ho!
Morales drools.
He spins on it!
And launches the ball high into the Alabama night.
The crowd leaps as one,
as the ball is Pensacola-bound.
Walk off Grand Slam!
Barons win the title by a run.
Hm-hm!
Me and my crew, we have to pass
the Visitors' dugout to exit the field.
The losing pitcher comes up behind me.
"Hey! Lucky you don't have an ERA, Blue.
Those runs are yours!"
So.
So we have a game the next day.
No time to shower. We have to go to Jackson.
We pile into the van, Jason behind the wheel.
[Sings] "Sky rockets in flight! Afternoon -- "
Jason starts to dig in.
"Hey, Rico. That 2 strike call on Morales.
That was strike 3."
"Jason," I said.
"That ball was so far outside, it had a hat and a coat on.
Could you turn it down a bit?"
I look in the back, at Roosevelt, for some support.
Roosevelt is aiming his iPhone at us.
Another chapter in his on the road documentary.
Jason digs in deeper.
"Hey, Rico. You -- You Latinos
look out after each other, don'tcha?
What, did Morales slip you some pesos?
Huh? Huh? One gone call tips the championship.
I thought only horses slept standing up."
"Alright, Jason. That's enough."
"You guys," Roosevelt says, "been goin' at it for 4 solid months.
Since opening day. Why don't you both settle it like men?"
"Just a minute, here. Just a minute."
Hey -- gimme another 7 and 7, huh?
Anyway --
I'm trying every umpire's trick to NOT listen.
One more game left!
And then I notice. We're going in a circle.
I say "Jason, you do have the directions? Right?"
And he says, Jason says, "Uh, I ran out of rolling papers."
"Uh, built me a doobie out of the directions."
"Up in smoke!"
I said, "Jason, go straight at the lights, turn right.
That will lead you onto highway 20 on ramp to Atlanta."
"Man who doesn't know his way around a strike zone,
giving me directions?"
"Hmmm. Hey! Slip me some pesos, and I'll consider it."
"Hey Rico! Next time you're behind the dish,
bend over. Call the game with your good eye."
Roosevelt is breaking up in the back seat.
"Four solid months. You two should form a comedy team."
"Ahh, getting caught in a wetback conspiracy, Roosevelt
is no laughing matter."
"Hey, maybe -- maybe Rico would call a more accurate game,
if home plate were shaped like a tortilla."
I'm staying cool.
"Hey Rico! Yo Rico, I'm your daddy. Hitchhiked to Salinas once,
and [bleeped] your mother, in a lettuce field."
"OK. OK, Jason. One more crack,
I'll wreck your career."
"Crack? Your mamacita's tasted like guacamole."
"Whoa, you gonna take that, Rico?"
"I just about had enough of you, Rico.
Let's settle this like men."
Jasmine is blowing through our minds.
Jason pulls the van over, under the streetlight.
He rips open the driver's door.
Races around the back of the van.
And I've got blood in my eyes.
He yanks open the passenger door,
and before he could remove his hand, I clocked him, with a solid left to the jaw.
Jason grabs my arm, and the Oklahoma farm boy
swings me out, under the street light.
We are tussling like wildcats.
The guy has got 100 pounds on me.
Roosevelt is filming the whole thing on his iPhone.
Thirty seconds later...
it's over.
We get back in the van,
and pull into Jacksonville, just before dawn.
Not a word spoken the whole way.
A week later, our little altercation
shows up on You Tube.
"Posted anonymously."
ESPN runs it.
Jason and I are released.
Fired.
Roosevelt's on his way to the Big Show.
What am I gonna do here?
What am I gonna do.
[Applause.]
[Peppy guitars.]
[Sings] I did not rise up from the mire
to be cast into the lake of fire.
I am proud to be an outlaw.
What I am is plain to God.
Doesn't matter what you sacrificed.
We'll all appear before the judgment seat of Christ.
[Guitars]
I did not rise up from the mire
to be cast into the lake of fire.
Live by faith, not by sight.
All that's mortal swallowed up by life.
So that each of us will receive
what is due us, wheat or chaff.
For all the things done while in the body
whether good or bad.
[Guitars]
The Kingdom soon will come.
Exploding with the sun.
All my loved ones melding into one,
'cause the kingdom soon will come.
[Guitar scales duo]
I did not rise up from the mire
to be cast into the lake of fire.
I will live forever more.
On the Armageddon shore.
[Guitars]
Seven seals, Seven trumpets.
Seven vials, Seven cursed digits.
Seven dooms, Seven new things.
For the angels.
[Guitars]
I did not rise up from the mire
to be cast into the lake of fire.
I am proud to be an outlaw.
What I am...
is plain...to...God. [Guitar strum]
[Applause]
[Loud Howls]
[Panicked breathing] [Bell ringing]
You really did it this time, Harriet.
Just had to leave the fold, didn't you?
You had it all. Plenty of green grass,
a haircut every spring.
Three swell dogs, and the friendliest shepherd
this side of Bo Peep.
Real friendly. Was old Harriet satisfied?
Nooo. [Bleats] [Audience laughs]
Had to leave the herd! Big tough gal, huh, Harriet?
[Wolf howls]
What am I gonna do?
[Wolf howls]
[Wolf laughs] Alright, mutton head.
Where ya be? [Sniffs around] I knows you out here somewheres.
Hoo! All this runnin' 'round makes a fella dog-tired.
Why don't I just lay these bones up against this here boulder,
and catch my breath?
[Wolf sighs] Heyyy. That feels nice-like.
Wonder where my dinner ran off to?
Probably cowering behind one of these rocks.
I'll catch her. And when I do!
Should I make it... mutton stew?
Or leg o' lamb, or just eat her raw?
Mutton! Ain't had no sheep for the whole month!
That's gonna be really nice.
Whoo! Brings out the beast in me.
[Wolf pants] Zippedy-doo-da!
Zip! [Sheep yelps] Ah-dee-ay!
My, oh, my! What a wonderful day!
[Wolf smugly chuckles]
Plenty o' moonshine headin' MY way!
Oh-ho-ho yeah-eh! Oh-ho, YEAH-eh!
[Howls loudly]
Hey, what's this? A earthquake?
Wellllllll, I'll be. That you, mutton head?
Ohhh! Please, Mr. Wolf. Go find someone else.
I was just out strolling, munching clover...
That's enough of that, little girl.
How many times you been warned 'bout movin' out on your own?
Look. I only eat the old, and the sick.
I got my code.
So gimme a break with the sob story,
'cause I ain't ate in a week, little girl.
Don't call me that!
I may be on the meek side, but I am not little.
Maybe I will end up in your belly.
BUT! Not before I account for myself.
[Bell rings]
[Wolf laughs]
Now, don't that beat all!
Full moon's got in your blood too, eh little lady?
Yeah! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!
[Wolf laughs mockingly]
A fightin' back. Well I'll be darned.
Ow!
Oh I didn't mean it! Oh, please don't get mad.
Ow! You little moron!
Don'tcha know you could get hurt doin' that?
I dunno what's come over me.
[Wolf grunts and groans]
One day I'm munching clover, and the next, I'm --
pugilizing with canis lupus.
Pugilizin'?! Sounds weird.
Tradin' blows? Fisticuffs?
Tusslin'? Dukin' it out? Goin' ten --
Alright! Enough with the words!
You gonna make a run for it, or what?
I got important things to attend to!
With very important wolves.
You're kidding.
Whatta ya mean? Whatta ya mean?
I tell ya, I'm in a hurry.
Why, me and some friends, I -- I --
What? What's wrong?
Nothin'! Gol-durn it.
What? What about your friends? Is something wrong?
Full moon's got me talkin' funny.
No, no, something's wrong. I can sense it.
I'm very attuned to the emotional manifestations
of my fellow beings. Something's awry.
Nothin' crunchin' your bones won't fix!
Your friends? What about your friends?
Big Shots. Every one o' them.
Leaders of the pack!
Take me with you!
Oh, this is the adventure I've always dreamed of!
Shee-oot! What's this gol-dang world coming to?
Now, listen. If you don't start runnin' or fightin'
right quick, I'm gonna get ornery. Then you'll really be sorry!
It's your last chance!
Let me meet 'em. I can tell 'em some
friendly shepherd jokes.
I got this one about an 'embraceable ewe'
that'll put 'em in stitches.
Alright, alright, alright. I know when my leg's being pulled.
Now, look. If I brought you back with me,
well, I'd get laughed out of the pack.
You're afraid to be alone?
Big stud wolf, afraid to be alone?
Can't face up to his own reflection in the watering hole?
I am alone!
I ain't got no friends, OK? Ya happy now?
I was kicked out for in -- uh -- in -- uh --
infedulity!
Infidelity?
Yep. She's not my woman.
All wolves in the wild are women, normally.
But, when the pups came along, it was bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch.
The good times stopped, and one thing led to another,
and one night, I raised a ruckus with one of the younger ones.
Got thrown out on my ear.
You're an outsider. A 'lone wolf.'
As lonely as they come.
Oh, I get it!
Tryin' to get on my good side, with sympathy, aren't ya?
Hey, I'm onto you, sweetheart!
You gotta get up pretty early in the mornin' to fool ol' Loopy.
Darn, I told ya my name!
Why'd I go and tell you my name?
Short for Guadalupe?
No, Loopy. Like....
Hi. I'm Harriet.
And you're an outlaw.
A savage desert denizen, traveling fast -- traveling light.
Asking and giving no quarter.
Content to let the buffalo chips fall where they may.
Taking as it comes, day by day.
Your only friend: your wily wolf wit.
I've always admired your kind, Loopy!
Why, in my younger years, I rather fancied myself a black sheep.
Sort of a...maverick in mohair?
Marching to the tinkle of my own bell?
'Til one day it all went grey, and I settled in.
You told me YOUR name?!
Why'd you have to go and tell me YOUR name?!
Victuals ain't got no name.
[Vulture caws]
What's that?!
What's what?
[Vulture caws]
Stop that noise!
Oh, THAT noise. Just --
[Vulture caws]
a garden variety turkey vulture.
Don't be scared.
[Vulture caws]
Vultures have never attacked anything alive.
No he waits in line, all polite-like, 'til
the original killers have had our fill.
Then, after I slink off and let Mr. Stomach do his job,
on the FRESH meat --
[Vulture caws]
them vultures fill their entrails on the carcass.
Only when the stench of the rotten flesh will make a horse fly puke
does your vulture move in.
See? Everybody's got his way of doin' things.
Relaaaaax.
That vulture don't concern you.
YET.
Loopy? I love you.
Love? LOVE?!
Come on, girl!
That's just your way of saying you think you're better than me.
That's not true!
You have many -- fine qualities.
Courageous hunter?
Intrepid explorer?
Rugged individualist?
- Hmm --
The frontier spirit incarnate.
Why, with --
with just a few lessons in philosophy,
in etiquette, in personal hygiene --
- I think it --
[GROWLS ANGRILY]
No, hy-GIENE.
Cleanliness?
Which is next to Godliness?
Except with you, it's next to impossible.
[Wolf growls]
Anyway!
With just a few lessons -- in rhetoric, in elocution.
And a dash -- just a teensy dash --
of political analysis thrown in.
Incisive, five week --
Alright!
Listen, fleece bag.
My empty stomach says tea time is over.
Let's cut the chit chat, and proceed to the heart of the menu.
Move! Make a run for it, before I lose my temper
and get VIOLENT!
I've been outfoxed.
I can run no more.
I'm big enough to admit to your superiority
in the scheme of things.
Crush these feeble limbs in your bear-trap jaws.
Better this, than to grow flabby in some meadow.
Do me this favor.
Son of a...buzzard.
Please!
End my squalid existence.
Make wolf-flesh of my marrow.
Gorge on me, that I may be transformed.
But! What's in it for you?
Immediate gratification? And then what?
Inside of a week, you'll be on the prowl again.
A pathetic slobbering beast with only one thing on its tiny mind.
Enslaved by a hunger which has no end.
All I wanted was a square meal.
Ohhhh. Loopy, I love you.
I want to help you.
The only way you could help me would be by committin' suicide
and servin' yourself up on a platter!
Loopy, I know things.
All those years in the sweet and boring clover,
I was thinking! Watching the sun rise,
and set, sniffing the blue air.
[Wolf sniffs loudly]
Seeing the stars at night.
Feeling the change of the seasons.
White winters huddled in the barn. Green springtime. Blazing summer.
Smoky autumn. All the while, I'm thinking.
I started wondering why everything is the way it is.
And, the more I wondered why the less I saw the majesty around me.
But I couldn't stop the wondering!
One day, as the little ones were led off to the blade, it hit me.
It hit ya?
The reason for everything!
Huh?
Why we're here.
Why these rocks are hard and still warm, even as moonshine
coats them in silver.
Why meadow grass is green and slick.
Why rain and snow make rivers.
Why wolves love mutton?
Why wolves love mutton.
And why you won't eat me.
I won't?
Nope! You won't.
But -- if I eat you, wouldn't I automatically know these things?
I hear flatworms do it that way.
One of the elders of the pack was tellin' us about a "experiment"
he heard about. Seems that some flatworms was trained to
wiggle through a maze, to get some food. Then, they was ground up into
tiny chunks of meat, and fed to some baby flatworms.
First thing ya know, them babies is negotiatin' that maze
like they was born to it. One generation feedin' the next.
So I was wonderin' -- if I eat you, [Harriet yelps]
won't I know these things?
[Harriet laughs uneasily] Sorry.
You're a wolf, and I'm a sheep.
I will not allow the blow to your self-esteem, of comparing yourself
to a mere [scientific word for flatworm.]
Loopy! We're not worms.
Okay! So why we here? And why do wolves love mutton?
I don't know that you're sophisticated enough
to understand that just yet.
That's enough! I have sat through your tales too long!
My guts are howlin' louder than Uncle Louie at the last eclipse.
I know why there are eclipses!
I don't give a hoot why! [Whooshing sound]
[Wolf whimpers] What was that?!
I know why the stars are faaaaallllliiiiinnnnng!
Why?!
Why, I'd need at least a week to explain it to you.
Oh, you're stallin'! [Thunder sounds]
[Wolf whimpers] [Sheep snickers]
[Wolf] What's goin' on?
[Wolf panting]
[Sheep yelps] Oooh! Stop!
Move no closer! Just...keep...pursuing me...
hungry.
Keep your beautiful savagery. May your jaws always drip.
Desire is a beautiful thing, Loopy.
Eat me now, and you'll be hungry tomorrow, with no one to talk to.
Keep me alive, and you can want me forever.
Oh, Loopy, we can do it. Let's be friends!
I -- I -- am hungry. I eat.
You are pink and tender.
My fur bristles. I drool. I eat!
You'll stay as you are, forever wolf.
Let me civilize you!
[Wolf grunts] My body howls for you!
What of the heavens, dear wolf?
[Whooshing sound] [Distant thunder]
You won't distract me with your talkin'.
So, you've run with horses, have you? Enough!
Run! Fight! Account for yourself.
You ask alien things.
Why not entreat these rocks to sing?
You're a cunning one, and a coward.
[Sheep gasps] A thirst slaked by a coward's blood
would leave you parched, yes?
[Wolf] You're not worth it!
Not worth it?! I offer you eternal desire!
Friendship! [Exhales] Big tough wolf. [Bell rings]
I'll beat you, old Loopy.
You don't wanna be my friend. [Bell rings]
You just wanna save your skin. Make a fool out of me.
[Bell rings] I got news for ya.
You can walk a mile in my shoes, and never fill my boots.
Oh, sorry, Loopster. Takes guts to be my pal.
You just ain't got what it takes. Call me what you want:
Howl at the sun and call it the moon if it makes you feel any better!
[Sheep chokes, bell rings]
[Wolf howls loudly]
[Wolf laughs, bell rings]
Your move...PAL. [Wolf laughs]
[Vulture caws]
[Applause]
[Acoustic guitar bridge]
[Phrase repeats]
I let out a primal scream all the neighbors heard.
I woke them up from their dreams while their children stirred.
I released a primal scream ripped out from my core.
All the slaughter I had seen, I couldn't hold it any more.
They look at me funny, intrigued by what they see
though my smile is sunny when I pass by their children's feet.
[Guitar phrase]
I ripped out a primal scream through the neighborhood.
I did not do anything like a neighbor should.
I howled a primal scream, sent lightning through the air.
I'm better now than I do seem. They don't really care.
[Guitar flourish]
They look at me funny, intrigued by what they see
though my smile is sunny when I pass by their children's feet.
[Guitar phrase]
I let out a primal scream all the neighbors heard.
I woke them up from their dreams while their children stirred.
I released a primal scream ripped out from my core.
All the slaughter I have seen I couldn't hold it any more.
[Guitar flourish]
[Guitar phrase]
Christopher Lopez. All the way from Greenfield California.
[Applause]
Who can shave an egg?
[Irish accent] You were born into a raw deal.
It's not the detail. Two decades' worth of therapy.
Chalk it up to life on earth. Everybody pays.
We're responsible for investing our lives with meaning.
You make vengeance your god, saieth you, you who are.
You can't hide an eel in a sack.
The man deserves what he got, huh? He was fat. Jabba the Hut rotund.
He lied in court. He suborned perjury.
Then got a restrainin' order. They took away your gun.
Well, ya had some new songs. Ya found a studio in the Yellow Pages.
This was when digital was replacing analog.
He lied to you, that his Roland 680 was state of the art.
You later learned it was only fit for home demos.
He set up the studio in his home rec room.
He said he'd back up each day's work.
After three months in the fat man's studio,
he erased an instrumental track. He made a big show of
punchin' buttons, and he swiveled around,
and said he couldn't find it in his backup files.
There were no backup files.
You decided to mix everything as fast as possible, then get out
if other bits turned up missing. You extracted what you could,
and sent the fat man a [?]
Prompted by his attorney, he asked the Judge,
"Why, if he was so incompetent, you spent 3 months in his studio?"
Well, you replied that you recorded all the material
before you mixed it. And so you didn't learn
about the fraud until much later.
The fat man brought in a psychiatrist.
[German accent] Who analyzed your lyrics.
And testified that "someone as sick as you should never
have been allowed into the fat man's home."
[Irish accent] You printed up 2 dozen flyers,
advertising the fat man's address as a recording studio
with an absurdly low hourly rate.
Wearin' surgical gloves, ya papered the black sections of Seaside.
Next ya heard, a crackhead shot him in a home invasion.
It is hard for an empty bag to sit upright.
She...was...an actress.
A refugee from Hollywood's enervatin' rituals.
Workin' in a nearby record shop.
By now, CDs were on their way out, and only connoisseurs purchased vinyl.
Some afternoons, you had her all to yourself.
When she mentioned her husband in passing,
you remarked that she wore no ring.
"That's because I might be cast as an unmarried woman," she said.
"I can't even risk an indentation on my finger."
Oh-ho! The sacrifices we make for art.
You reason that such a blemish would not be visible at all on stage.
You concluded that, consciously or not, the real blemish on her life
was her marriage.
Now, actresses are always ready to talk about themselves.
It was therefore easy to learn that her husband was
4 years younger than she, and somethin' of a psychological basket case.
Takin' a break from his video games, Chubby Hubby wandered in one foggy day,
sayin' he needed her email password.
Pullin' him by his elbow into the British Invasion aisle,
she told him no.
Though you tried invisibility, Chubby Hubby judged you
to have witnessed his emasculation.
Glarin' at ya from below the brim of his skull and bones festooned cap,
the would-be cuckold said, sotto-voce, "So. Who's the music lover?"
"Call me Seattle Grant," you said, extending your hand
as he lumbered past ya into misty Pacific Grove.
[?] wife, busying herself,
with Jerry and the Pacemakers' Greatest Hits.
To cut down an oak, and set up a strawberry.
With her permission, you use them as a model, as would a painter.
Except you spent no time together.
You enrolled her as a concubine in your imaginary harem.
You were a kind and generous Sultan.
On your wedding night, you excused her lack of virginity,
having suffered years of phallic intrusion by Chubby Hubby.
She wept. You consoled her
by composing the first of dozens of adorational ballads to your muse.
As time passed, you'd enter the used record store, and
covertly examine her face, her neck, and her arms, for bruises
or lacerations left by your un[?] surrogate.
She always passed inspection, but you were certain he abused her.
As your fantasy wife, she accompanied you to Majorca,
and other Mediterranean destinations.
Ooh, there was a menage a trois in Ibiza. An orgy in Algiers.
She confessed that her pre-coital fantasies of Arab men were not being met.
Ya Googled her,
and accumulated an incremental biography.
B. A. in Theater, some knockabout years in Hollywood,
before she followed a National Guardsman to Ford Ord.
Nuptials were soon ruptured by shock and awe.
The war, not the wedding night.
Chubby Hubby forged a discharge, and they settled in Pacific Grove.
She supported her 'acting habit' at the record store,
while Chubby Hubby "looked for a job."
You confess. You smell the discord.
"I'm plottin' to liberate her from the slacker."
You casually handed her recordings of your latest songs.
Sighting the odd article on adultery, you don the surgical gloves,
clip it out, and mail it anonymously to her.
You concur. You inquire after his well-being,
as she stuffed used CDs in a bag, and received your cash.
One day, you grazed her palm with your guitarists' lengthy fingernails.
She pretended not to notice.
Undone, as a man would undo an oyster.
She was the product of Manifest Destiny and genocide.
The rape of the New World by the Old.
Immune to the fallacy of white liberal guilt,
you prized her hybrid charms.
The shiny, raven, Native American hair
curled by old English blood into a frizzy electric storm.
Her alien almond eyes.
The cafe-au-lait skin, smooth as porcelain.
Local theater stretched her thespian talent in all the wrong ways.
Each company trumpeted its speakin' of truth to power
all of 'em bleatin' to the leftist choir.
Cuttin' edge exposes of Joe McCarthy.
50 years too late.
Investigations of racism and homophobia
as though penned by the Soviet Central Committee
for Cultural Enlightenment, circa 1968.
You venture to a staged reading of a George Bernard Shaw trifle,
a two-hander exposin' early 20th century British attitudes toward
matrimony, which the program promised would
"Blow the roof off the patriarchy."
Fearful you'll emit a tell-tale snore,
you dozed off anyway.
You waited in the empty lobby, its walls festooned with
curlin' photos of Robinson Jeffers and friends.
Chubby Hubby was absent.
She strolled from the dressin' room, thanked ya for comin',
and then, she embraced you.
Months later, just to kick yourself for having stiffened,
no, not the adolescent kind of stiffened.
You tensed, panicked, you lacked the necessary languor. Blew it.
You -- you tried deciphering her intent.
But the green silk sleeves enveloped ya.
Was this a 'theater people' greeting?
A drownin' woman graspin' for a life saver?
A friendly hug? A sign? An...invitation?
Blushin', you withdrew, prayin' she wouldn't ask you
your opinion of the piece.
She asked.
You abated. "You do a great English accent!"
As you walked her to her Ferrari-red Toyota sedan with the Oregon plates,
eyes downward, you spied her sandaled feet.
While most are bestial, calloused, or grotesquely malformed,
hers were something Seraphic.
Her toes were neither prehensile nor stubby.
The neatly trimmed nails boasted no lurid lacquer.
It was as though a cherub had fallen from a Michelangelo ceilin'
and was stridin' across the shade dappled gravel, with you.
Thirty seconds to her car, half a minute.
Twenty eternities.
But your breath caught in your throat.
As she slid the key into the vaginal door slot,
...SLOT...
she tilted her head.
Tightened the corner of her mouth in a way that hinted at a worldly cunning.
A human touch she'd never permitted herself, while on duty at the store.
You ask an elm tree for pears.
Always careful to inquire about the Chubby Hubby,
you were shocked, one morning, to hear he moved back
to his parents' Las Vegas home, after she served him with divorce papers.
Had we not been alone, you doubt her Titanic ventilatin'
would've been any the less ferocious.
Among the highlights? Ooh.
"I sneaked pulverized sleeping pills into his food,
and he'd still force himself on me at night."
"He confessed to Photoshopping my head on porno women,
and sending them out to his friends."
"He said I had cottage cheese thighs."
"He wanted to watch me make love to another man."
Hm! I confess, my eyebrows arched.
"He admitted to mailing himself, anonymously,
articles about adultery from women's magazines."
"I admit, I'd been hoping he'd commit some heinous deed so I could
divorce him, but this drunken dumpling made me wanna kill him!"
He finished with: "Every day, I contemplate suicide.
If you knew why, you'd want me dead too."
He finished with the most insightful thing anyone's ever said to me.
"You want God in your life, but you don't wanna admit your sister's right."
Through it all, with the exception of the voyeurism-cum-cuckold confession,
you maintained your disinterested demeanor.
We are told women do not seek advice, only an open set of ears.
But information is power, and you felt omnipotent.
You shall ride an inch behind the tail.
Divorce affects women in different ways.
Over the ensuing weeks, as she settled into a rented house
with girlfriends, you saw her grow more...interestin'?
Her hair, once pulled into a scalp-stretching bun,
fell free and frizzy. Granny glasses replaced with contact lenses.
The, uh, matrimonial buttocks shrank, tho she remained a tad heavy in the thigh.
You imagined her entering a lesbian phase.
What better way to repudiate the demeanin' world of testosterone?
Than to anchor a while in the safe, Sapphic harbor?
But, with her pillow talk, comparin' male outrages,
an investigator turns outward again.
Seeking a man. This man.
The day she sold you the hard to find "David Bowie BBC Radio Theater London,
June 17th 2000," oh-ho!
And, you noted the contact lenses and the come-hither eyeliner.
Was the day you slapped a Global Positioning Device
in her Toyota's chassis.
You confessed a rapist's shiver as you violated her car's backside.
My Bastilion has been struck by lightning.
One Sunday mornin', you detect her Toyota headin' east
on Carmel Valley Road.
Though Sundays are usually reserved for leadin' your grandson's
Sunday School class, ya beg off,
and end up in a trailhead above the Arroyo Seco River.
Ya park your blue Jeep alongside the Ferrari-red sedan,
grab your military binoculars, and like Daniel Day-Lewis' Hawkeye,
ya follow a gaggle of Nike footprints into the Vantana wilderness.
Your prints are fresh in the settled dust, and appear to belong to 4 females.
You press onward, pausin' when two birdwatchers, sightin'
your binoculars danglin' by their cord around your neck, arrest our progress
bleatin' about a red-winged blackbird they saw around the next bend.
You up the ante, with a bogus report of a ginormous condor
perched in a skeletal tree.
They hurry on, and you advance toward your destiny.
Hearin' rushin' water in the distance, you attune your hearin'
to the frequency used by giddy girls, as they frolic in emerald pools.
Ya leave the trail, and clamber upward, through the still, dewy chaparral.
The sweet ambiance of a bay laurel grove camouflages ya, as you emerge
over the north-facin' ridge.
There! There...they...are!
Four sirens.
Divin' and twistin' like otters in Eden.
River maidens out of Wagner.
One of 'em, not your long-sought goddess,
brazenly topless.
She's darin' the others beyond the au naturel frontier.
First, one. Then, another. Then...another.
Bare their 30-somethin' breasts.
With you seekin' the lone holdout.
You withdraw the befogged lenses from your perspirin' face,
and whisper a prayer to the Lord of the Underworld.
Prayer answered.
She relents.
You visually caress the ivory white, pink-tipped buds.
And decide -- Is it really a decision,
or some genetically-determined urge?
Well, at any rate, you crawl on your belly from boulder to boulder,
glancin' water-ward when you can.
Now, the naughty group leader has shed her bikini bottom.
Up ahead, you spy a perfect perch, not 50 yards as the condor flies,
above the pool.
Slitherin' through the [?], you reach over, down a branch,
and feel a sting in your wrist,
just as the tell-tale rattle spits its warning.
Your right arm goes numb, as my venom speeds toward your dark heart.
You wanna cry out to the now nude quartet, but
the split-second of shame earns your silence.
The sky spins. As it goes black,
you feel the earth split open, as you tumble downward.
Enjoy your stay.
We've, uh, supplied a never-ending soundtrack.
[Pensive piano.]
[Sings] Let me look at you, before the lines appear.
Let me look at you, in the slanting light.
Let me look at you, as day slides into night.
Into night.
I just want to look at you. Oh, please.
Let me look at you. See what my eyes discover
'til you go back to your lover.
[Violins]
Let me look at you.
[Violin, piano]
Let me look at you while the hours disappear.
[Violin]
Let me look at you in another man's home.
[Violin]
Let me look at you until it's time to go.
[Piano]
Until it's time to go.
[Minimal piano; violin]
I just want to look at you. Oh, please.
Let me look at you. See what my eyes discover
'til you go back to your lover.
[Violin, piano]
Let me look at you.
[Minimal music]
Though I know you do not want me any more,
[Violin]
when I look at you, my spirit soars.
[Violin, minimal piano]
Let me look at you, and thrill me to the core.
[Soft music]
Let me look at you, and see your hard stuff.
[Music]
Let me look at you until I get enough.
[Violins]
Until I get enough.
[Violin]
I will worship your beautiful suntanned feet
cradled by your summer leather sandals.
[Piano, soft violin]
Let me look into your alien almond eyes.
[Music]
Let me look at you by this glowing candle.
[Soft violins]
Let me look at you like a seagoing vandal.
[Violin]
To hell with scandal.
[Violins]
I just want to look at you. Oh please, let me look at you.
See what my eyes discover, 'til you go back to your lover.
[Violin, piano]
Let me look at you. Let me look at you.
Oh-ohhh-ohhhhh.
[Sad violin]
[Applause]
Thanks for coming. Let's meet our cast.
[Applause]
Ron Genauer as the woebegone umpire.
[Applause]
The sheep and wolf from "Hunger."
Mindy Whitfield. Jason Roeder.
[Applause]
"The Accuser." Jeffrey Heyer.
[Applause]
And all the way from Greenfield California, Christopher Lopez.
[Applause]
[Audience chatter]
Fabulous cast. Wow.
[Audience chatter]
"Fabulous cast. Wow."
[Acoustic guitar]
You crawled across dried thorns,
and chewed cut glass.
[Guitar]
Please, come through my door
[Guitar]
lay down on the grass.
[Guitar]
I don't care where you've been
[Guitar]
in the dark side of town.
[Guitar]
Your history might be shameful.
[Guitar]
I will always let you in.
[Guitar]
I will never let you down.
[Guitar]
I'm entertaining angels.
[Guitar]
Now you're down on your luck,
[Guitar]
your spirits broke.
[Guitar]
I see your beggar's cup filled with busted hope.
[Guitar]
Let this new day begin
[Guitar]
before the sun goes down.
[Guitar]
I'll know I served an angel.
[Guitar]
I will always let you in.
[Guitar]
I will never let you down.
[Guitar]
I'm entertaining angels.
[Guitar]
Hello stranger, drop your things.
[Guitar]
Come on in.
[Guitar]
There's no danger.
[Guitar]
I see the wings beneath your skin.
[Guitar]
I am no holy man.
[Guitar]
just a human
[Guitar]
who must obey the plan
[Guitar]
for a communion.
[Guitar]
It's a mortal sin
[Guitar]
if I would renounce a man
[Guitar]
whose life is painful.
[Guitar]
I will always let you in.
[Guitar]
I will never let you down.
[Guitar]
[Guitar chord]
I'm entertaining angels.
[Guitar flourish, chord, fade.]
Does anyone here watch "Game of Thrones?"
You do? OK.
I wish you guys could just donate that to that sculpture garden.
You watch "Game of Thrones?" - Uh, some of it.
I was gonna make a speech. - OK.
Hold on. I'll wait until he has the axe.
In the name of King Aeres of the House Targaryen,
second of his name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector
of the Realm, we sentence this rock to die.
Watch out if this comes flying off.
Yahhhhh! [Papier mache crunching]
I'll do the first two.
Yahhhhh!
[Thudding]
Who wants it next? Excalibur!
[Laughter]
Liberating the spirit within.
[Thuds]
Ohhhh.
[Laughter]
The boulder wins!
Cody Moore built a magnificent piece of art.
Sir Jason of Roederiana.
[Thumping]
We know how to make rocks.
There's a body inside!
The Post Weekly, he used.
[Thumps]
Haha!
[Thumping] - There you go.
You carry this around with you, all the time?
ALL the time.
This stuff will fix so many things.
It's easy to carry. Doesn't spoil.
[Axe thudding]
Hey. We need a cleanup hitter on my baseball team.
[Scattered laughter]
- There ya go. - Ooh.
[Axe thumping]
Anybody else want in?
[Laughter]
[Thuds continue]
[Laughter]
- I can't do that much damage.
- Reinaldo?
- Run, run, Jason.
- It was your show. You get the last word.
[Sharp thuds]
This is to all the critics.
[Laughter] [Thumping]