Dream Butchers: The World of Reinaldo Garcia

[Audience chattering.]

Good afternoon!

I am Reinaldo Garcia.

And you are the audience.

[Laughter, applause.]

Okay! Um,
turn off all cel 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.]

PLACE HOLDER

[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 spirits 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.

Then they spray the baselines,
dust it 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.

The fan girls scream.
The local boy warms up in the sun.

The church of baseball.
Blesses all the minor leagues.

The church of baseball.
It'll last for centuries.

Local talent sings the anthem.
Out of tune loudspeakers squeal.

Now the home team takes the field.
Bonus babies, tall and handsome.

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 he has done is incredible.

To say he has passed Pete Rose,
as all time hit leader, we can't do that.

[Announcer voices continue.]

Hey Neal.
[Drunkenly mumbles.]

Uh. Hm. Uh.
[Laughs.]

Gimme a 7 & 7.
And go easy on the 7-Up.

Would you turn down the --
turn the TV off?

I gotta give a reason?
I been comin' here for 5, 6 years?

Because! I don't wanna
see, hear, or read about baseball.

[?]

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?
Fat 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 just -- almost second nature for me.

I was a catcher in college.
Field General. I ran the pitchers.

Directed the fielders. Worked the arms.

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 [?] applied 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, they were 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 gets 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.

It was 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-da-da

"Blowin' through the jasmine
of my mind."

"One Toke Over the Line."

From Mobile to Jackson!

Jason is the reason I drink
these 7 & 7s.

This official beverage of choice.

I, I enjoyed them, to -- 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-Hair 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 go 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!

[?] 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, listen.
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

slings 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]

[Screams]

[Screams, 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 here
bones up against this 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!

[?]

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!

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
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]

Uh-oh. 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 of 'em.

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,
usually.

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 Lupe.

darn, I told ya my name!

Why'd I go and
tell you my name?

Guadalupe?

No, Loopy. Like....

Hi. I'm Harriet.

And you're an outlaw.

A savage desert denizen,
traveling fast -- traveling light.

Exacting 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?!

[?] ain't got no name.

[Vulture caws]

What's that?!

What's what?

[Vulture caws]

That noise!

Oh, THAT noise.
Just --

[Vulture caws]

a garden variety
turkey vulture.

Don't be scared.

[Vulture caws]

They've 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 the stomach do its 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?

It's next to Godliness?

Except for you,
it's next to impossible.

[Wolf growls]

Anyway!

It's 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 that, 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 upon 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.

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 that way.

One of the elders of the pack
were tellin' us about a "experiment"

he heard about. Seems that some
flatworms were 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?

[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 ache.

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 [?]
Enough!

Run! Fight!
Howl 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, so 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 got a hold of primal screams,
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 dream
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]

[Placeholder]

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 Pac Man 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 Pac 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 missed it.
And so you didn't [?]

until much later.

The fat man brought in
a psychiatrist.

[German accent]
"For analyze your lyrics.

And to testify 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, busy herself,

put 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,

your eyes downward,
you spied her sandaled feet.

While most are calloused,
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 shady
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 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...interested?

Her hair, once pulled into a
scalp-stretching bun,

fell free and frizzy. Granny glasses
replaced with contact lenses.

The, uh, matrimonial buttocks shrank.
But 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 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.

Your confessed rapists shivered
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-style 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, pink-tipped white 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 ahead 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 mad 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.

Let me look at you
while the hours disappear.

Let me look at you
in another man's home.

Let me look at you
until it's time to go.

Until it's time to go.

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.
Let me look at you.

Though I know you do not want me
any more,

when I look at you, my spirit soars.

Let me look at you,
and thrill me to the core.

Let me look at you,
and see your heart stop.

Let me look at you
until I get enough.

Until I get enough.

I will worship your beautiful
suntanned feet

cradled by your summer leather sandals.

Let me look into your alien almond eyes.

Let me look at you by this glowing candle.

Let me look at you like a seagoing vandal.

To hell with scandal.

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.

Let me look at you.
Let me look at you.

Oh-ohhh-ohhhhh.

[Sad violin]

[Applause]