A Clockwork Gallery Walk

INT, GALLERY – NIGHT

ALEX and his DROOGS stride inside. Threatening Wendy/Walter Carlos synthesizer music.

ALEX: (VO) There was me, that is Alex, and me three droogs, Pete, Georgie and Dim. We were making our way down Palm Avenue for a bit of a gallery walk.

GALLERY OWNER: Hello, can I help you?

ALEX: Helpest me thou canst, O my brother.

DIM: He wants to help you! (giggles)

ALEX: Open me glazzies, brother. Transform my, like, mind. Show me art.

GALLERY OWNER: Well, we have plenty of art.

ALEX: I’ll be the judge of that, brother. Lead on. (stops) What’s this then?

GALLERY OWNER: Abstract art.

ALEX: Abstract it is, brother. Art it is not.

GALLERY OWNER: Who are you to …

ALEX: Evidence of the old glazzies. The form’s all wrong. The color comes out of a spraycan.

DIM: The cheese tastes like shit!

ALEX: Hush, Dim. (studies painting – then sees something next to it) Hang on … slovos I see, all in a row.

GALLERY OWNER: That’s the artist’s statement.

ALEX: Artist’s statement? (reads) Deconstruction this and society that. Oh! He mentions color. It’s a good painting, ‘cause he says it is? He’s telling me what to think, eh? I’m insulted.

GALLERY OWNER: You’re an art critic?

ALEX: No. An artist rather. Of destruction. (whips out knife, slashes painting)

GALLERY OWNER: Stop!

ALEX: A malenky bit better.

GALLERY OWNER: How dare you!

ALEX: Teach this bastard some manners, droogies.

DROOGS kick the crap out of the GALLERY OWNER.

ALEX: Well, that’s it then. This is Alex DeLarge saying support the arts, O my brothers. But only if the art is good.

Going my way?

You're a wannabe screenwriter! You want to make it big in Hollywood!

Thus motivated, you launch out on a metaphorical journey across America, speeding away in your MG with your faithful Wife. (played by Jan Hooks) There are obstacles and setbacks. The typical shit you have to deal with on a metaphorical journey -- just ask Pilgrim. This frustrating shit goes on for awhile. It ain't a smooth ride.

So there you are in a SHELL gas station, map unfolded, trying to puzzle out how to reach your destination. An extremely well-dressed fellow (that three-piece back suit probably cost more than your car) notices you, walks over.

SATAN: Hello. Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Satan. Perhaps you've heard of me? But of course you have...you look like someone who works for the entertainment industry. (smiling) Or wants to.

WIFE: I don't know, honey...

SATAN: At any rate, I was wondering if I could have a lift in your car. You are going to LA, aren't you?

YOU: (surprised) Why...why yes. How'd you....

SATAN: Logic. Observation. A creative individual such as yourself. And, most coincidentally, your destination happens to be the same as mine.

YOU: I'm not sure I...

SATAN: Please understand me. I am not asking for charity. I am more than prepared to make it well-worth your while. Take me where you're going, and I shall be more than happy to pay for gas, expenses. It would be a mutually beneficial arrangement for all of us.

He seems so civilized. Your wife is still going "I don't know honey, I don't know..." but you decide that it just mains plain old economic sense. So you let him in.

And it's only a few miles down the road that he's telling you how to drive, where to go, what route to take--in fact, let's change the destination entirely. Now he wants to go to New York, and he's paying, so what the hell.

And it's not long before the question of sexual favors comes up.

SATAN: No need to pull over. (pulling on a balloon-squeaking pair of medical gloves. Well-practiced movements--he has obviously done this before) We can do this in the car...

I Set Writers On Fire!

Are you suffering from writer's block? Call me! But you don't have to. Your friends already did! You've been whining about your "writer's block" for weeks and they're sick of it. Now it's my turn. I'm here to help! If you don't start writing NOW, I'll break into your fucking house and douse you with gasoline and whip out my Zippo. I want 20 pages by 6 a.m. tomorrow morning, or you're carbonized, pal.

Abnorman B. Rahruhrargh, Director  PYROMANIAC'S WRITERS GUILD   Box 707-F  La California. Canada 3.14159265

Next to Godliness Dept.

Enough with all this filthy pornography! It's time for some clean pornography ...

It was Sheila's turn to drive, and he let her, crouched next to her in the passenger seat. The top was down on the little MGB because she wanted it that way--and Sheila always got what she wanted, and Sheila never admitted when she changed her mind.

And the road moved beneath them, throbbing, vibrating...

They'd been driving for hours now, were covered with road dirt. Filth: like a second skin. He could take it, could drive for days without taking a bath, but knew it was bothering her. Sheila had a thing about personal grooming.

He liked that in a woman.

Driving and dirt; dirt and driving. Hours and hours of this. He knew it was getting to her, really getting to her, but didn't say anything. Just waited. Her hands held the wheel, eyes locked on the road. Then, quickly, she looked over at him...

"Clean me," she said. "Clean me now."

"Here? In the car?"

Smiling, one hand still on the wheel, she reached with her other hand into her purse--and slowly removed a moist towelette...*

* Please understand that I do not wish in any way to cast aspersions on the "Moist Towelettes," one of the famous "girl groups," of the 60's (unfortunate term, but that's what they called them); Delika Tessan was the lead singer, I think she used to be Phil Specter's girlfriend before...well, no need to bring that up. A first-rate group whatever her name was.

Buddhist Writers Wanted

BUDDHIST WRITERS WANTED Cutting-edge TV production company has immediate need for comedic/dramatic writers for Buddhist sketches and short teleplays. Enlightenment, the middle way, mondo cartoons; no burning monks, please. Send resume and samples of work (scripts and VHS tape). Personnel-T2, 4815 Trousdale Dr., #577, Nirvana, TN 37220

The Young Jean-Paul Sartre

The young JEAN-PAUL SARTRE and his earnest, bourgeoisie PARENTS are together at home. JEAN-PAUL is furrowed into a book; he's about 11; moody, intense, and very much like the Widow Hen's genius boychick that Foghorn Leghorn endlessly tries to teach baseball to. JEAN-PAUL is just back from school; his parents are trying to get him to talk about it.

PARENTS: What are you reading, Jean-Paul?

JEAN-PAUL: Nothing.

PARENTS: What are you thinking, Jean-Paul?

JEAN-PAUL: Nothing.

PARENTS: What did you learn in school today?

JEAN-PAUL: Nothing.

PARENTS: Then what did you do?

JEAN-PAUL: Nothing.

PARENTS: Nothing? I can't believe that — it's what you always say, Jean-Paul! You mean to say nothing happened to you? Nobody said anything? You learned nothing?

JEAN-PAUL: Nothing...(angry, with finality) NOTHING!

PARENTS: Jean-Paul ...

JEAN-PAUL: God, there's no exit around here! I hate you! I hate you! Living with you is hell!

He storms away.