Forward to Glory: Exposition

By Brian Paul Bach

Butterbugs is becoming somebody. He has come to Hollywood to act, and as an aspiring performer, so far, he is a survivor. His dream persists... though barely. But something's coming.
He has had to endure nearly crushing challenges with a tenacity deserving its own kind of award. Perhaps simple luck is all that's needed. It soon appears, from unexpected quarters. And starting there, his ascent begins. Butterbugs is about to be exposed – as actor, as talent, as star. A splash like no other will soon inundate Hollywood. In FORWARD TO GLORY's guise as a four-part epic-noir-satire, EXPOSITION continues the grand procession commenced in TEMPERING. Proudly episodic, unabashedly sensational, it is a saga geared to a seasoned readership eager to embrace a daring narrative with determination and relish. As he advances, Butterbugs is gifted with the assistance of many: Vonda – the superstar, who literally picks him off the street; The Angry Black Priest – the super-artist, who, out of tragedy, teaches him wisdom; Sonny Projector – the super-agent, who sees something exceptional in this intriguing unknown; Old Atrocity – the super-technician, whose cinematic expertise perfectly compliments the actor's unique persona; Cody, Saskia and Justy – women to love, who love him; Pepper and Prairie – whose very existence may be nothing more than shadows on a screen but whose power is projected upon him; and Heatherette – whose reappearance saves his life.
The FORWARD TO GLORY Quartet
I. Tempering – the Actor's struggles
II. Exposition – the Actor's rise
III. Apotheosis – the Actor's climax
IV. Beyond Fin – the Actor's legend

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clink Street Publishing
• Release date: Nov 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781912262106

Brian Paul Bach

Brian Paul Bach is a writer, artist, filmmaker and photographer; he has worked across the entertainment business, in theatre, music and as an academic. He now lives in central Washington State with his wife, Sandra. 

Book preview

Reminder Notes

When referencing films throughout the Forward To Glory quartet, I have included the name of the studio or distributor responsible for a given picture. The year of release is added when citing films of the past. As an avid reader of the showbiz periodical ‘Variety’ in the 1970s, such assignations, especially within Hollywood’s greatest era, were always sure to indicate certain styles and personnel, as well as preferences in production and presentation. To we students of the Seventh Art, important stuff indeed.

A complete list of studios, a glossary, a comprehensive filmography of 1001 films, and a farewell essay: Notes on Sources, are all located at the end of the quartet’s concluding volume, Beyond Fin.

Although the quartet is a novel in the epic-noir-satire style, matters of a ‘footnote’ nature occasionally appear. In order that their somewhat recondite contents will not overly distract the Reader, I have placed them within [brackets], and in smaller type.

Showbiz is a name-oriented enterprise, and so is Forward To Glory. Therefore, studious readers may want to consider having easy access to handy resources like Wikipedia and the Internet Movie Database close at hand. Just in case any probings into the universe of Entertainment’s players and supporters are desired. The expanse of casts and crews may be vast, but the findings are most rewarding – not to mention fascinating. Those names in the quartet’s four volumes which do not appear in these or any other sources – and they are legion – are either not deemed worthy, or else they are Author-invented.

However, the entire quartet may be absorbed without reference works of any kind, as its prime directive is one of entertainment rather than study. At least that is the dearest wish of its Author.

Disclaimer: Any references to actual persons within the pages of the Forward To Glory quartet, whether living or dead, are made for fictional purposes only. They are exclusively the inventions of the Author, and the Author alone. Whatever real names are cited, any resemblance to the actual personage is purely coincidental (and generally complimentary).

No animals were harmed in the making of this production. Indeed, they were only loved.

And now…

Dear Reader: Quiet On The Set!

As part of our ongoing program of publicity for the present work, for your orientation, the ‘teaser’ or ‘blurb’ – the notice – that conventionally appeared in the flyleaf or on the back cover of tactile books (in traditions long past) is here placed, complete and unabridged, for any of your ‘warm-up’ needs, should you require them, just below:

Act I: Tempering – Effort and Obscurity

Act II: Exposition – Attainment and Achievement

Act III: Apotheosis – Triumph and Transcendence

Act IV: Beyond Fin – Legacy and Summation

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II. Exposition

Butterbugs is becoming somebody, or at least something. Something’s coming, something great… Yet, as often as not, he doesn’t even know what hits him. True, he has come to Hollywood to act, and he has survived enough experiences on the fringe to drain any life force away, but the dream persists… perhaps.

As an aspiring performer, so far, Butterbugs is a survivor. He has had to endure nearly crushing challenges, and they aren’t over by a long shot. Some say that persistence is often rewarded, but in the case of this particular person, maybe it’s simple luck. Very simple indeed, for any progress comes from unexpected quarters. It actually does come, but never in predictable or reliable forms. Still, Butterbugs as actor, as talent, as star – is about to be exposed.

In its guise as an epic noir satire (terms that can be mixed and matched), EXPOSITION continues the panoply commenced in TEMPERING, as a proudly episodic, unabashedly sensational saga, geared to a hit series-oriented readership, mature enough to face such a sustained and daring narrative with not only fortitude, but relish.

Even at his lowest, Butterbugs is gifted with the assistance of strangers: Vonda – the superstar, who literally picks him off the street; The Angry Black Priest – the super-artist, who, out of tragedy, teaches him wisdom; Sonny Projector – the super-agent, who sees something galvanizing in this strange unknown; Old Atrocity – the super-technician, whose cinematic expertise fits perfectly with the actor’s unique development; Cody, Saskia and Justy – women to love, who love him back; Pepper and Prairie – whose very existence may be nothing more than shadows on a screen but whose power is projected upon him; and Heatherette – still a force for good, whose reappearance saves his life.

Something seems as it could, so he keeps going forward, FORWARD TO…

The FORWARD TO GLORY Quartet

I. Tempering – the Actor’s struggles

You are HERE: II. Exposition – the Actor’s rise

III. Apotheosis – the Actor’s climax

IV. Beyond Fin – the Actor’s legend

Critical Mass:

And He Didn’t Even Know What Hit Him

‘Do I take drugs? Drugs are for audiences, not for artists.’ – Stanley Kubrick

‘I do not take drugs. I AM the drug.’ – Salvador Dali

If Butterbugs had known what was to befall him shortly, there is every probability that he would have declined progressing further with a Hollywood career, in exchange for the following episode to be avoided, even partially.

Headline – this particular one (of many throughout the media) appeared in The Hammer Report. Incidentally, it was the first global news story devoted to Butterbugs:

A STORY TO DEEPLY SHOCK THE NATION:

PROMISING STAR COLLAPSES UNDER DRUG WEIGHT

‘If Only I Hadn’t Ever, Ever Tried OxyCynara!’ Actor Mourns – Alive, But Barely.

Was It Just Another Hollywood Suicide Attempt? Who Cares, Anyway?

HOLLYWOOD–Special to The Hammer Report

Drug usage amongst the Sinema City’s huge strata of sub- and sub-sub denizens of all persuasions is about as common as the inmates of a hog farm wallowing up to slop. It’s a question of who doesn’t do it, as opposed to the contrary. Who are we of the Complete and Utterly Objective Media not to call a spade a spade?

There are many, many examples, encased in permanent obscurity, of wannabe showbizniks, who find, when the going gets tough, that they perhaps haven’t the belly for the piece of gristle they have bitten off. That they perhaps are going wobbly in the face of failure, that suddenly stares at them with so intense a glare. What, it might be asked, would you do? Carry on? Or would you be tempted by other, more amenable ways of accepting your fate, be they ever so initially off-putting? Conversely, they might be unwelcoming, even disgusting, but what if there’s a good chance they might improve your confidence, bolster your courage, and boost your performance at that cattle call audition? Without a be-prepared kit of tools, you just might end up not even on the cutting room floor, but under a waterfall of flowing, broken dreams. So what about taking a gamble? And beyond that, a few of these tools just might thrust you to victory, and certain stardom. Interested? What if those amenable yet off-putting ways involved – get ready – the taking of DRUGS?

A Faustian bargain in disguise? A simple pill for celebrity-dom, as easy to take as breath mints?

Not on your sweet life!

Ever heard of an actor named Butterbugs? Young, upstanding, superficially handsome and smart (but maybe not so smart), Butterbugs came to Hollywood to make it in the picture shows: your basic American dream. How could it possibly have become such a nightmare? Easy. How come an actor, just starting out, backed by heavyweight Hollywood power brokers, with a striking leading role under his belt (has anyone out there seen ‘I, Doughboy’ yet? Well, you should…), how come such an actor, with so much going on, with so much in his favor, took drugs, and thus, fell?

It happened like this…

The Bucolics were off, all right. Sonny had put the kaboom-kabosch on the whole damn package of pictures, and, strangely, Butterbugs was left high and dry. A string of surefire hits, countrified in the great tradition of Americana, instantly aborted, even before a partial birth. Never were hick pix so nixed – and not by the sticks, either.

Sonny. Sonny Projector! Super-agent, or super-asshole?

Was it because of Sonny’s rage at the swaggering, prospective producer, and what he’d attempted, that he, the great agent’s client, had to pay so dearly? Why the outrageous cancellation over such bullshit? What was being offered instead? Why was he, Butterbugs, suddenly standing like a rag picker from within the Pale, at the blue-and-white striped toll-station, without even a kopek, before the treasure-city of Minsk?

‘Far be it from us in daring to presume an alternative strategy to Mr. Projector’s desires,’ was all a phone call to Sonny’s office produced, after numerous attempts to reach his private mobile number failed.

‘Far be it from us…’, Butterbugs mused, ‘to reason why, when there are deals to be made. And unmade.’

He set down the receiver, fresh out of ideas.

Except one: MUtual 6-9100.

‘Cody? Is that you?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘Butterbugs, lover.’

‘At such a time?’

‘Oh. My clock says 4:10.’

‘4:10!’

‘AM or PM?’

‘Butterbugs! What’s with you –?’

‘Oh, Cody, star-love, I… I got…’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Well, can I come over?’

‘Over? It’s after 4:10…’

‘You said I could come over any time. Via Crazy Lane…?’

‘Butterbugs, it’s a school night. Er, morning…!’

‘So you’re…’

‘I’ve got to get up in an hour. My precious sleep… What remains of it…’

‘So, you’re mad at me?’

‘Mad? What’s that all about? I’ve got to get up soon.’

‘You’ve got an hour.’

‘Butterbugs, just tell me. Are you OK? Did something happen?’

‘Something happened. I’m, I don’t know, I just want you. You.’

‘Just… tell… me… what… happened.’

‘I thought I could come over.’

‘Butterbugs, would you just tell me? Use the miracle of the telephone. I’ve got to meet with Kritchurd Puerile’s fucking PR dude in three hours at the Bev Hills Hotel. It’s going to be a jungle of a day. Now will you just get on with it?’

‘I thought that I could just, I don’t know, be with you.’

‘You used to be.’

‘I’ve been so busy, Cody. Cody!…?’

‘And you think I haven’t? What makes you think –’

‘The Bucolics! Cancelled!’

‘Oh, Butterbugs…!’

‘Yeah, cancelled!’

‘I’m so sorry…’

‘Oh, Cody, I don’t know. What to do.’

‘You poor Butterbugs. I’m sorry, so sorry.’

‘Sonny quashed it.’

‘Sonny? Why??’

‘He caught Porter trying to sign me for three pictures, but –’

‘Ah! The old two-for-three. Or is it the other way round? It’s past 4:10! I’m not yet –’

‘You know…!’

‘You aren’t the first one, hunk. I’m sorry, and sorry again.’

‘So, Cody, can I, can I, come over?’

‘Butterbugs, I’m sorry. For all kinds of things. All sorts of reasons. But, but, I have two sons, and two of them, well, I have to address their issues, you know.’

‘What…?’

‘Kid stuff. Stuff with kids. Well, not exactly.’

‘You love them.’

‘Yes. Yes, I guess I do. What are you talking about? Of course! Well, I guess I’m really awake now.’

‘So, can I?’

‘I just told you, what I have to face with the boys.’

‘What?’

‘Well, Urie got pressured into OxyCynara at school, and he didn’t want to do it, but he was the one who got caught. And Elvin, well, they’re accusing him of being gay. They, his peers. Because, well, he, is, I know it. He’s gay, and I’ve got to figure out a way… His father and I –’

‘What, I ask you, has that got to do with me?’

‘Where have YOU been? Apparently in your own world, that’s for sure.’

‘Cody, I. Cody, I…’

‘You just don’t know. You just care about your feature picture career. You say you loved me. And I loved you. But what does that mean now?’

‘It means, I love you!’

‘Yeah, well, that’s fine to say, but… Butterbugs, I’ve got to…’

‘What’s OxySinai, anyway?’

‘OxyCynara. A very powerful opiate. You see what I’m up against? Kids taking that shit!’

‘I’m up against some stuff, too. Some shit. And not exactly my own.’

Sensing that Butterbugs might be facing a personal emergency, Cody considered acceding to his request. On the other hand, it was wholly impossible. She had spoken truth to her lover, and even then, not in toto. There were plenty of ancillary matters and subplots attached to the general scenarios already outlined. Besides, she couldn’t be Earth Mother to every needy soul out there, regardless of his puppy passions. The gap of generations was felt acutely this early morning in bed, solo.

‘We all have our own shit to wade through, Butterbugs.’

‘But love-Code! But – you’re my main thing! Aren’t I yours?’

‘When I have time, Butterbugs. When I have time. Right now I have to go. I have to. You talk to Sonny. Even Parker. You can still talk, can’t you? It’s the Industry. It’s not all glam. People have been killed for less. Don’t let it throw you. Talk to Sonny. I’ve got to hang up now. Good luck, Butterbugs. Good luck…’

The click happened.

Butterbugs kept the receiver to his ear.

‘Cody! Are you there? Cody! Are we… over?’ Then, lowering it slowly, ‘We’re over. She just stopped it. I know it. And I did it.’

Remorse, guilt, sorrow. And disappointment.

Cody, over. The Bucolics, over. Sonny, over?

He still couldn’t get ahold of his mega-agent, nor could he ascertain his whereabouts. Porter Parker was gone, too. Gone to his horse ranch. And Sonny, probably to his ‘egg ranch’, maybe?

Brad-Chad Basch was having a party. Butterbugs’ neighbor was no friend, but he’d prevailed upon him more than once for a ride to Universal City when his own snappy little BMW was on the blink (tinny cooling sheet metal rubbing on fan belt; all better now). Brad-Chad was a ‘rising’ production assistant at Marlor Sportz out in the Valley, and he was one of those generic boy-toy types that the television pools had plenty of, so, following a tip from some burned-out baseball player acquaintance now producing second-string filler at Marlor, he decided to tap into the production side for the time being. He was obviously jealous of Butterbugs, and didn’t at all understand why Butterbugs was getting into pictures while he wasn’t. But that didn’t prevent his mug from showing up at Butterbugs’ front door, just five hours after Cody hung up on him.

For those five hours Butterbugs had sat in frozen, shorted-out stasis. It was now past 9:00AM.

‘Hey man,’ called Brad-Chad through the screen door, ‘Friday Morning-Call-In-Sick Party at my place. Now! No better time to strut some punch than morning, huh? Course, you’re not the party type, but we need male bodies so that the non-lesbo chicks’ll come. So show up, man.’

It was the power of suggestion that now guided Butterbugs toward his next move. Obediently, almost robotically, he followed his orders, shuffling well behind this person, with whom he had nothing in common, and didn’t particularly care for. Through the dry klenn-wood grove he wended his way, past poorly-maintained flowerbeds and stalks of stock. Everything was left to desiccate ’twixt rock and shadow, while today’s youth on furlough from any responsibilities that honest workers in Hollywood might take up on this particular workday – this school day – gamboled in a non-swimming pool back yard, surrounded by spider-vine and shriveled crewel-weed trees.

Reclining on ramshackle chaises under the morning smog-filtered sun, or in Roman pose on a divan dragged out for the occasion, in old redwood deck chairs and even a couple of cut open juice barrels, the fellowship of Brad-Chad Basch assembled for purposes of truant entertainment.

Of bong, briar bowl, brass thimble, and pipe-spoon did they sing, tipping their magic matches toward ignition for inhalement, oblivious to the consequences, wholly determined to get ripped.

Then there was Becky Berry, clad in a turquoise bikini and high heels, one of the chicks to show, but not quite cute enough to hook Brad-Chad or any of his lotos-eater friends.

‘Come on, Sharlie!’ she cooed at one of the gang who was fiddling with paraphernalia on a rotating globe stand, ‘How do you like my top? Top’s from one suit, bottom’s from another! Look!’

She did an okay sort of pirouette.

Slug-like Sharlie barely looked up as he heated his crack pipe with a Bunsen burner.

‘Zat mean your butt is a different size than your rack? Aren’t they supposed to be the same? Or, ya know, a little on the top-heavy side? Hlurp-lurp!’

The fellows smirked with pleasure. A perfect moment before starting their easy climb to the highs.

‘You stupid shit-ass!’ Becky yowled.

She went into the house.

‘Becky’s the best you got, Brad-Chad? Been there, done that.’

‘Yoo-ba-doo-ba-doo! Woo! Woo! Woo! Is that all you got?’ crowed an ironically chunky ectomorph.

‘Yeah, Dreckie, but just wait. More coming. Crowd’s pepping up. Not the same old ho’s.’

‘You think?’ queried a younger kid.

‘I’ll believe it when I see it, Buckskin. Hey, try some of this Filipino creamy. Good shit.’

Becky re-emerged through the smudged patio slider, wheeling a drinks trolley, stepping daintily lest her stilettos got stuck in the potholed pavement. Her rickety caravan came to a stop where the concrete ended, a bit too distant from the revelers. She looked like a greeter at a clunkily-staged bit of debauchery in a ’60s exploitation flick. Frowning, she studied the haphazardly-arranged ingredients on the trolley and muttered.

‘I gotta get a Coke and go think.’

Whether the Coke was wet or dry was a news item unannounced.

Sluggish in his passage via the overgrown back way, Butterbugs appeared at a UV-ravaged trellis gateway, shrouded in dangly vine husks, where he faced the garden party.

Brad-Chad happened to look up through the curling lavender witch-weed smoke and coughed.

‘Hey, neighbor. Here. Over here. Told ya we’d be partying. Partee! Guess you’re not working today, neither. Why should we? Ya know? No crunch time here. It’s morning punch time. Huh-heh!’

With a voice dull and preoccupied with inhalements, his welcoming address hardly added up. After ‘Hey, neighbor’, it was as if he were just talking to himself.

Lacking any current society except his own, there was no reason not to go forward into this invitational gathering. The only things missing on Butterbugs’ person were a seersucker jacket and a straw boater, so innocent did the premise seem.

Music by The Ponjees, Mark and The Attractions, The Kickers, The Mupps, File K-2245639200, Philip Chudge and His Friendly Band, The Chicklettes, Mhow-Mhow, and Engine Kid wound out of a reel-to-reel recorder. Interestingly, it played at a level conducive to conversation. Tape heads were pretty oxidized, probably. Other heads were getting baked, then deep-fried.

‘So, Brad-Chad? Is this, you know, that dude you told us about, ’n’ stuff? He was in a movie or something?’

Sharlie took a gander at the on-comer, but with sprawled casualness.

‘Yoe. Something. Hey Butterbugs, are you gonna party? How come you didn’t bring a hot date? Something bodacious. Or at least something inflatable. Or at least a six-er?’

The boys laughed whilst inhaling and guzzling. They were all generic white guys, without one shred of character amongst them. Still, Butterbugs had seen worse. Despite their mild teasing, he saw no threat here.

‘I’ll, uh, have a lite beer, or equivalent. Or even a near beer,’ he announced.

‘A LITE beer, as opposed to anything heavier!?!’ snorted Sharlie. ‘That’s heavy-duty, dudes!’

‘Yeah, guess you’re just a lap-baby, neighbor. Grab one in the watering trough over there.’

‘Somebody like that, you can tell ’em to do anything, and they’ll do it,’ remarked the worldly Sharlie, prepping to light up another toke sequence. He peered after Butterbugs on his way to the brew-belly cache and snorted.

‘Sharlie, did you get that new Blombo vidgame?’ asked Galahad, another partier.

‘What the fuck! You mean you haven’t even…’

And they yakked on, while the neighbor tried to sort out what was what in the beer selection. It was only the absence of presence of mind, a condition so visited upon him in past passages of circuit-breaking events, that caused Butterbugs, the dedicated actor in search of – truth – to be digging around in a dubious chest, daring super-cooled waters to chip the ice from some smooth tin of bland beer with blander labeling, at about 9:45 in the morning. But he was.

Would his role models have made any difference right now? That is, if they had been present to enact any sort of parental discipline?

Cody? Too busy with her kids and high-powered cinema execs.

Vonda? Expired; perhaps she would have just joined in the partying.

TABP? Too high up and far away; these backyard boys would make him commit soul emesis.

Sid Grauman? Too big. Period.

Porter Parker? He’d be too busy trying to get it all for wholesale.

Sonny? Where-oh, where-oh WAS Sonny, anyway?

Old Dad? Old who?

Heatherette? That’s right, Heatherette! Surely she would have made a difference. But she was off somewhere past the alley of Yniguez Terrace. Light-centuries away.

No doubt about it, this was Esteban the Cerveziac territory. That old alley guy got some joy out of life in the long run, didn’t he?

Butterbugs grabbed two tins. After all, he had essentially been up all night, and to him this was late evening. The streaks in the soiled sky, like strands of coagulated blood, could possibly be construed as a contented sunset. Perfect time to kick back and swill a carefree cold one with some dinosaurs.

Returning to the encampment of goof-offs, he was able to find a seating arrangement between a child’s lawn chair and a hard place. Splayed, he cracked the tin and awaited further ridicule.

Brad-Chad’s banal gang, now properly dispatched on the road to dumbshit-land, proceeded to take turns proving themselves.

It was nothing, really. All were too middle-class, too comfortable within the potentially desperate game that the non-privileged might gamble at (and lose) in this here town. But because they were talentless and going nowhere fast as wannabe players in the game of Hollywoodian success, they nevertheless were able to find somewhat secure posts as service and support entities, slightly related to the Industrial system that made this town tick. Brad-Chad was doing his production assistant thang at Marlor. Sharlie was an associate purchasing agent for a branch of UPS that made most of its deliveries to radio stations. Dreckie was a paper cup picker-upper for Zundison/General. Buckskin was slugging it out in a Carl’s Jr. management training programme only two blocks away from KBEX. Galahad was in charge of ordering litho crayons for Western Costume. Becky was a receptionist at D.K. Dill’s Most American Rapid, which distributed George Pibbage whiskey to the region. There were a few other guys there, too, too unremarkable for comment. Dull worker bees playing hooky, made duller as the sun rose higher.

Once they had reviewed their familiar subjects of games, tunes and babes, the THC and other compounds dictated that the collective imagination would run dry. Therefore, this board of cool dudes eventually turned their attentions toward the neighbor guest, only because he was the new face in town. Not that they were particularly interested.

‘So where’s your date, neighbor?’ bored Brad-Chad inquired.

‘Well, I don’t have one.’

‘Not nobody!’ spat Sharlie.

‘Not as of… a few hours ago,’ explained Butterbugs, mindlessly popping his fifth beer.

‘What’s that all about?’ asked some guy over on the fringe, whose name everyone always forgot at times like this.

‘It’s just that,’ continued Butterbugs, his tongue loosened by lager (in contrast to those disabled by pot), ‘a few hours ago, I had a girlfriend. Now, I don’t. I guess.’

‘Oh, wow,’ said Buckskin.

And that’s all he said.

‘So what’s the deal?’ asked Brad-Chad, almost in a normal tone.

‘Well,’ drawled Butterbugs, now on his seventh, ‘it’s like this. My girl was a beautiful, beautiful – girl. She wasn’t a girl…’

‘Oh! She wasn’t a girl!’ Galahad was getting pretty fucked-up.

‘No! She was a mature woman. Oh! What a woman. A lover, as sainted as the morning sun. My gawd, how she looked then…’

‘You’re funny,’ mumbled Buckskin, almost in wonder, unused to poetic inflections.

‘I just don’t know what the big deal is,’ scoffed the no name in back.

Brad-Chad was adept enough, even in his mean-green-state, to realize there was a line of questioning worth following with this neighbor dude.

‘So, uh, was she, you know, in pictures?’ His tone was sensibly somewhat sincere.

‘Ooooh, yeah. Pretty high up.’

‘You bull-fucking-shitter,’ squawked Sharlie.

‘She is high up in Goth Studios, sir. I’ve been there. I do not lie.’

Brad-Chad cleared his throat and straightened his posture noticeably.

‘Uh, hey, neighbor! Howdy! Can we git ya another swill? Huh? Becky! Beer! NOW! Bring over a six-er for the Beer Guy, here.’

Then, in a much gentler voice to Butterbugs, and holding out an FDR-style cig holder with smolder attached, quipped:

‘Smoke tokey-smokey-toke?’

‘Oh, no-thinks…,’ mumbled the neighbor.

Then he noticed Becky’s hot pink hooker-heels parking next to him, and his eyes traveled up her white thighs and into the puffball of her crotch. He leered tipsily, then looked over at his host and widened the smile.

‘She’s for you, neighbor!’ The host grinned. ‘She, uh, thinks! Want her?’

Brad-Chad’s expression, as if he were some sort of beneficent provider, was stunningly sleazy, way beyond anything Butterbugs encountered in his extensive experience with the porno industry that one day.

‘Shut up, Bradley-Chadley!’ Becky moaned, then dropped the six-pack of IceGrain Liquid Bread all the way to the ground, where it made a perfect landing for anyone who doesn’t much care to reach far for his next swirl of swill.

‘I’ll make my own choice,’ she continued, snottily. ‘Hey, Bubbah!’

She looked down at Butterbugs and slowly descended into an unladylike position of cross-leggedness, barely accomplished due to heels sinking into the dry turf below. Her daring g-string was so distressed that it was forced to reveal the peripheries of a thick thatch of hair, the color of which didn’t exactly match her darker spit curl ’n’ bangs perm on top. She made no effort to correct this indiscretion of modesty.

‘Hey, good-munch. OK then. How about it?’

She blew cute-rings of cig smoke at his ear.

‘Yeah! Yeah, neighbor! Go ahead! Try my girl out! My Yamaguchi’s got less miles on it, though! And it’s a two-stroke! Wanna ride it? Hah, hah, hah!!’

Sharlie was coming unglued with yucks.

All were in the proper position for a bit of Roman orgying, voyeur-style. The only thing missing was a proper Corinthian-columned vomitorium.

‘Why Sharlie, you still got that old beater mo-cycle that spits blue smoke? Thing’s ready for the graveyard!’ Buckskin was in wonder, always.

With amazing dexterity, Becky immediately stood up, adjusted her strings, kept her heels from sinking by tiptoeing with determination back to the patio, before spinning about and repeating, ‘You stupid SHIT-ASS!!’ to Sharlie, and marched over to the drinks trolley to make a great big – dwink.

‘See, neighbor?’ the boor said to Butterbugs, ‘I pull her chain and she always says the same thing. Kinda boring after a while. Might have to have her tape changed. How d’ya do that, anyway, Gala-been-had?’

The lesser one said nothing, and simply responded by taking out a small switchblade, tripped its release, and flashed his own version of a shit-chewing grin.

‘Boys!’ Brad-Chad burst out with a commanding laugh. Then, looking at Butterbugs. ‘My dudes have high spirits, but hearts of pure gold! Right, Galahad?’

‘Yoe!’

Galahad duly returned the blade to its storage and withdrew it, in as cool a manner as possible. He and Sharlie continued to smirk.

‘So – neighbor, you were saying, about this Goth girl – er – ‘woman’?’

‘Oooh yeah. Her…’ Butterbugs tore into Becky’s gift. ‘Oooh, I dunno. Oh, n-no… She was too mucsh. Too much, I mean. Mean?’

‘In bed??’

‘You!! No –’

‘Couldn’t quite handle her ‘high power’? Huh?’

They all chuckled.

‘Oh, you-o guyses! My gurrull wasz a bootiful, byoutiphul wummun…’

‘Oh no, he’s gonna cry!’ mocked Sharlie.

‘Yeah, I’d cryyy… I should cry it off my chest… Jes so’d I cud kiss her brest – uh-er, breasts – agann!’

‘Ewww…’ was Buckskin’s comment.

‘I weepeth! Aye! I dooo. For herrr…!’

The gang really didn’t know whether to continue razzing him or admit to genuine pity. The sincerity of his performance was undoubted. So they did the best thing and retreated into their continued exploitation of the day’s drug bits.

Left to his own devices, Butterbugs shed tears unto his beer. Saline stood no chance against hops. When that was all gone, he roused himself and stumbled in search of a brew-flowing creek. He ended up over by Becky’s trolley, though. While its wheels weren’t exactly spinning, his perception of them was. Regardless, he was able to stabilize once he grabbed the controlling handle bar. There were bottles, cups and tumblers, in and out of focus, and a sorrow that still needed drowning. But, what to seize? Why, the biggest thing! A beer pitcher, one of those PeteZaParLa things, of heavy-gauge glass and unbreakably reliable. And filling it, with a fluid much-textured and viscous, was the heartiest serving-up of a SpappyThom-kinda slop he’d ever witnessed. Tomato puree, buzzing with anger, hopefully doctored with Dave’s Insanity Sauce: the perfect antidote to his slurping grief! Solemnly, but severely, would it purge him of this mælström of torturous guilt and loss. It was as if at least one of the Ten Commandments slates was being bonked over his head right now, with an Eleventh, scratched at the bottom, that screamed:

‘Thou shalt grab and guzzle with great gusto!’

Becky was back.

‘Hey limpies, look who’s here! My lezzie friends! Nyah, nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah! Neaner, neaner, neaner, Sharler!’ Then, to the lipstick femme standing next to her, who was adjusting her hips, ‘Wow, Bobbie-baby! I love those thigh-high boots! That shortie skirt’s the flimsiest I’ve ever seen. Wanna raise the flap, or do I have to do it myself??’

At least five haughty, high-stepping gals, of clearly dickless standing, made their entrance, posing in a lineup, arms akimbo, or adjusting big hair, or ready to swing accessories in self-defense, to burlesque the fucked-up losers in this neck of the woods, especially if they were giving their Becky a hard time. Always good for a semi-laugh.

The guys groaned, too bone-stoned to do anything but croak ‘Fuck…’ in total, impotent disgust.

‘HEY!!! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING??? That’s Sharlie’s special drink!!!!!’

Becky went ballistic, lunging in the direction of the drinks trolley, heels amazingly intact.

‘You dumbo! That was Sharlie’s! I fixed it for him! Hey Sharlie! Sharlie?? This neighbor asshole drank your drink!’

True to his Eleventh, Butterbugs had. The whole thing.

‘Goo-goo, gaa-gaa,’ was all Sharlie had to offer in response, waving his hands languidly.

‘You pork-rinds!’ Becky regarded them with disdain. ‘Can’t even defend me from some creep you brought over just to drive me from my girlfriends! Well, screw you. And you too, creep! You’re gonna love that drink. Too bad my ex-boyfriend missed out.’ Then, switching gears in just a jiffy: ‘Bobbie-Bobbie-Boobsy! Are you jealous when I let the boys touch me all over? Huh? What about you, Raven-Girl?’

The gals were obviously moving in to take over the considerable riches abandoned by the checked-out ones. It was just private enough here for a bit of hot and nasty Venusian fest-making.

The last thing Butterbugs saw before he himself mercifully passed out, was Becky making out with one of her girlfriends. Probably French-kissing.

Hollywood parties!

Eventide. Hard by an overgrown wall.

Butterbugs awoke in such a state that he dearly wished he would never wake up again. Period. So he went back under.

Desolate day. Further on, behind a potting shed.

Many hours later, he awoke from his torpor and realized that his Vincent’s Tomato-Flavored Punch from last morn (strike that – morn before this – or whatever) had been spiked, probably with some sort of designer physic. Significantly, there was no bib of vomit on his person, nor was there any sign of such a deposit on the ground. Meaning, he had ingested the whole cargo, without, remarkably, bodily rejection. Instead, bodily reception. Because, all he knew was that he wanted more of it, whatever it was. Not the Vincent’s, which was like drinking liquid calf’s liver (only tomato-y-er), but whatever had swum in it. Not the hotness, which was like a boiler-bomb, shot into every atomic particle of his snout and maw. Something further. Something which his mind’s eye, made black by the impact, still retained on the bulletin board of its memory. It was a small particle, missable, but due to a persistence created by the subliminal knowledge of its power, and its electric puce coloring, rather like a floating marker in a video game, it grew in its conspicuity. No amount of alcohol had anything to do with its status as current dominator of his full attentions, be they ever so compromised at the moment.

Come to think of it, there was more of an organic quality to this thing, which was coming into focus as his conscience began to evaporate from its effects in solution. Now, perception of certain properties was more grounded. Come to think of it, he had seen a little plummy Tic Tac-like pill floating in the mealy, narcotic ocean of the fun-beverage. Or was it more than one? On its curved surface, as though lighted from a sun as far away as the Ninth Planet’s moon Charon, there was a capital ‘O’, and another capital letter, a ‘C’, which appeared later in the word, to be precise. And an ‘x’ in there somewhere, too. Also, a ‘y’ – a couple of those, and an ‘n’… and…

Lines to be memorized.

Armed with this minimal but valuable cipher, Butterbugs suddenly had an overwhelming desire to rise up and walk, though the energy to do so did not even exist. The imperative was to get mobilized. The command was to somehow obtain a firearm, by which to hold up the nearest pharmacy or chemist’s laboratory, so as to possess more of these weird little ‘Tic Tacs’.

Thus did the programming code, written into the pill, guide him on its mission, not his.

No further discussion was necessary, no further debate was possible.

It was something he had to do.

An anger burned in the sub-chambers of his heart. It was indeterminate in nature, but the young actor felt it infiltrating his left ventricle. Then, a kind of hectoring toxin swelled through his veins, and poured into enraged capillaries all over his map. System gauges shot up past red lines, steam hissed from his tear ducts, fumes leached from his kneecaps. Panic slugged him in the gut. Even his fingernails howled with pain.

Instead of ‘Charge!’ (not in triumph, but in defeat) his tortured frame was shrieking ‘Withdraw!’ (not in defeat, but in triumph).

Fully and inarguably, he was seized by a pounding, unconscionable emergency. Its grip was tighter than that felt by sweet Esmerelda, her wrist imprisoned by Gudule the Recluse’s claw – while Quasimodo wept.

And the terror multiplied, as the thrashing forces came not from without, but from within.

Had he been able to step back from this rampant, surreal horror, a scientific observation offered a reasonable explanation. Chemistry amok! Specifically, a conscious but visceral evaporation from the downward-pulling power now in play, based on severe reaction to a most injurious substance, introduced orally. And stupidly. Unfortunately, said reaction was confined to the bulb of a vacuum, so to speak, doomed to cyclic repetition, indefinitely. Once activated, the Opiate Life must be maintained, even unto the end of the world. Sure enough, genuine justification for turmoil.

As a result of this internal explosion, he felt like killing every goddamn pharmacy expert in greater Los Angeles, with incursions even into San Pino County. Whipped, shocked, and prodded toward the arts of Crude War, battle lines were hysterically drawn. Pity the fires that would result from his righteous, scorched-earth rampage! Oh, but nay! Pity, begone! What cared he for those many Burkmarts to be consumed in much-deserved conflagration, with all their innocent shoplifters and display docents? The skies would roil, sick with mess, so that he might triumph. For if his will not be done, he himself would be the flaming one. No still-living person could possibly be as sick as he! No one more deserved a cure!

Where then, was the holy firearm that would, at the very least, make him feel less ill, by allowing him to take out some of his wrath, some of his self-disgust, on someone else for a change? Only by sacrificing a significant candidate could he get better. Preferably, one who was involved in the collective guilt that produced the very agony that now hamstrung his very soul, not to mention his mighty (but right now, mighty weak) flesh. He must aim, and then, pull the trigger.

‘Where is my sacrificial chicken?’ he roared… inside.

Outside, he was just a jittering wad of scrap.

Guns ’n’ chickens do not a holy warrior make.

‘Then I shall rise in my stirrups… and… And… smite…’

Uh-huh.

Oh yeah, it was something he had to do.

One of these days…

Piffle!

But did he? No.

No!

It was a fever, a moiling, pissed-off cloud of insanity.

‘Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.’

He was relieved. Relieved, understand?

The Jupiter-scaled storm passed, with a flittermouse’s squeak.

Is that all it was? And, had he learned a lesson, in old fashioned style?

Here, today, on this weedy surface, in this town, on this here planet, he had dodged a bullet. It was as if he had been condemned to deportation to the planet Mercury, with the mission of preaching to the strange rock creatures there, all in the non-air. But somehow, the spaceship hither had left without him. He cringed at the closeness of the call, and resolved there and then to avoid any sort of beverage or condiment that may be vulnerable to – spiking. Because, that’s what had to have happened.

The ride had been too weird, too near the edge. He had no idea who had committed the act or why. The only truth was that he would be vigilant. And how? Rigid discipline! That is what he must apply.

But, but, why had this happened? Why had his vigilance failed? Was he not endeavoring to proceed in his life in the only direction possible: upward?

Or at least forward.

In the bad old days of his long disparagement and devolution, he had indeed learned many lessons. Perhaps that was why he learned one instantaneously now. He was a DRUG ADDICT, with the added horror of its companion specter: DRUG WITHDRAWAL.

After all, he had been a victim in this affair from the start. The horrid person who had had a bit of fun by subjecting him to this hazard would have to be horsewhipped. For was it not the odious Sharlie who had made Becky the agent of attack by way of his heartlessness, and his rejection of her devotion?

However, Butterbugs would never know that that very person was in fact lying in the county morgue, a victim himself of his own strict overdose of drug-ish cocktail. A campaign of heart attackage had pummeled his ticker into red meat paste. Pure-O coke’ll do it every time.

As for Becky, she now rested comfortably on a pink taffeta cushion, safe in a Brentwood villa, having survived multiple little deaths gifted by her many admirers.

Destiny! Thy Will be done!

That was all well and good, but the fact was, Butterbugs, under the ten-ton hoof of this particular drug’s chemistry (combined with some other issues not so readily known), had turned into a baffled, shambling goon. It wasn’t as if his previous sequences of altered persona, whether in the Gobbtown dumps, the stretches off-Melrose, the waste ground near the Vegas Strip, or a certain spot on Santa Monica, or the Russel Arms, or at the base of the Funeral Mountains, were so pronounced as this one was. Nothing could compare. Today he was utterly advanced in the recklessness of his behavior. That’s why a net was thrown over him within the median of Westemberley Drive on the plains of prosperity before the Beverly Hills, after he tried to aim and then fire a rifle-shaped assemblage of palm fronds at a series of VIP limousines. The final straw came when a SWAT team, trained in social disturbance duty, made the capture after the culprit refused to give up his last redoubt amidst some monoxide-flocked Whentworth-shrubs.

Visiting hours. In hospital.

Treatment having been implemented after blood work, a tipping point had passed.

The facts were simple. Butterbugs had been saved. Pulled back from the heights of destruction. An enlightened hospital social worker (who professionally insisted on remaining anonymous to the Press), having seen the pattern, recommended and finally got permission to proceed with immediate detoxification on a heroic level, rather than immediate and radical psychosurgery, as vociferously advocated by the attending physician, one Dr. Hair.

Result: due to his inherent strengths of body and character, patient was responding well. Status: shaken, but resting quite comfortably. Legal status: free, with no pending lawsuits.

His nurse was Shway Tue, of Tibeto-Burmese parentage, with beige bark smeared on her broad cheeks. She had eyes like shiny hematite disks, set in roundels of lampblack dusting. Her lips were as two sets of two tiny carrots, stacked sideways, two-by-two, pointed ends at left and right. And the ends curved upwards, in a smile that radiated warmth and Welcome Back to the Planet Earth.

He was enchanted.

‘We kind of thought you were going to leave us there for a while, Mr. Butterbugs. I’m glad you didn’t disappoint us.’

She laid a sprig of straw-colored bibsey-bells, framed with a wreath of dark zinberry leaves, on his wheeled tray/table, then left.

His own eyes welled, then overflowed.

The doctor in attendance, Dr. Hair, whose visage was less than describable, replaced her welcome mien with his own.

‘I can’t say I agree with the choices made by this bureaucracy as far as your course of treatment is concerned, Patient. Quite frankly, I feel that you should be legally classified as an intractable and habitual vagrant and stripped of your civil rights, after your shameful display on Westemberley Drive, an arterial that I happen to take my children on regularly. For the sake of public safety, types like you need to be addressed with some degree of justified harshness. How else are we to eradicate the problems types like you generate, that make our society so sick? I very strongly urge you to embrace corrective brain surgery that includes psychotic correction benefits. I cannot myself possibly take you on in this respect, but I know a terrific team that will assume control. I don’t often do this to a Patient, but I just can’t go on being a Christian doctor without saying it. You were involved with incredibly dangerous drugs, young one. I wholly disapprove of you Hollywood types, who do so with such incredible relish.’

Shway Tue returned with a fruit package and smiled.

‘Excuse me, doctor,’ Butterbugs managed to articulate. ‘But, where am I?’

‘At Seniors/Cyanide Hospital,’ he replied impassively. ‘In Hollywood.’

‘Just making sure…’

‘Yes? Well? Yes?’

‘Are you not, then, a ‘Hollywood type’, yourself?’

‘I’m finished with this Patient, nurse. Finished, I say!’

The first person that had called upon him once he regained his senses was Cody.

Cody! She was heart-stopping. And today, right after Dr. Hair was ‘finished’, she was back. It was her second visit, because the first time, there was nothing he as patient could do yet.

‘I saw you!’ he raised his arms from the bed. ‘You were there. You were part of my dream, but not of my nightmare. I tried to follow you toward the light, the light behind your profile. I tried, but I could not!’

His arms lowered, and she drew close.

They wept.

‘But now, you! You are here! Are you, then, real?’

‘I am,’ she replied steadily. ‘As true as any truth in the universe!’

She took his hand and placed it on her breast, skin to skin.

They laughed.

‘Oh!’ Butterbugs nearly shouted for joy. ‘You restore me! I cannot but laugh out my elation!’

‘And my relief!’

‘Oh yeah, baby, yeah!’

‘And there’s something else, Butterbugs,’ she said amidst her tears.

‘Yea, loved one?’

‘Exciting news, Butterbugs. We’re going to do a thorough follow-up. We found out that you’ve also got another condition, which has shown up in your blood work. So I had a brainstorm. A specialist in New York is going to examine you. It’s all set. Hyman’s bankrolling the whole thing, from start to finish. I worked it out. Talked him into it. You fly LAX to JFK in two days’ time.’

‘Dear lady, I can scarce believe it! To be cared for by you! Tell me, sacred-Cody, how did you find out about me, in my dark hour?’

‘Oh, that!’ she chuckled. ‘I read about you in some horrible, condescending article in that rag ‘The Hammer Report’. Thought I could ride to the rescue. And what’s more, Hyman backed me! Can you believe it? Probably because Goth owns the ‘Hammer’, and the big boys wouldn’t want to miss the ‘opp’ to grandstand. You know, following your story and all. They wanted you to go down in flames, but we’re going to head them off at the pass. Such a cynical business I’m in! But that’s what it took to save you from –’

She wrinkled her fine face with mock abomination.

‘From, shall we say – the fires of perdition!’

‘I knew you were a wonder. I knew it the first time I saw you.’

‘I knew it, too!’

‘Cody, I love it when you compliment yourself.’

‘Well,’ she replied, with pursed, coy lips, ‘I heard Hyman’s ‘Great ass!’ pass as I closed the door of his office that day when you were first there. Thought you might agree with his assessment.’

‘Oh, Cody, you’re great all over!’

They loved each other. She climbed into the bed, and found his erection, and proceeded with zeal. She kissed him, and then, with grace and elegance, she left.

They would always work together. Always love one another. So they moved along.

Then, he was ensconced in a First Class seat on a reputable airline, bound for his maiden landing in the Big Apple. A landmark decision – which could not have been made without the Cody accord. Butterbugs chose, with a new consciousness, not to make his recent substance abuse a further issue in his life, let alone the principal issue.

(He’d leave that to the Baby Boomer generation.)

And that was that.

…and there you have it. That is how it happened. A simple tale of stupidity in action. Because, that’s what the movies are all about, isn’t it? Action!

Yet another forgettable item in the blotter of countless Hollywood debaucheries. But hark! It might have well occurred in Rasp Patch, Delaware! Or probably even in your own town. Hollywood’s corrupt claws spread, as surely as demon rum, unto the dooryards of the great American average.

So shame, shame on these strolling players, whom we often idolize in the private dark of our picture shows. Do not bend to their will, I warn you!

(This Reporter wishes to thank Dr. Hurburt Harkee Hair for his generous assistance in writing this story for American readers to wonder at. ‘The Hammer Report’ cares so much for Americans, it sometimes hurts!)

But this takes place later on – Other things happen first…

Prelude:

Intermission

I, your host, Jonny Cide Hamete Benengeli, welcome you to this, the first of two generous intermissions. I hope you’re enjoying the show!

[Energetic applause]

Let’s get to know each other! Why the hell not?

Because you see, at the beginning of tonight’s Roadshow Presentation, I didn’t really get a chance to even try. So now, let’s give it a whirl. This is as good a time as any, in as good a place as any. Let me tell you that, right now.

There was quite a bit of tenseness – absolutely exciting – in this entire auditorium the last time we spoke together. Lots of big expectations about the presentation to come. But you know something? We’ve come a helluva long way so far, wouldn’t you say?

With total friendliness, I have to give you a tad bit of a warning. It’s, uh, very simple. We have, in this great room, a ways to go yet. So I’m glad you’re getting up, stretching, probing, exploring, making love, taking deep breaths – perhaps from the mushroom domes of aero-circulation beneath many a seat in this establishment. For what is life if it is not to be found in the very air we inhale?

If ye who sit at the Crush Bar way up there on the second mezzanine can hear and understand and believe me – and I daresay, I think you can! – it will become apparent what the importance of this night’s show really is. It is to spread your mind’s entertainment quota to new heights and lengths, and there should be no doubt in your one big mind, what the value of it all is!

So.

So: Intermission the First!

[Sparse applause; general milling and ‘neutral’ time for fifteen minutes; then:]

I present myself to you in a new glitter suit, a conspicuous costume change, in order to face a new era, and a new act! Consider it a new day, a new year, a new epoch – which is, in fact, bigger by far, than a mere era!

Next: May I pleasure-present Zvitov Rostavlaslav on the Mighty Wurlitzer! This legendary maestro is personally here, in person, straight from Dneprodzerzhinsk! He will employ all five keyboards like no other, and there will be such a color symphony in every corner, slab wall, fire escape terrace, and nook in this great house, that it will all seem as a great galaxy of harmony and tone, surrounding you!

[Easygoing audience approval]

He plays! Improvisations and variations and incantations! All over the place!

Well, what do you know?! And I cannot imagine a better background to spread the thoughts of a reverie around. Listen now – come, come now, listen! Moodiness! A sinfonia dramatica! Contemplative, too! An intermezzo, for we have much to think about as far as what we have seen so far tonight. These tones! Widor could have thought them all up! Dupré might have recorded the whole thing! But we cannot pause too long, for, as in the daily parade of life, if we grow too introspective, we cannot progress with the panoply of our living moments, via minute by minute, hour by hour, and day by day, year after year.

That’s why we want you to become transported here. In a single night, long though it may be!

[Comfortable audience response]

But let me tell you…

In entertainment, which encompasses the marriage of Drama with our own Industry, you are joined, completed, by the skillful mix. You cannot understand one without the other.

I tell you, I believe in ballyhoo. It brings you from where you usually are to where we are now: on the threshold of greatness! Who of you out there are not keenly aware of what awaits? Surely, from what you have seen and heard so far tonight, and what you are hearing and seeing right now, surely the incentive of anticipation is running hot in your veins!

[Polite applause]

Projectors are grinding. Black film is running. You can always tell, when you see a few specks appear here and there on the drape that stands before you, like a grand palisade! A trade secret! Looks pretty clean though; brand new print; in 70mm, remember.

Your Wurlitzer, nearing its climax, plays enthrallingly, heightening our passions yet more. Do I see some glistening faces out there? Don’t be ashamed to bawl! If not, because of the soulful notes cast out of yon pipe vents, then might you experience raw emotions from recalling some of the First Act’s more poignant sequences, perhaps?

Now! That wonderful anticipation is back!

Coming up: more motion picture splendor-excitement!

[Intermezzo gives way to a further intermezzo, for fifteen minutes]

Rest for yet a few moments more, before ‘Come! Take up your labors again. We have some way to voyage yet, this night!’

Me? Like I told you before, I tend to like all kinds of pictures, but they better be pretty interesting. I can get mighty sick of a whole bunch of boring gobbledygook, which makes me impatient, and my ass gets saddle-sore. You know? Let’s take a poll: anyone else out there who feels this way? Sore, I mean? Because, Hollywood’s brightest do not! I thought so! But let’s see what we’ve got coming up. It can’t all be tedious.

I guess not! Listen!

A thundering of drums. Let them take you along. A huge gesture of presentation by the host, and then a special-effect comet rises from his hand, and its fiery tail leads in an upward arc across the expanse of the Grand Drape! More than you can thrill to, in private moments! I proclaim: you cannot feel the heights of the Drama higher than you have here, now – and ahead of you!

But uh. I, uh, notice that we have an absolutely packed house. Typical of Sid Grauman! Right Sid? Up there in the far-away, in his private box! Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Sid Grauman! Take a bow, Sid!

[Huge applause and adulation]

Well, that’s great. And another thing, because it’s SRO here, that means that nobody’s walked out. If anything, they’re continuing to press in. Everyone knows this is a night of legend! And I don’t blame anyone. What compels us? Is it the story, or who’s in it, or how it’s done?

I just have to say that, uh, there are so many celebrities and Industry biggies here that when I mention Sid’s name, that’s just starting in the middle of ‘S’, and we could go forward and backward in the alphabet, making everybody stand up in turn! But what the hell? Sid’s presenting this clambake, and I’m your host, so what do you want, anyway?

[Stormy applause]

You know, in Merrie Olde Britain they call an Intermission an Interval. Pearl and Dean then blare their ads in metallic color, and you can see some terrific ads ’n’ offers from both international groove-thangs as well as for local items. But we’re not going to do that sort of thing here tonight. This is Hollywood, and this is a BIG production. There’s just no way around it.

I tell ya, it’s great to see a whole big bunch of you strolling the aisles, getting beverages and other refreshments. Some of you are just promenading and noting the beautiful and artistic aspects of this mammoth and wondrous picture show palace. Certainly, all of you out there in Plush, Folding-Seat Land have been moved in some way by our progress tonight. I believe we are as one mind, come together, and in that way, we shall go forward!

[Approving cheers]

The cymbals crash! The gong sounds! Them’s the cue for the Entr’acte! It is a mighty song! A battleship of a song! Forging ahead in great waves. I’ll not try to compete with it anymore, so while I step aside, gird yourselves for a vast realm of new drama – unlike anything you have seen before. Marvel at its power! And take with you the unforgettable spectrum of life itself! We who live in the Drama and work in the Industry cannot help but spread the majesty of it over all, as if to share the glories of the universe in well-produced doses, so that all may come together in enjoyment under the same truss, which supports the huge dome above. Before this picture resumes, look up! And see, way up there, the expansion of the multitudes of universal communication and focus!

[Appropriate applause]

I yield – and what’s more – with joy!

Vale!

1.

Big Man On Campus

Out of the obscurity of the underbrush, emerging from behind low-hanging boughs, he came, palms spread out in acceptance, head lowered, then raised slightly. It was morning, and opportunities were at hand.

Not that they were in abundance, though. Being back in the cinema metropolis was a sort of… nothing.

The grass was green, the afternoon gentle, with an absence of anything speaking of modern neuroses. Butterbugs strode out into the open, which happened to be the grounds of the University of California at Los Angeles, with some aplomb.

For about a minute.

There was nothing else for it but to find the nearest loo. Remarkable, how few of the homeless seem to take advantage of Academia’s rather easygoing resources. True, your classic derelict tends to stand out. But Butterbugs was at least hip enough to fit into the appropriate demographics of UCLA’s masses. He even blended in.

Almost.

After the shocking business of enacting a street person’s functions at a hard-won facility, he sank upon the rear verandah of Schönberg Hall in exhaustion. He nearly fell down the Janss Steps, but managed to sprawl onto the grassy slope nearby. In between blocks of troubled dozing, he stole glances at cute coeds and husky jocks doing their thing on campus.

‘I am a stranger here,’ he thought, neither for the first nor the last time.

Yet, physically anyway, he was one of them. In mind also – at least theoretically. Depleted, yes, but he could compete! He could! How perfectly he might fit in amongst them, like a lyrical stanza! All he needed was a pat-pat here, a rub-rub there and a trio of clip-clip-clips. Then he’d be in the front of the line, to stand with the rest and the best of them.

Not bad for an out-back kid whose first exposure to highest-ed this was.

No complications, just a streak of hope in the sky of existential reality, perchance to be on the football team or even in the Dramatic Society. They were both performance-oriented endeavors. What’s the difference? What? Well, in Drama he would be able to convey the prospects of his mind, beyond the simplistic display of physicality. So be it, then. If he thought of the latter first, the latter it was. Sport there would always be. Dramatic expression was another matter. Perhaps the opportunity should be grasped, before he forgot what it was he wanted to express. The important thing about emerging at this scholarly Southland ground was that some semblance of thinking was returning to that buzzing and shorting brain of his.

He’d felt the same kinship from the ambience of Westwood Village nearby. But he hadn’t quite been able to shake the notion that having his name up on the marquee of the Bruin theatre would be preferable to fitting in with the everyday student princes and princesses, many of whom filed past in the noontide haze of the campus.

One thing that set him off about this plain of academia: it was anesthetizing. It set him apart from the dogged immediacy of his world of goal-seeking. Universities are well set up for either preparing for the future – or avoiding it. The latter appealed to him most handily at this point in time. How it seduced him, even in his vagrant state!