Scene One:
A small radio-controlled helicopter overflies an herd of Lemmings.

One lemming removes a BB-pistol from somewhere and shoots the RC 'copter down.

Insert of aerial photo of Balmoral during the '62 Fog.

V.O.:

Every generation brings with it a group of disparate individuals, some useful, some useless and some that the others cannot make a decision about, so they just plain ignore them.

Small electric guitar makes an out of tune noise.

Plucking sounds and it is brought into tune.

Distortion kicks in and Mixylodian power chords begin to pour forth repetitively.

An electrified flute joins in, playing arpeggios very near the root of the Guitar Chords.


V.O.:

Reeee Deeee Deee Dee Doy!

Drums, tuned to a B7th chord, begin to play in 11/32nd time (until lunch, that is.)


V.O.:

You ask me if I have Chicago's last twenty-seven albums,

and I tell you that the shoe's on the other foot!

They have my demo tapes in a locked freezer chest,

waiting for nostalgia to kick in,

and the nausea to go away.
Second guitar kicks in, playing reverse arpeggios from the flute. The clink of spectacles is heard in the background.

V.O.:

Nausea-sickness has got an earthquake in my soul,

All this soul food inspector foot printing has taken it's toll.
Female voices from nowhere drop in, tunelessly reprising the dominant note from a Bavarian car alarm at 3PM on a winter's night, two weeks after you bring the baby home. The shotgun is in the corner.

V.O.:

Playing spoons with my emotions,

I don't need no musical lotion.

Gimme a harmonic from the fork in the road,

and get my world back from the thought of a toad!
Drum solo with brushes and maracas