********************

***Winona can play
"The Female Lead"!***

Opening screen, black

A disaffected voice, flat-- as if it is lost somewhere in the middle of a meaningless quest, the existential pall of life

Narration, main character (Andy): "Long ago, far away, before the MTV marketing machines of the world figured out that "ANGST SELLS", there was us. The X'ers. A generation which just kind of "drifted", that felt "passed over" by history in this age of mini-malls and frozen yogurt and 500 channels on cable but having the impression that nothing was freakin' ON. Squeezed out by the Baby-Boomers, who nabbed everything before we were big enough to reach over the table. You know, the spoils. The drumstick. The commanding sense of self-righteousness as they chewed and pointed at you, telling you what was wrong with you and your lot. Well, what are we supposed to say? You know, in an age when apparently all wars were fought? All ideals were dead? And there was nothing left to do but go browsing in the shopping centers that all looked the same, and to trade ironic quips on paved-over consumer culture, and at this point in the narrative, back in the early '90s-- to wonder if this was is there is across these dry, sandy times as we kicked back in the arid desert of modernity. . . . ."

Cut to various shots of what Andy is talking about. A shot of Kurt Cobain bathed in purple light, looking skeletal and wind-blasted on stage. Channel-surfing. The television stops on a vintage technicolor filmstrip of hippies wandering around with signs. A parent eating a drumstick in a 1970's-looking kitchen and lecturing at a hunched-over 12 year-old who looks very small. And so on. . . . . This is to be the style-- narration over imagery

"Listen to this story, one out of many, dear voyeuristic mutant picking through the rubble of a wasted and foregone society, and appreciate the implications:

As this story runs, show a teenager whipping through the grain and laying on his back and looking up at the sky, where a solar eclipse eerily occurs

Cut to shot of--

Andy and his friend Dag are cleaning shot glasses with a cloth in a run-down, "lounge lizard" bar that's a throwback to the 1960's and Bob Hope comedy specials. It's near closing time, and aged, croaky Zsa Zsa Gabor types are wandering around in the clinking, semi-darkness along with an assortment of faded ten-penny lounge lizard types and a weird scattering of bikers, local characters, and misfits. Andy and Dag are nodding politely, mixing drinks, and not saying much. Dag is the zany and impulsive one, and bets Andy $50 that he can get the milling, uninspired crowd to sing "The Flintstones" theme song. Andy doubts this very much, and takes the bet. In no time, to our narrator's surprise, the whole bar is singing this campy 1960's television jingle. The boss, Mr. McArthur, an old, clueless, wheezing guy in his '60s who reminds one of Stan Lee (-- the man who drew the campy "Spiderman" comic books in the 1960's), comes by and slaps Dag on the shoulder approvingly. "Thanks for lightening up my clientele", he says and then wanders off, the camera following his stooped-over hokey energy.

Andy and Dag close up the bar, hang up their aprons, and leave. In the entrance foyer of the bar, over by the glowing cigarette machines, Andy slips Dag a $50 bill. Dag chews it reflectively a couple of times, then swallows. "You are what you eat!". Andy shakes his head, rubbers his eyes around the room, but can appreciate a nihilistic gesture when he sees one.

They walk out to their car, but alas-- once again it won't turn over.

"Well, this is it for the 'poverty jet-set'. I guess we have to walk home. . . . ."

As they walk home, the camera captures the wide open desert of Palm Springs, California and the stars shining above as they have a conversation about fate, and slackerdom, and being caught in the teeth of "McJob's"-- "a low-pay, low-prestige, low-dignity, low-benefit, no-future job in the service sector that's frequently considered a satisfying career choice by people who have never held one", as Andy explains with eloquent snarkiness. Of course our hero mentions that McDonald's would inevitably take umbrage at the fact they used an ironic, unflattering reference to their corporation, and how the company would put out a press release maintaining that "working at McDonald's is a wonderful career option after-all"

Dag throws a stone.

"Oh yeah, those jobs really are fulfilling", swinging his arm with hokey enthusiasm. "So what are they going to do to us, we insignificant insects of anti-consumerism?"

"So sue us, man! The first McDonald's opens in The Soviet Union, and all we have to show for it is a $5/hour job. Plus tips!"

"Well, tips started picking up after I got them to sing about prehistoric BEDROCK. It's all about 'leaving the grind', taking the proverbial grindstone and throwing it out the office skyscraper window"

"Yeah, but think about it, Dag-- are we really working less?"

They come across a silver-gray Mercedes with a bumper-sticker that reads: "WE'RE SPENDING OUR GRANDCHILDREN'S INHERITANCE". "Look at this! I'll show 'em a grindstone, MUTHAFUCKAH!" Dag picks up a boulder and scrapes it over the roof. They then jog back home.

********************

Cut to shot of refrigerator door, and Dag poking his head through the fridge-- grabbing a bottle of vodka and pulling off the romaine leaves. As he does this, he calls out:

"I don't know, Andy-- whether I feel more like I want to get back at some aging dipshit for frittering away my world, or whether I'm pissed off, you know-- that the world has just gotten WAY TOO BIG, like we can't even wrap a lasso around it anymore. Tellin' stories about it, you know what I mean? All we're left with is blips and beeps and chunks and slogans on bumper stickers, and it's like we're missing each other completely. Outside of our little tribe, of course. I mean-- WE KNOW what we're talking about"

Andy sits on the couch with a beer and absorbs this, nodding along as his twin dogs lay at his feet

"Well, if it's of any consolation, you got that motley crew singing along to "The Flintstones". I mean, then again maybe that's part of the problem. The only thing people understand are pop culture references, and not much else. It's definitely kinda anonymous. Folks get in the spirit, point at that little "culture signifier", then go off in 10,000 directions like cherry blossoms in the wind"

Dag sits down with the bottle of vodka and a glass.

"Oh, fuck", he moans-- leaning back with weariness, ready to abandon it all.

"And speaking of "anonymous", you're going to get sick from all those random people handling that $50 bill you devoured a while ago. Why, you'll be shitting nuggets of irony just like you do every night when me, you, and Claire get off work"

Dag snickers

"Well, I always had poor impulse control problems. How did that 'Suicidal Tendencies' song go, when the singer screamed, "I SHOT REAGAN!'?"

All of a sudden the door opens and Claire-- in a black dress-- storms in and announces, with mock brusqueness:

"Date from hell. You could have shot my date. All for the hand of Jodie Foster."

Andy and Dag exchange meaningful glances, eyebrows raised as she goes off into the kitchen to grab herself a drink. She then comes back and plops down on the dog hair-covered short sofa.

"Uh, Claire? Are you sure you want to make a fashion statement with that black dress and all that dog hair on the couch?"

"Fuck it"

"Ravishing. Absolutely ravishing"

"Hey Claire. If your date is too hard to talk about, maybe you can use some little puppets and reenact it for us with a little show"

"Funnee, Dag. Funnee. God. Another bond peddler and another vegetarian dinner of seed bells and Evian water and politely patting my lips with a napkin in front of this asshole. And of course, he was a survivalist too. Spent the whole night talking about moving to Montana to avoid the coming 'meltdown' of society when they start rioting for Chef Boy'r'dee meatballs. Not to mention all the chemicals he's going to put in his gas tank to keep it from decomposing when we're running around in this sort of 'Mad Max' existence"

Andy and Dag are snickering

"An uptight yuppie survivalist. Oh, the living end! Does it get any worse?"

"Yeah, frankly it does. We were driving down Highway 111 in Cathedral City and I saw this store that sells chickens in the window that have been taxidermied. Just kind of standing there, stuffed, looking really cute. I really, really wanted one, and told him to stop, but he said "Now Claire you don't need a chicken,' to which I said, 'That's not the point, lame date. The point is that I want a chicken.' Then he started giving me this hideously boring lecture on how the only reason I wanted a stuffed chicken is because they look so good in a shop window, and that the moment I brought it home, I'd start dreaming up ways to ditch it. True enough. But then I tried to explain to him that stuffed chickens and freshness and novelty are what life and new relationships are all about, but he just refused to 'get it'"

"Stuffed chickens? I never pegged you as the morbid type. Can you eat it?"

"Not unless you want a mouth full of embalming fluid, you jerk!", Claire swats at Dag. "How do you ever expect to get into a relationship?"

"Try the morgue. . . . . get a mouth full of embalming fluid" Dag says with a straight face.

"God. Give this boy a lobotomy. Just like Frances Farmer!".

Cut to shot of the moon in sky, suggesting the passage of time

Now, Andy is sitting outside the bungalow complex alone on a reclining lawn chair, the twin dogs sitting at his feet. His friends come out to join him. The sky begins to lighten, and all five of them (-- including the dogs) look towards the sunrise in the distance, which hangs there beautifully

"You notice how everything seems to be 'from hell' these days?', Andy asks with wonder. "Dates? Jobs? Parties? Weather? It's like we were all promised something else, but ended up with this"

"But it's nice to watch the sunrise", Claire says in a sing-song voice.

"What do you think of when you see the sun? Quick. Before you think about it too much and kill your response. Be honest, be like-- gruesome. Claire, you go first"

As he says this, the dogs run off-screen with a "woolf!"

"Well, Dag. I see a farmer in Russia, and he's driving a tractor in a wheat field, but the sunlight's gone bad on him-- sort of like the fadedness of a black-and-white picture in an old Life magazine. And something else weird is happening: instead of sunbeams, the sun is giving off the odor of old Life magazines, and the stink-- the staleness-- is killing his crops. The farmer is hunched over his tractor and he's crying. The wheat-- his wheat-- is dying of history poisoning"

"Good Claire. Very bizarre. And Andy? How about you?"

"Let me think a second"

"Well, alright then. I'll go instead. When I think of the sun, I think of a West Coast surf bunny, eighteen years old, maybe, somewhere on the beach, looking down and discovering her first cancerous lesion on her skin, right on her shin-- where it's going to eat her whole with chemotherapy and bald-headedness. She's frenetically clawing around with panic and is already plotting how she's going to steal Valiums from her mother. Now you tell me, Andy, what do you think of when you see the sun?"

Andy shrugs and grins:

"Actually, I think of tangerine trees and lazy butterflies and fat carp bubblin' around in a muddy pond"

Claire rolls her eyes:

"Man, it's not healthy to live life as a succession of isolated little cool moments. Either our lives become stories, or there's just no way to get through them"

The dogs come back with torn red plastic disposal bags in their mouths, a yellow cottage cheese-like guck on their nostrils. It turns out to be yuppie liposuction fat from a cosmetic surgery center up the street. Andy, Dag, and Claire recoil back in disgust

"That was definitely not a cool moment", Dag announces ironically with a straight face