I really don't see where anything more need be said.

In honor of their 25th anniversary and their new album "Back From the Dead," just released last month, Spinal Tap is asking the fans to get involved.

David St. Hubbins, Derek Smalls and Nigel Tufnel of Spinal Tap are inviting fans to create an original video to be posted on YouTube for one of the following songs off of their album BACK FROM THE DEAD — Hell Hole, Warmer Than Hell, Big Bottom, Stonehenge, Back From The Dead and/or Short & Sweet. Judging the contest, will be Colman Hickey, who created the classic video for Tonight I'm Gonna Rock You Tonight using characters made of Legos.

One lucky winner will receive an autographed, limited edition Spinal Tap prize pack!

No idea what the autographed prize pack consists of, but what the hell. More details available at YouTube and you can see a sample contest entry here.

Also they've produced an official Spinal Tap iPhone app. Listen to music, watch videos, get the latest Tap news, and see what other fans are writing on their wall. Free app, but it looks like you'll need to be connected to get anything from it so put it on the phone or keep your iPod Touch near a wifi connection.

If you haven't picked up the new CD "Back From the Dead," you should. Amazon has it for just $10.99 and you get 19 original songs, a one-hour DVD, and a "unique pop-up diorama package that unveils three 12-inch action figures (courtesy of Sideshow Collectibles) of the band along with a proportionally sized Stonehenge." What's not to love?

It's about time for a new Weird Al song, and he doesn't disappoint. Already available at various online outlets like  iTunes and Rhapsody, but I favor Amazon since there's no DRM on it. You can also buy the video you just saw.

This drove me nuts trying to identify the specific Doors song he's doing, but it's actually one of the style parodies he does sometimes, aided by original Doors keyboardist Ray Manzarek. Nicely done, sir. Just how much hootch did you have to suck down to get the mannerisms right?

Read the first chapter!

=====================

"Lightning" by Lizabeth Powers

Chapter One:

I approached my new school with trepidation borne from past experience. No point in trying to fit in, as my alabaster hair and waifish looks automatically kept me from fitting in to any of the established cliques. My stylish clothes wouldn't fit in here, nor would my professional hair style or my curiously clear teenage skin. I didn't know what the kids at this school would be like, but as my own interests included reading books and brooding I was sure we'd have nothing at all in common.

My mom was oblivious to my concerns, as usual, even though I had provided her with a cross-referenced list (with footnotes), and she kept jabbering on about how we'd make a new life here and how she was sure the new meds would do the trick. I fairly leapt from the car. Around me crowds of teenagers were swarming toward the school. They all knew each other from birth, obviously, and I could see several of them glancing at me. Suddenly I was even more aware of my hideous appearance. I held my books up flat in front of my face and walked on, accepting the occasional fall or brick wall collision as fair payment for my anonymity.

The first few classes were a nightmare. All of the boys – and a few of the girls – kept staring at me the whole time with hungry expressions. Were they so eager to start making fun of me? Six different guys, two girls, and one teacher asked me out for that weekend but I knew they were mocking me so I simply fled.

In the cafeteria I sat with some of my new friends: Marc, the captain of the local pitchfork-hurling team, who kept asking me to go to a movie with him; Alyssa, his girlfriend, who was so friendly and open she kept finding reasons to brush her hand across my face and upper body, and Jimbo, who kept drawing my face in his notebook over and over and asking me what I thought about high school marriages. Oh, when would I ever find someone who liked me?

Then I saw him. Over against the wall, at a table by himself, was one boy like no other. He was easily 7 feet tall, looming over the rest of us like a god looking out over the world he has created. His noble brow and piercing gaze captured my heart instantly, and I found myself shamelessly looking him up and down. An intricate network of scars crisscrossed his skin, which was the color of the sea after a storm, and I was possessed of an overwhelming desire to trace those scars with my trembling fingers. His manly jaw hung slightly slack, and his deep black eyes stared into a distance I could not fathom. Everything about him was amazing. His powerful chest spoke of strength, his broad shoulders spoke of responsibility, the body mods at his neck – a pair of matched bolts – spoke of a taste for the exotic, and the way he was methodically shoving what looked like a quarter of a sheep into his mouth told me he was a man of powerful appetites but rigid self-control. I half-heartedly tried to get his attention by flinging a fork at him, but it bounced off his thick forehead without his notice.

"Ah, Rosamont has found her new love!" Alyssa joked, toying with a strand of my hair.

"Seriously, you like Francis?" Marc asked incredulously, surreptitiously trying to peek down my blouse (trying to see what cheap knock-off label I was wearing, no doubt).

"Francis?" I was imagining his hands on me, holding me the way he was holding the sheep's bloody haunch. I didn't want my new friends to get the wrong idea, so I decided to be subtle. "What's his story and everything about him?" I asked nonchalantly, turning on my voice recorder and nudging it in their direction.

Jimbo looked up from the drawing of me as Worshipful Goddess he was doodling on his geometry book. "Him? He's a whack-job, Rose. Never talks to anyone, even if you hit him with your car."

"Dr. Enstein, the local coroner, adopted him last year out of the blue," Alyssa said. She was licking her lips and unbuttoning my top buttons, probably to button them again correctly. Damn my ill-fitting, off-the-rack clothing! No one was ever gong to like me this way! "Around November, right honey?"

"Yeah," Marc said, stroking my leg. "About a month after those four kids from Chichester got killed in a car wreck and all their bodies went missing. Weirdest thing."

"Does he have no friends, then?" I asked tremulously.

"Not that survived, no."

My heart beat wildly. I could be his friend! I, who would never find love or attention otherwise, could get close to him, learn his secrets, touch that amazing chest that I couldn't stop thinking or writing about. Immediately I stood, inadvertently flinging Alyssa backwards, and strode over to where Francis sat. He had emptied the contents of his lunch pail and had just compacted that to pop into his mouth. He chewed reflectively.

"Hello," I said shyly. "I am Rosamont Velicia Harmony. I don't mean to intrude, but I'm imagining stroking your bare chest even as you struggle to control your wild passions to a nonthreatening boyfriend level. How are you, and have you begun looking into my very soul yet?"

Francis continued to look straight ahead with a glassy stare. Was there an electrical spark dancing around his neck bolts, or was I dreaming it? Stray bits of metal shavings fell from his lush, full lips. His hands fascinated me with the way the skin color and hair patterns changed abruptly at the wrist scars. A tantalizing scent of bodily decay wafted from his clothing, the many wrinkles of which were filled with rich soil.

"Aren't there any deep, dark secrets you've concealed for years that I could discover with my singular, inventive brain, which I would then keep to myself forever?" I asked urgently. "Or preferences in girls which have gone utterly unfulfilled until I miraculously came along?"

Francis remained oblivious to my pleas, and the way I was crawling across his body like a helper monkey. Was I so hideous, that this teenage Adonis could not deign to acknowledge me? I looked back over to the table where my new friends were holding up a "We Love You Rosamont!" banner. I would never fit in here, I knew it. Already I was longing to get home so I could have a good cry and a cut or three…

Suddenly Francis stood, effortlessly carrying me with him and also tipping the table over with unnatural strength. With the speed of thought with which I am blessed, I realized that this was no ordinary boy, especially after he tossed me into the salad bar and turned to walk through the concrete wall. He turned back to peer through the wreckage and, for the first time, made eye contact with me. From twenty feet away I felt our hearts mush together. And he spoke.

"UHHHHuuuuuhhhhhhhh!" he told me, the ring of sincerity in every syllable, and he lumbered off toward the gymnasium, where students and faculty were frantically trying to bar the doors.

I watched him go, concrete dust streaming from his attractively flat head, and plotted how to become emotionally entwined with him forever…

===========================

Already optioned for a three-movie picture deal, TV series, spin-off book deal, and billion-dollar merchandise contract, "Lightning" is the hottest thing you'll ever be embarassed to read!

Coming soon.

CROWE: Hi, I'm Mick Crowe. And this is my job.

CUT TO: Opening sequence shows CROWE performing different disgusting jobs: sewage pumping, collecting soil samples in a swamp as an alligator approaches, greasing up competitive bodybuilders, working in a high school cafeteria, etc. Over this is the show logo: "FILTHY JOBS with Mick Crowe."

CROWE (V.O.): I travel the world to find hard-working men and women who do the jobs that make life easier for the rest of us. Now get ready… to get filthy.

CUT TO: CROWE walking through an elegantly-appointed hallway. He talks to the camera as we follow him past offices and busy employees.

CROWE: You may be noticing I look a little different today. Usually I'd be in old jeans, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap bearing the name of whatever hapless company whose productivity I would be ruining that day for our show. This job has a different dress code, but trust me, it's one of the filthiest jobs I've ever taken on.

CROWE arrives at a polished oak door. On it is a small gold sign: "MIGHTY MOGUL ENTERTAINMENT, CEO."

CROWE: Today, I'm a studio executive.

He walks through the door. Inside is a sumptuous office, filled with tasteful furniture and a small fountain. There is a string quartet playing soft music in one corner. At the far end is a desk the size of a Buick and a smiling, middle-aged man. The floor is littered with loose cash, which CROWE shuffles through like autumn leaves. Faint strike slogans can be heard from outside. CROWE stops and gestures to the man.

CROWE: This is Austin MacFeady, CEO of Mighty Mogul Entertainment here in Los Angeles. Mighty Mogul produces movies and television shows for the Gimme! Network, and —

ASSISTANT: I'm sorry, sir. I'm Mr. MacFeady's assistant. He's in an executive meeting, but you can go right in.

CROWE: Oh, right. Thank you.

CUT TO: A magnificent boardroom. It's dark, lit only by the roaring fire in the middle that casts flickering lights on the heavy tapestries and assorted gold decorations on the walls. Six or seven men in suits are sprawled around the fire across silk pillows, laughing and yelling to each other. MACFEADY is seated above them. CROWE enters but is pushed aside by barely-clad reality show contestants bearing trays of fruit and a roasted ox.

CROWE: Hi, I'm Mick —

STUDIO EXEC 1: (yelling) MacFeady! What is best in life?

MACFEADY: To crush the union, cancel their development deals and hear the lamentations of their strike leaders!

The STUDIO EXECS laugh uproariously and continue drinking.

MACFEADY: Mick! Glad you could join us. These are the heads of some of the other studios, we were just talking about the writers' strike.

CROWE: Let's get that out of the way. Why are the writers on strike, anyway?

MACFEADY: That's a very complicated matter, with valid points on both sides, that requires a great deal of explanation, Mick. But what it all boils down to is that they want to cripple the entertainment industry and the entire economy of California to serve their master, Satan.

The STUDIO EXECS all mutter and spit on the floor.

CROWE: I don't recall seeing that on any of their flyers, Austin.

MACFEADY: No, they talk about "residuals" and "New Media" and "percentages" and other words that no one's ever heard of. That's the thing with writers, they make stuff up. "Fair compensation," what's that?

CROWE: I believe they're asking that the 22-year-old residual rate for DVDs be increased, that they get a fair percentage of the profits from online broadcast and productions, and union jurisdiction over animation and reality shows. That sound about right?

MACFEADY: Probably. Who cares? C'mon, have a seat.

CROWE: I don't mean to interrupt, but why exactly can't you give the writers a percentage of the online profits? Isn't broadcasting their work online the same as broadcasting it on TV?

The STUDIO EXECS all laugh.

STUDIO EXEC 2: It's completely and totally different.

CROWE: How?

ALL THE STUDIO EXECS: When we rerun the show online we get to keep all the money.

They laugh again. Several deliver high fives.

STUDIO EXEC 2: No, seriously, when it's online it's not a rerun. It's promotional.

CROWE: An entire episode? If viewers can watch the whole show, what are you promoting?

STUDIO EXEC 4: Toyotas.

STUDIO EXEC 3: And since everything is moving towards online distribution, we're looking at a huge savings down the road.

CROWE: But doesn't that mean the writers will be seeing a drastic cut in their income?

STUDIO EXEC 2: Yeah, but that part's just funny.

MACFEADY: Enough talk. Mick? Time to get to work.

The reality show contestants begin to dance.

CUT TO: The administrator's office. MACFEADY and CROWE come out. Loud laughing and music can be heard before the door closes again.

CROWE: So, what do we do first?

MACFEADY: Well, our usual schedule has been changed because of the writers' strike, but I'm sure we can find something for you to do. (laughs heartily)

CROWE: This is where the magic happens, huh?

MACFEADY: Right here is where I make all of our shows and movies.

CROWE: You, personally?

MACFEADY: Couldn't happen without me. I pick and choose the projects and talent, and I guide them to successful releases. At heart, I'm an artist.

CROWE: When you say you guide them, what does that mean?

MACFEADY holds out his hand; his assistant slaps a script into it.

MACFEADY: Here's a spec script for a new series we stashed away before the strike started. It's an adventure series about an old guy who's tracking down the men who killed his wife 20 years ago, trying to get them all before he dies of cancer. Make it happen!

CROWE: Really? OK, I guess first I'd find a director with a distinctive style who can shoot both action and emotional scenes. Then I'd talk to him about the right actor, maybe someone in his 60s who would really sell it to the audience. Then I'd talk to the actor and the writer to start developing the story arc …

MACFEADY: Whoa, no, no. The first thing you do is check the demographics.

CROWE: The what?

MACFEADY: You pick the advertisers you want, you find out which demographics they want to hit — age, income, gender, whatever — and you make a show that gives it to them. Who's looking for a show?

ASSISTANT: Apple.

MACFEADY: Apple? Forget the old guy. Old people don't buy Macs. Make him 20. And no cancer, cancer depresses people. Say he's got to find all those guys in a year and if he does, it brings his wife back to life.

CROWE: How?

MACFEADY: I'm a writer? Let them figure it out. Actually, let's make the guy a chick, action chicks are hot now. She'll need to be 18, though, 20's too old for a chick. And she has to find and kill all these guys in a year to get back her dead boyfriend. That gives us a season.

ASSISTANT: Money in the bank.

CROWE: What about next season?

MACFEADY: You kidding? It'll probably get cancelled long before that. If we need to we can always kill him again and start over. But we need a hook.

CROWE: Um, how about she tracks the guys down, but she falls in love with one of them? Then she'd be conflicted, and —

MACFEADY: She's a stripper!

ASSISTANT: Perfect, Mr. M.!

CROWE: What?

MACFEADY: That's how she makes her money, traveling around to strip clubs, maybe with her blind twin sister and a dog. That way we get her half-naked most of the time, that's another 5 shares right there, we get the sensitivity points and the dog lovers, and at the end of the show viewers go to iTunes to buy the music she was stripping to. Apple will walk over their grandmothers to get this!

ADMINISTRATOR: Genius, Mr. M.

CROWE: Is there somewhere I can wash my hands? I feel a little —

MACFEADY: Now we need the talent. And you know how we choose that, of course.

CROWE: Based on previous success and ability?

MACFEADY: Based on who we have development deals with. Pick a director, pick a star or two, just grab 'em at random. I use darts, myself. The best part is that whatever they did before, the media will be all "ooh, a new direction" and "a bold choice." But right now, of course, the strike is paralyzing us so we can't get any writers or actors to cross the picket lines. That means we have some hard work ahead of us.

CROWE: Ah, we're going to negotiate with the Writers Guild. I was hoping I'd get a chance to —

MACFEADY: No, Mick. We have something far more important to do.

CUT TO: A large room full of desks, where people are feverishly typing. All of them look grim, many of them look as though they've been there for days at a time. Several are weeping as they type. One of them can be seen rubbing soap in his eyes, screaming and then bending back to his keyboard, enraged. CROWE and MACFEADY enter.

MACFEADY: This is the PR Pit, or the sock puppet room. Go on, give it a shot. Here, you'll want this bucket.

CROWE: Sure thing. Should I know what I'm doing? I don't usually (mugs to the camera), just thought I'd ask.

MACFEADY: This is where we tirelessly work to counteract the bad PR from the writers' strike by going to each and every article, forum or blog that's talking about the strike and posting comments.

CROWE: Comments that explain your position clearly and reasonably?

MACFEADY: Comments that accuse the Writers Guild of America of incompetence, malfeasance, and, when appropriate, necrobestiality. And we pretend to be writers ourselves, so people believe it.

CROWE: Well, I'm here to get filthy. What do I do?

MACFEADY: Let's see … here we go. Here's an article from a respected source about how what the WGA wants would cost us less than what we paid to get rid of a single disgraced CEO last year. Get in there and comment, Mick!

CROWE: Should I say I'm me, or —

MACFEADY: No, no. Go with "Anonymous" or "Starving Writer with Leukemia." Here's some sample phrases, just mix and match.

CROWE: Right. "I can't believe anyone is buying this. I know every single writer in Hollywood personally and they all think the WGA negotiators are ignorant greedheads who step on babies. Give it up and go back to work. If the multizillionaire writers weren't so greedy we'd all be working now and animated birds would sing to us. Love, Anonymous." Is that … is that … ulp…

MACFEADY: Great!

CROWE leans over and throws up into the bucket. MACFEADY laughs.

MACFEADY: They all do that the first time, Mick, don't worry about it.

MACFEADY grabs CROWE's arm and drags him out of the room.

CUT TO: The hallway, where CROWE is wiping his mouth.

CROWE: And that helps?

MACFEADY: Every poll shows the viewing public is behind the writers, and we need to bring that down a bit. Good negotiating strategy, and we hired the best and most expensive public relations people in the business to do it.

CROWE: But why attacks? Why not just explain your side?

MACFEADY: Turns out that "we don't wanna" isn't really defensible. But we have our reasons.

CUT TO: Another large room, filled with hundred of massive tubes extending from the three-story-high ceiling. Money is spouting from the tubes into large bins with digital counters on the sides. MACFEADY walks up to one marked "NIGHTMARE EYES III."

MACFEADY: See this movie?

CROWE: "Nightmare Eyes"? Yeah, that was great. Didn't it make a couple hundred million last year?

MACFEADY: And here's what the writer gets.

MACFEADY reaches down to the coin dish on the side of the bin, where he scoops up some change.

MACFEADY: See? Perfectly fair.

MACFEADY walks to another door and opens it to reveal a man dressed in rags, shivering in the cold. Behind him are a woman and two children. One of the children sneezes. MACFEADY hands him the change, slams the door and turns back to CROWE.

MACFEADY: Now if we doubled it, I'd have to walk over there twice as often. Do I look like I have that kind of time, Mick?

CROWE: But studios heads make tens of millions of dollars a year in salary, target bonuses and stock options. Couldn't you take a smaller percentage of the profits yourself, leaving more money for the writers, actors, directors and production crews who make the shows and movies that are making you rich?

MACFEADY stares at him.

CROWE: OK, forget that. What about residuals for online broadcasts? I know you've said that the Web is too new and you can't predict how it will do, but all of you have bragged to your stockholders about the millions you've been making from online distribution. Wouldn't it be ethical to share that success with the people who made it possible?

MACFEADY stares at him.

CROWE: I see.

MACFEADY: I'm not sure you really… (his phone rings) Hang on. Yes? They did what? Seriously? Were hostages involved? Their children were threatened, was that it? Keep on it and keep me posted. (he hangs up) Damn! A strike development.

CROWE: Something bad?

MACFEADY: Yes. Something was negotiated, with the directors' guild. How could they have let that happen? We actually agreed on something! Someone over there is thinking long term and I don't like it one bit. Apparently some of the other studio heads have been going around being reasonable behind our backs. Gotta be Chernin and Iger, they had that look…

CROWE: Isn't this good? I mean, now you can work out a fair and equitable deal with the writers. Everyone wins, right?

MACFEADY: Yeah, probably. Fun while it lasts, though. It's, what, 10:30? C'mon, time for the scab fight.

CROWE: The–

MACFEADY: Picture it. Big arena. Thousands of screaming onlookers. Two desperate writers, armed only with G-2 Pro ballpoint pens, battling it out for supremacy. The survivor gets to work anonymously writing late night monologues. We're thinking of taping it and running it on Sunday nights. It's in Sound Stage 3, if we hurry we can see the ritual bloodletting!

CROWE: I'm Mick Crowe, with "Filthy Jobs." We'll be right back. Darsky? Guys? Can you help scrub this stuff off me? It's getting into my soul …

MACFEADY: Afterwards you can hose their shattered dreams off the floor. Better hang on to that bucket.

EXT: NIGHT. We're on a dark, dirty street, looking over a trench-coated shoulder at a body spilling out of an overturned trashcan. Clumps of green fur are everywhere. Lightning turns the scene into a stark, black and white nightmare.

FROG: He wasn't much of a friend, but me and him were here from the beginning and that's important and now he's gone and I have to do something about it, something loud and violent and messy. No sunny days, not anymore. I've been a reporter, a TV show host, and a banjo-player, but now I'm vengeance.

In the alleyway nearby, a 7-foot bird sobs over a large, dark mound. Tears streak down his insane yellow face as he mutters.

BIRD: You can see him, can't you? Everyone can see him now, so why isn't he breathing? Snuffy? You can see him, right? Right?

FROG: I was wrong, it wasn't murder. It was war. Or maybe muppecide. I don't know how many are already down, but I know one thing for sure–

Lightning cuts across the sky with a loud crack.

FROG: –someone out there is keeping count.

BIRD: Who are you talking to?

INT: BASEMENT APARTMENT. The door slams open to reveal Frog in a wicked cool dramatic pose with those big black and white stripes you get from blinds, you know?

FROG: Been a while, Ern.

ERN: I guess.

FROG: Talk to me, Ern? Where is everybody? What's happened?

Ern leans forward and puts his head in his hands. A rubber duck falls to the floor.

ERN: Dead. All dead.

FROG: What?

ERN: All of 'em. Remember Roosevelt Franklin? Just disappeared one day. Guy Smiley? Gangland shooting. Harvey Kneeslapper got compacted in the same "industrial accident" that got Sam the Robot and the talking typewriter. Don Music? Drive by. Forgetful Jones? Forgot to duck.

FROG: What about the police?

ERN: Heh. Sherlock Hemlock was on the case but he got taken out when The Amazing Mumford exploded.

FROG: What about you two? Where's–

ERN: He went out for more oatmeal.

A scream shatters the night.

ERN: I told him not to, but he never listens to me…

EXT: NIGHT. Frog crashes through the window with a spray of glittering glass, although since it's a basement window it's really not that impressive. A caped figure stands there, holding a limp figure by its striped shirt. The inevitable lightning outlines his shadowed, um, outline, leaving him black but for the red sash across his stuffed chest.

COUNT: Three! Three dead victims! Ah ha ha ha ha ha!

He's still laughing when Frog takes him down with a brutal and frankly pretty gross attack.

FROG: One of these things is not like the other, fangface. I'm the one that's still alive. You don't hang around Piggy for twenty years without learning something. And now I've got some errands to run. A loaf o' bread, a container o' milk, a stick o' butter, and revenge.

INT: HOOPER'S STORE. Shelves and counters have been pushed aside to make room for a nightmarish torture chamber. There are bodies everywhere, on the floor and chained to the walls. One looks up wearily through matted blue fur.

BODY: (weakly) Heeeyyy, Kermeeee babeeeee…

FROG: The stink of melting polystyrene fills the nostrils I don't have. There's only one creature cruel and ambitious enough to do this, and I hope he's in a ticklish mood.

A high-pitched voice comes from the darkness.

ELMO: Hee hee! You shouldn'tna come back, Frog. Shoulda stuck with your show and your movies and left Elmo his world. It's Elmo's now, you know. Ha ha ha, hee hee! No more humans and monsters and togetherness and problem-solving and skits that make you think. Just Elmo, Elmo's goldfish, and Elmo's merchandising empire. Oh, and Zoe, here, of course. Ha ha ha!

Out of the shadows steps a small girl wearing a tutu and a katana. She steps easily into a Chudan no Kamae stance and prepares to attack.

FROG: It's not easy, being vengeance…

NEXT ISSUE: THE RED MENACE

Thompson's deranged prose changed the face of journalism. Where other reporters crouched at the marble altar of aloof objectivity, Thompson helped pioneer "gonzo" journalism that demanded the reporter force himself into the story's bloody body cavity and cover it from the inside even as it died a horrible, spastic death from his thrashing. Reckless? Unethical? Sure. But his writing had a fever-dream intensity that plain old "accurate" reporting simply can't match.

His books astounded and inspired me with their sheer audacity. How could I sit there Googling for Oscar FAQs when he would have been out there savagely ripping the truth from the shrieking, Botoxed lips of Hollywood itself? Did I really want to settle for less?

By six o'clock Monday morning I was staggering out of Los Angeles International Airport where the truth was waiting at the curb, ready to mug me and leave me naked and helpless among the ferocious timber wolves of the Topanga hills.

***

"I don't know anything! I don't even like movies! I only watch public-supported television!"

It was obvious he was hiding something but I didn't have enough time to starve him properly. It would have to be torture. I used my fourteenth 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew to wash down another fistful of Flintstone Chewables, for courage. I could feel one of my eyes spinning, counterclockwise this time, but I couldn't let it distract me.

The Academy Awards ceremony was to be held at the Kodak Theater at Hollywood and Highland, an imposing edifice that has hosted such gala events as the Moscow Stanislavsky Ballet, the American Idol finals, and concerts by Celine Dion and Barry Manilow. Even in the parking garage below I could feel it sucking at my very soul.

There were no velvet ropes outside yet but hopefuls were already lining up in neat rows, just in case some celebrities might decide to swing by six days early. For a wild moment I considered trying to pass myself off as James Lipton but I feared kidnapping.

Instead I lured a valet with promises of free bowling passes and then duct-taped him to a column. I was prepared to spend days breaking his spirit, with ice water and jumper cables if necessary, but we both knew I was doing him a favor. His mind was nearly crushed already from the weight of oppressive actor egos and unyielding auteur demands. Who knows what sort of loathsome detritus he'd seen while parking celebrity SUVs? He'd have been dead by Thursday if I hadn't come along, dead and dumped in the Bahia de los Angeles where crab-covered personal trainers bump gently against the rocks by the truckload.

"Answer my questions and I'll let you go," I lied. I guzzled the rest of my Dew quickly before the quarter pound of Pop Rocks I'd poured in there could stop fizzing.

"I don't understand…"

The words on my question list were blurry but that might have been the vitamins. Apparently the Wilmas were stronger than the Barneys, an odd gender reversal I didn't have time to explore. "Who has the most acting nominations? Answer me, you fiend!"

"I don't know! You're crazy! Help! Police!"

I hit him with the Mountain Dew bottle. It was empty so it bounced, but the intent got across. "Tell me! I command you!" I raised the plastic bottle again for a killing strike.

Suddenly he looked at me with the stricken eyes of the damned. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I had connected to the intelligence controlling him, and now I had to ride the tiger before I was dragged to death behind him. "Most nominations," I urged through clenched teeth.

"Meryl Streep," he spat. "13. But Katharine Hepburn holds the distinction of most wins with four Leading Actress Oscars."

"And the first ceremony?" I demanded, relentless. It was working! This column would blow the cover off the Oscars and then all my editor's talk of expense account abuse and litigation would melt away like spring snow. "When was it? You must answer! The social contract demands it!"

"May 16, 1929, with Academy president Douglas Fairbanks, Sr handing out all the awards." The valet cackled slyly. "Things were different then."

I heard a rustle behind me and I spun to see the members of the Academy, all 5,700 of them, standing around me in gold and scarlet robes. I had miscalculated, badly. I should have remembered that there are no humans left in Los Angeles who are not in the entertainment business. Roaming bands of feral actors swarm through the city, fighting to the death to read for a bit part in a Jack Nicholson picture lest they be banished to dinner theater, never to be heard from again. And I had just poked the Beast underneath its own temple of self-worship.

"He almost got away!" I screamed, and pointed back at the snarling valet. "He was going to spill the beans about where the name 'Oscar' came from!"

As one they turned on the hapless flunky and I bolted, throwing myself down the hall to escape their slavering teeth and A-list claws. I heard explosions behind me but I dared not pause. Instead I leapt into my rental car and sped off towards the airport, leaving my notes, my pharmaceuticals, and my gonzohood behind.

I heard later from my sources that I had been inadvertently aided by Jim Carrey's daring kamikaze raid on the building, a bold attempt to take by force the statuette he feared they'd never relinquish peacefully. There was a story there, but it wasn't for me. Hunter S. Thompson was a twisted genius who made gonzo journalism look easy.

Me, I'll stick with Google.

LUCIUS: I thought I had a good life, I truly did. And I've found the perfect man in Dominic. [The camera focuses on a portrait of Dominic. He is pleasant looking and trim.] We've been just darling for each other, but lately he's been drifting away from me. I'm afraid I'm just not… masculine… enough for him. I've heard rumors he's been seen hanging around biker bars and Young Republican rallies, and I'm terrified I'll lose him. [The camera returns to Lucius, who looks imploringly at us.] Please help me become more manly?

[Instantly the screen explodes with the stylized logo: a chrome wrench smashed through a beer can. The call goes out and we are introduced to the F-ed-Up Five: Tom, who's in charge of grooming (he's seen digging intently at something in his ear, with a barbecue fork), Dave, the interior decorator (as he pushes more dirty clothing under his bed until it achieves vertical), Meat, the chef (seen pouring chili sauce into a bag of potato chips), Vinnie, who handles fashion (pictured making an original design by scrawling "I'd Like To Bang" in marker on a Britney Spears t-shirt), and Pete, the culture guy (shown at a strip club shoving the dancer out of the way so he can see the game). The Five shamble down the street towards us, belching, until Pete kicks the camera over.

We cut to the Five climbing into a decrepit Ford truck (after a brief fistfight for "shotgun") and driving off in a cloud of thick black smoke.

Lucius is picking nervously at the weave on his futon when a horrendous crash and oddly harmonious tinkle accompany a loud knocking. He opens the door to see Tom, Dave, Meat, and Vinnie push their way in. Pete is still on the porch in a life-or-death struggle with the wind chimes.]

DAVE: So you're him, huh? Christ.

MEAT: We may have to tear him down and build from scratch.

MEAT: (offscreen, from inside the kitchen) His spices are alphabetized!

LUCIUS: Would you like to sit down?

DAVE: Hell no, I'm afraid the couch'll shatter. Where do you crash?

LUCIUS: Crash?

DAVE: Sleep, jack off, throw up, you know. The bedroom.

LUCIUS: Oh, of course. Right through there.

[Dave disappears down the hallway. Crashing noises are heard. Lucius turns in time to see Pete ball up the remains of the chimes and drop-kick them into the street.]

LUCIUS: Excuse me?

PETE: Goal! Three points, and the Indians win the Superbowl!

TOM: Nice one!

LUCIUS: Aren't they a baseball team?

[Pete and Tom smile slowly at Lucius.]

PETE: Good man. This won't be as hard as I thought.

[Lucius returns a hesitant smile which fades when more crashing is heard from the bedroom. A scream is heard and Dave appears, walking quickly, as if fleeing a bomb site.]

VINNIE: Cockroaches?

DAVE: No. I found his porn stash. There were no women involved.

VINNIE: Yikes. Soothe yourself, my man.

[Dave hurries over to Lucius's home theater system and flips channels until he finds a beer commercial, at which point he heaves a deep sigh and watches intently. Confused and embarrassed, Lucius jumps when Meat comes up behind him.]

MEAT: We need to talk. Come in the kitchen. First of all, what is this?

LUCIUS: Spices shouldn't be alphabetized?

MEAT: You shouldn't have enough to need to. You need a big thing o' salt, a can of pepper, some steak sauce, and ketchup, and that'll handle any seasoning job you'll ever have. There's only one time in your life when you're allowed to act like you're using secret herbs and spices.

LUCIUS: When's that?

MEAT: When you barbecue. Every guy acts like he has the greatest secret homemade barbecue sauce in the world.

LUCIUS: And is it?

MEAT: Nah. Ketchup and steak sauce, with some pepper. Maybe a little salt. That's what you're gonna do tonight, is barbecue dinner for your DummDumm guy.

LUCIUS: Dominick?

MEAT: Whatever. While you're busy here, I'll go out and get the steaks. Easy tip for always getting the right cut of meat?

LUCIUS: Yes?

MEAT: Just buy the biggest and most expensive one. Bound to be good. See ya.

[There has been a steady crashing sound in the background, like a slow garbage compactor. Lucius hurries out to see what's going on and faints dead away. The living room has been transformed, or possibly devolved. Somehow Dave has managed to fill the futon with piles of dirty laundry. There are Playmate posters on the wall, several bags of chips and Cheetos wedged between the couch cushions for easy access, and the makings of an impressive beer can pyramid arising on the coffee table. Even the white carpet has been made somehow darker, with an oily sheen to it. Dave is sprawled across the laundry, trimming his toenails, while Vinnie is reaching under Dave for clothes to examine and discard. Both of them stop what they're doing to watch Lucius drop.

DAVE: Cool, he likes it.

[Commercials: Briggs & Stratton Engines, Remington, and Budweiser.]

[Lucius wakes up in his bedroom, although it takes him a few minutes to place it.]

LUCIUS: Wha… what happened to my things?

DAVE: First off, guys don't have "things." Guys have stuff, or shit. Second, I tossed it.

LUCIUS: It took me years to collect those, uh, shit.

DAVE: And that's another thing. Guys don't collect stuff. Stuff just kinda collects around guys. Although you can have baseball cards if you kept the ones you had as a kid, and having a full run of Playboy is just good common sense. Tell me, Lucius. How many hours a week do you spend doing housework?

LUCIUS: Goodness, I… I mean, aw, hell, I don't know. Four or five?

DAVE: Oh, man! Think of all that TV time wasted! Look, that pile over in the corner looks bad, right?

LUCIUS: That's my spring wardrobe!

DAVE: Sure. Anyway, it looks messy, right?

LUCIUS: Yes!

DAVE: So you kick it around a little. See, now that I've spread it evenly around the room, it doesn't look as bad, does it?

LUCIUS: I guess not…

DAVE: Anyone coming in would think that you just haven't picked up yet today. A few things on the floor is nothing! Add some empty McDonald's boxes and some Coke cans and people will think you're a busy guy, way too busy to worry about superficialities such as housework or personal hygiene.

TOM: Did I hear my name?

DAVE: (innocently) No, I didn't hear anybody yell "dickweed."

[Tom, laughing, punches Dave in the shoulder hard enough to knock Lucius, who was next to him, off the bed.]

TOM: Ha! Good one. Get up, we need to talk about your hair.

LUCIUS: What's wrong with it? It's neat and clean.

TOM: Why ask a question when you already know the answer? You're obviously washing your hair every day, right? You need to give it a rest every now and then and let your body's natural oils return.

LUCIUS: So how often should I wash it?

TOM: Whenever it gets something in it.

LUCIUS: Excuse me?

TOM: Motor oil, spider webs, that kind of thing. And look, you trim your toenails. Why take away one of your natural weapons?

LUCIUS: What?

TOM: God gave man claws for a reason, Lucius. Don't disarm yourself. Or disfoot yourself. Whatever. And you need to work on your shaving.

LUCIUS: What am I doing wrong?

TOM: Shaving. Guys need a rough coating of bristles on our faces, it's a way of keeping people from snuggling against us. Like back hair.

LUCIUS: Are all guys that defensive?

TOM: Nah, mostly oblivious, but it works out the same way. Here, I've modified your razor by snapping out the bottom blade and leaving the top two. Now when you shave it'll leave a two-centimeter beard, you'll want to keep that. It's easier if you shave at night, or even the afternoon before, so you'll have a nice growth back. Facial hair is a masculine characteristic, use it. Your face looks smooth, feminine. Get some fuzz, guy.

LUCIUS: Okay… Where are my cleansers?

TOM: Drain. Look, all you need to do when you wash is to get clean. One bar of soap does it all. Body, face, hair, everything. This is the only specialty cleanser you'll need.

[Tom brings out a slimy bottle of "Orange Heavy Duty DeGreaser."]

TOM: This is for those automotive stains that even Dial won't get out. Just leave it here behind the faucet so you can find it.

VINNIE: (off-camera) Hey, it's fashion time, you assholes!

[Everyone troops into the bedroom and collapses. No matter where they sit, each of the F-ed Up Five takes care to take up as much room as possible without coming close to touching each other. Vinnie stands up with Lucius and begins handing him clothes.]

LUCIUS: I thought we'd be shopping?

VINNIE: Guys don't shop. Guys just wear things until they disintegrate, and by then someone's usually bought us something. Girlfriends will get you shirts, parents will send you stuff at Christmas, beer promotions usually have free t-shirts. Why waste the time? What I did was take your wardrobe and guy it up. Here, put these on.

[Lucius begins to disrobe. The Five immediately turn their heads away, but Vinnie peeks back.]

VINNIE: Whoop! Hold the phone, we need to deal with this right now. What's that?

LUCIUS: My underwear.

VINNIE: Can't be, it's not white. Underwear is plain white, either jockeys or boxers. Boxers can have a design on them but only if it's tacky or holiday-related. And you can never, ever throw them away.

LUCIUS: What if they get soiled or have holes in them?

VINNIE: So? Would you give up on your best friend just because he got dirty? I have underwear that's been with me through thick and thin, it means too much to me to throw away. Besides, they're like blankets: the more you use them, the softer they get. Here, I don't usually do this, but…

[Vinnie unzips his pants and lowers them enough to reveal the top of his underwear. Only the elastic band is visible, as the cloth has completely ripped away from it, leaving only a thin strand of cloth holding them together. Lucius looks horrified and fascinated.]

LUCIUS: But you said they had to be white.

VINNIE: Used to be. Here, get dressed.

[Lucius stands before them in his new splendor. The Five cheer raggedly.]

VINNIE: There you go! You got yer all-purpose Levi jeans, good for any social occasion from fancy dinners to weekend yardwork. You got yer t-shirt with the snappy slogan on it–

TOM: Can't go wrong with the "Big Johnson" line.

VINNIE: — and it's useful. T-shirts absorb water and sinus mucous, they're easy to put on in the dark, and you can roll your cigs up in the sleeve for a stylish look. You don't even have to wash 'em much, just spritz 'em with some deodorant. Then we got yer baseball cap. Adds class, covers the dirty hair, and provides more room for personal expression. This one says "Are you coming to come quietly are should I wear earplugs?"

DAVE: Har!

VINNIE: I got you a bunch of different caps for different occasions, and some more t-shirts. Also got you a plaid flannel shirt, for elegant evening wear..

LUCIUS: What about more pants?

[The Five stare at him.]

PETE: Why? You got jeans.

VINNIE: And the piece dee resistors, I got yer shoes. You get two pairs. Pair o' brown shoes for weddings and funerals, and a pair o' sneakers for everything else.

LUCIUS: Nikes?

VINNIE: You wish. WalMart, whatever's on sale for less than $20. You buy more after these rot off your feet, and then you keep them round anyway for fishing and four-wheeling.

LUCIUS: What about my jogging shoes?

[Vinnie holds up the sneakers.]

LUCIUS: Cross-trainers?

[Sneakers.]

LUCIUS: Clubbing?

VINNIE: Are you more interested in getting ready for the club, or in going to the club?

LUCIUS: So the point is to get there on time, instead of obsessing over how I'll look when I get there?

PETE: Hell, no. The point is that you don't care how you look.

LUCIUS: Does that make me more powerful?

PETE: Hell if I know, you just don't care. See, all guys everywhere know that they're basically all right, and they could do anything anyone else can do if they just exert themselves a little. We know we're putting on a few pounds, but we also know that if we did a few pushups we'd pop right back to our high school weight.

MEAT: Dude, your high school weight was 260.

PETE: Shut up. I can get back to that any time I want. But knowing we can do that means we don't have to, and we're confident in ourselves. Now, we need to talk about you.

LUCIUS: What about me?

PETE: Lucius? Sounds like a French poodle. No guy name ever has a "shoosh" sound in it. You're "Luke." And you gotta stop trying to change yourself to make your lover happy. You're you, and they'd better like it or else.

LUCIUS: Then why are you here, helping me?

PETE: Duh, we get paid. Besides, we get first pick of all your stuff we throw out. Now, since you know in your heart how great you are, it's only right for your lover to want to do things for you. Get you beers, sandwiches, handjobs, whatever. You just stay on the couch, watch TV, and let it happen.

LUCIUS: But how do I express my love for Dominick?

PETE: You haven't left, have you? What more do you need to do? You guys make this so complicated. Now c'mon, the guys have to finish up the house and we've got to go get your tattoo.

LUCIUS: My what?

[Commercials: Old Spice, Advance Discount Auto Parts, Outback Steakhouse. When we return we see the F-ed Up Five assembling in their basement to watch the show. The place is appalling, like a rec room that's been used to house virulent dysentery patients and then exposed to the elements for four years. Pete, Dave, and Vinnie grab the couch. Meat serves snacks by pitching bags of chips and cans of beer without warning at the others. Tom is whacking the side of the 15" television.]

TOM: Okay, he's up!

PETE: Hope he remembers all that crap we taught him.

DAVE: Look, there he is!

[Lucius is sitting primly on the couch, looking around at the mess. He looks at his watch, starts to get up, and then shakes his head, sits back down, and grabs the remote.]

TOM: Yes! He's waiting until the last minute, good man!

[Lucius flips channels until he finds a cooking show, then firmly flips one more to a truck rally. He watches with a determined expression that gradually changes to disbelief, then a vague interest that becomes more intense by the minute. As soon as the first commercial appears he lunges for the remote and starts flipping through channels again.]

PETE: Oh, perfect! He's channel surfing!

VINNIE: We didn't even tell him to. He's a natural.

[Time passes. A knock on the door startles Lucius, who had fallen asleep watching wrestling. He stumbles to his feet, beer cans spilling off his lap, and answers the door. It is Dominick, who appears confused.]

DOMINICK: Luscious? Is that you?

LUCIUS: Call me Luke. Is it time already? Jeez, hang on, be just a minute.

[Lucius staggers off to the bathroom as Dominick looks around the place. He cycles through a lot of facial expressions. In under two minutes Lucius comes back out, finger-combing his hair. He is unshaven, wearing his jeans and old sneakers, and is carrying a Lakers t-shirt. His shoulder sports a new tattoo: barbed wire winding around a rainbow. Dominick is visibly surprised.]

PETE: This is great! Dominick is totally gobstopped!

DOMINICK: What in the world did they do to you? Pumpkin?

LUCIUS: It's all me, babe. Hey, what do you think about some buffalo wings? Come on, let's blow this place.

MEAT: Beautiful! Just the right amount of culture and cuisine. I'm proud of him.

[Lucius pulls his shirt on. As he passes Dominick he reaches and grabs Dominick's crotch and makes a honking noise. Dominick jumps.]

LUCIUS: Maybe if you're lucky, you'll get lucky.

[He shoots Dominick with his thumb and forefinger and stalks out of the apartment. The camera focuses in on Dominick's face, which is beginning to display signs of lust. Dominick hurries after Lucius. Outside you can hear a car starting.]

DOMINICK: Luke? Hey lover, wait up!

[Dominick rushes out. The F-ed Up Five start laughing and high-fiving each other.]

DAVE: Guys? We done good.

MEAT: Hey, Luke deserves a lot of the credit. Not all of it, of course, but he did great.

PETE: He really did. He knew Dominick wanted a manly man, and he gave him one, There's gonna be some hot tail tonight!

VINNIE: Oh, man, I so didn't need to picture that.

TOM: Come on, we got stuff we need to do.

DAVE: Tackle football in the living room?

TOM: You got it!

[They leave, jumping over the couch and fighting over who gets to go upstairs first. Credits roll]

Fortunately I'm stepping up, ready and willing.

I would like to present my own series of animated musical shorts that help teach kids the important facts about reproduction and relationships while at the same time remaining harmless cartoony shows. I haven't hammered out all the details yet, but here's the first one. Please let us know what you think.

A couple of kids, ages indeterminate but they're horribly cute, wander into their big sister's room.

Boy: Woof! Sis sure had a tough lock on her door. Now we can dig through her lingerie drawers. But I wonder who that sad little blue tablet is?

We pan up to see a small round compact-sized box, open, with a darling little animated pill sitting on the edge. He is wearing a forlorn expression, and he begins, as all animated drugs must, to sing.

"I'm just a pill.
Yes, I'm only a pill.
And I'm sitting here on this window sill.
Well, now your sister's s'posed to take me
When she gets out of bed.
So there's no repercussions
When she has sex with Fred.
But if she takes me she won't be a mom
At least I hope and pray that she will,
But today I am still just a pill."

Boy: Gee, Pill, you certainly take your job seriously.

Bill: Well I have to. I can't do anything about preventing disease, but I can help keep her from getting knocked up. When I started, I wasn't even a pill, I was a bunch of herbs that women ate or stuffed or smoked to keep from getting saddled with a youngun. Some folks back home decided they wanted something more dependable, so they called their local biochemist and he said, "You're right, there oughta be a pill." Then he and his partners sat down and figured me out and introduced me to women everywhere. And I became a pill, and I'll remain a pill until your sister takes me.

"I'm just a pill
Yes I'm only a pill,
And she doesn't need the medical bill.
Well, now I'm stuck here unswallowed
And she's out on a date
Where she'll get good and hammered and she'll fornicate
And she can do it if she takes me soon
How I hope and pray that she will,
But today I am still just a pill."

Girl: But what if she doesn't take you? Doesn't she have any other ways to stop babies?

Pill: No, I'm one of the lucky ones. Condoms are too awkward and mood-breaking, diaphragms are worse, and teachers and clinics are afraid to discuss abortions because they might lose funding. If it gets worse I might disappear.

Boy: Disappear?

Pill: Yeah, disappear in the return of "morality" and "wholesomeness".

Boy: Then what happens?

Pill: Then women lose control of their reproductive cycles again and they'll have even more abortions..

Girl: Oh no!

Pill: Oh yes!

"I'm just a pill
Yes, I'm only a pill
And if she can't use me to prevent God's Will
Well, then she'll have to think of something else
She'll have to use tricks
Like a back-room abortion
Or RU-486
But if she takes me she won't be a mom
How I hope and pray that she will,
But today I am still just a pill."

Boy: You mean the government might try to tell her that she can't control her own body?

Pill: Yes, that's called being pro-life. She can still use rhythm methods, jumping up and down a lot, and prayer.

Girl: But that means she has to rely on luck or iron will power. It's easy to become a mom, isn't it?

Pill: Yes!

"But how I hope and I pray that she will,
But today I am still just a pill."

A young woman runs into the bedroom, glares at the kids, and flops onto the bed.

Sis: No problem, Pill! I blew him!

Pill: Oh yes!!!

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

This is only the beginning of our new Whorehouse Rock series. Check back for the next ones, "Erectile Dysfunction, What's Your Function?" and "Lolly, Lolly, Lolly, Get Your Tampons Here!".