mnartists.org: Britt Aamodt

The Norm screenplay (early draft)

Britt Aamodt — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 19:01:04 GMT

My screenplay The Norm placed 3rd in the 2009 Slamdance Screenwriting Competition. This is an early draft, cleared of formatting in order to paste it onto this site. Only a few scenes. The Norm (screenplay) by Britt Aamodt

FADE IN:

INT. Right SIZE BOX company, ASSEMBLY FLOOR – DAY

The life cycle of a cardboard box. Machinery die-cuts cardboard, shoots it along a conveyor belt to fold and stack it into cookie-cutter box templates.

NORM (V.O.)

A progressive workplace. You might as well say progressive life. Homelife. Worklife. Home, work.

int. norm's bedroom - day

LCD numbers CLICK 05:00. Alarm BUZZES. A LUMP wearily slides from covers, plants stiff feet in waiting slippers. Trudges in matching pajamas to bathroom.

NORM (V.O.)

The two blend seamlessly together, influencing each other. You wake up. You go to work. Go home. Every day.

int. norm's bathroom – continuous

A bathroom bereft of personal expression, spotless. Bleary eyes flash in the mirror. This is NORM CALDWELL, 58, the balding, puffed-out poster child of middle-class boredom.

The mirror swings back. Shaver, toothbrush, toothpaste, pill holder, all tucked in appropriate corners. Norm palms today's pills.

NORM (V.O.)

You are a living, breathing creation. A vibrant work of art. But what about your workplace? Does it deserve the investment of eight, ten, twelve hours of your life every workday?

montage - right size box company as workday begins

Shift workers punch clock.

Transit to smoking pen for a quick drag.

Find positions on assembly floor, ear protection and goggles in place.

Right Size's senior vice president, JACK WAGGONNER, 57, stands at the plate-glass viewing window, with coffee mug and email printout. Crumples the printout into trash.

NORM (V.O.)

Here at Right Size Box Company we think about that a lot. Not only should there be a box to fit every occasion, but a job to fit every employee. A benefit, a policy, a regulation to keep pace with advances in society and technology.

int. norm's kitchen – day

Now in shirt and tie, Norm confronts a shelf of identical cereal boxes. Pours cereal into measuring cup, tips cereal into bowl.

NORM (V.O.)

A progressive society demands a workplace that bends to employee needs.

INT. NORM'S LIVING ROOM – day

A denuded living room. Boxes of diminishing size march down center. Norm, tie slung over shoulder, removes the last trace of personality--artful bric-a-brac--and boxes it. Pauses at a photograph of his wife and himself. Boxes it.

NORM (V.O.)

A workplace which understands that health care includes healthy food in the cafeteria and discounted athletic club memberships. Which also understands that our children get sick and need us to take a day off work, and that sometimes our personal lives fall apart.

INT. RIGHT SIZE BOX company, ASSEMBLY FLOOR – DAY

An EMPLOYEE supervises the automated work. From behind, a hand grabs his shoulder. It's the floor supervisor, RUTH BROWN, 58, sporting gag glasses, nose and mustache.

NORM (V.O.)

As you sit in this room planning your future at Right Size Box Company,...

int. company classroom – day

Norm commands a white board on which is lettered "MOTIVATED EMPLOYEE + PROGRESSIVE WORKPLACE = SUCCESS". He grins down on rows of tired, scruffy NEW HIRES.

NORM

...I want you to consider this word "success"--not just in terms of your job, but your life. Eight hours a day, Monday through Friday, this is your life. We can supply an enlightened workplace, but you provide the motivation in the partnership. Together that equals success.

Norm's triumphant expression is greeted by silence. A hand rises.

NORM

You, sir.

NEW HIRE

What's it you wanted us to do with this paper?

Holds up a white sheet that sits before each of the new hires.

norm

That acknowledges that you've attended the Human Resources Briefing, conducted by none other than myself.

Deploys his marker to underscore "NORMAN CALDWELL, HUMAN RESOURCES DIRECTOR" printed on the white board.

New hire

You want us to sign it?

NORM

Yes.

Heads dip to the task. Norm, deflated, chucks the marker. Shuffles pages arrayed on desk. The pages are titled: "PROPOSAL - PROGRESSIVE WORKPLACE AWARD. AUTHOR: NORMAN CALDWELL".

Suddenly, from the rear, Ruth Brown slides into the door, wearing gag glasses. A big-boned woman with a fashion flare that borders on gaudy. Hollers:

ruth

Who's ready to shake, rattle and roll?

Heads bob up.

ruth

C'mon, little newbies. Get those keesters outta the seats and let's groove to the assembly floor.

Norm rubs temples. Rallies a smile.

norm

This is Ruth Brown, your floor supervisor. She'll be showing you around today. Just leave the papers on your desk. I'll have someone collect them.

Ruth claps her hands.

ruth

Let's hop to it.

New hires file out. Norm catches Ruth's shirt sleeve.

NORM

Take off those stupid glasses.

Ruth drops gag glasses, stares over them.

RUTH

These? I can't see a thing without them.

int. front office – continuous

New hires pile into front office. JACK WAGGONNER holds up the wall, arms crossed, inspecting the female members of the herd. Slick hair, sideburns, filling out a suit tailored to someone 20 pounds lighter.

Ruth charges to head of line.

ruth

All right, everybody, let's move out. First stop: the cafeteria for a free low-fat bagel. How's that sound?

APPLAUSE as Ruth troops them out. Norm exits classroom, depleted.

jack

(to Norm)

Is it me, or are the female hires getting fatter and uglier every year?

NORM

You see that getup? What is this, Groucho Marx day?

JACK

Not even Viagra could get a rise out of that mass of flesh.

NORM

Jack, she's driving me crazy.

JACK

Ruth? She's been driving you crazy since we were eight.

RECEPTIONIST slinks forward. Eyes Jack.

receptionist

(to Norm)

I'll collect the papers.

Glides toward classroom, smoothing the skirt over her backside.

NORM

And make sure they're all signed.

(to Jack)

All they have to do is a sign a paper, and sometimes they can't even do that.

Jack wrenches his gaze from the receptionist. Checks watch.

jack

Fuck a duck.

NORM

What?

JACK

Meeting with el nuevo Presidente in fifteen.

NORM

What for?

JACK

It's his first full week on the job. What do you think?

NORM

He hasn't fired us yet. Mr. Ofstedahl promised--

JACK

Mr. Ofstedahl is the owner. All he cares about is making money, and if that pimply youth he hired as our president says we go, then we go.

NORM

We've been here forty years.

JACK

Precisely.

ext. front parking lot – day

A Mercedes halts behind an ancient Volkswagen Karmann Ghia, orange, wedged in "RESERVED" spot.

int. right size box company, entry – day

The glass doors dazzle with spring sunlight as CYRIL MARKHAM, 38, the new president of Right Size Box Company, swaggers in, golf-course trim, casually romantic in shirt and tie. Rips off sunglasses. Floats to security desk.

markham

Someone parked in my spot. I got the license plate.

Slips paper to SECURITY GUARD.

security guard

I'll get her towed. Just wanted to say too, Mr. Markham, we're all glad to have you here.

MARKHAM

Glad to be here.

int. front office - day

Markham strides through door to receptionist counter. Slaps briefcase down.

MARKHAM

(to receptionist)

Good morning, Sondra.

Sondra hands over three manila files.

sondra

Their files. And I sent Jack a reminder email about your meeting with him.

Markham checks the area. Assured no one's around, asks:

MARKHAM

He say anything about the meeting?

sondra

No, but I think he knows.

MARKHAM

What about Norm and Ruth?

SONDRA

I haven't told them yet. Did you--

MARKHAM

No, no. Well, actually, give me about ten minutes with Jack, and then have those two join us, okay?

Sondra scribbles on her pad.

sondra

I'll call them. But I know Ruth's on the floor right now.

Markham cocks an eyebrow.

sondra

Touring the new hires.

markham

That's right. Well, get hold of her somehow. I need to take care of this today. This company's getting a complete overhaul. A year from now, you won't even recognize this place.

Sondra produces an envelope and hands it to her boss.

sondra

From my uncle. It's a gift certificate.

MARKHAM

He didn't have to do that. I would've hired you whether he asked or not. You know, he got me my first executive promotion.

SONDRA

That's what he said.

MARKHAM

How you liking this place?

sondra

I love it.

LAUGHTER breaks the quiet as TWO YOUNG SWELLS in tailored suits enter office. Lock on Markham.

swell guy 1

Yo, C-boy.

markham

You made it.

Raps his knuckles on counter, taking leave of receptionist. Gives each man a quick, fraternal hug. Stands back to take them in.

Cartoonist Profile: Doug Mahnke

Britt Aamodt — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 18:50:19 GMT

Profile of Minnesota Cartoonist: Doug Mahnke By Britt Aamodt DOUG MAHNKE

You don't make it in comics without discipline. No one's looking over your shoulder to see if you're keeping your end of the bargain: translating the writer's script into page layouts, and knocking off pages at a rate that ensures you'll make the printing deadline. The publisher has to trust you to get the work done. "But some artists are total flakes," says Doug Mahnke who's been an artist, specifically a comic book artist, for the past 30 years. "Trust me on that."

Mahnke didn't always have discipline. He was one of those natural talents for whom art came easy. He could dash out a drawing and still have time to pick up a game of baseball or kickball. He was also a natural athlete. "I think it was athletics that kept me from being the two-headed kid in class. You were odd if you were into comics because collecting comics was such an extreme narrow focus, and it consumed you," he observes. He never once considered dumping the monthly comics habit, his [i]Spider-Mans[/i] and [i]Hulks[/i], nor his determination to become the superhero next door.

"My first desire was not to be a comic book artist but a superhero. When I was in first grade, I became the character Soap Man," says Mahnke who, though born in Arizona, spent much of his childhood in Kansas. "I got two plastic bottles and filled them with soap, then I duct-taped them to my wrists. I had a cape, everything I needed to be a superhero. But I couldn't find a whole lot of villains in my neighborhood."

By ninth grade, Mahnke and his parents were living in Burnsville, Minnesota. The artist credits Pat Woolf, his art teacher at Metcalf South Junior High School, with "giving me the tools to grow as an artist for the rest of my life." Mahnke was drawing a human figure in class. Pat Woolf looked over. "The legs are too short," she told him.

"Like a lot of kids who are used to their families telling them how good they are, I said, 'No, they're not.' She said, 'Yes, they are.' She could tell I was mad." The teacher grabbed art books off the shelf and opened them to figures similar to what Mahnke had drawn. "I looked at the proportions in the book and compared them to my drawing and I thought, [i]You know what? She's right[/i]. Absolutely from that point on, I was indifferent to whether I was good or bad. I thought I'll never get better at what I do if I don't accept the fact that I have a lot of work ahead of me."

Despite an early fascination with superheroes, Mahnke never considered a career in comics. He was working as a T-shirt artist in an amusement park, and engaged to be married, when he happened upon a life-changing article. The article detailed the ascent of a well-known comic book artist, John Byrne, and, more pertinently, Byrne's six-figure income. "This was in the late '80s, when things were really ramping up in comics, and people were making big money. I'm thinking, [i]I could use that kind of money[/i]. But I hadn't drawn comics in years."

That didn't matter. Mahnke put together a portfolio of comic book art and sent it off to every publisher on his list. He mailed his work to the art directors, not knowing enough about the industry to realize you don't submit work to art directors. By a strange twist of fate, the art director at Dark Horse Comics didn't toss his portfolio. Instead, Mahnke's work was filed in a cabinet, where it was discovered by a talented young writer, John Arcudi, in need of an artist.

Arcudi and Mahnke teamed up on [i]Homicide[/i] and again on [i]The Mask[/i], which most people remember from the 1994 movie starring Jim Carrey. Arcudi and Mahnke's run on [i]The Mask[/i] began in 1989 with the character of Stanley Ipkiss, a neurotic milquetoast, who turns into a madcap super-being when he wears the green mask. Writer and artist stayed with the Dark Horse series through the mid-90s, a span that documents in the pages of [i]The Mask Returns[/i] and [i]The Mask Strikes Back[/i] Mahnke's significant growth as an artist, an evolution he's continued at DC Comics, working on such titles as [i]Major Bummer [DC title?][/i], [i]Black Adam: The Dark Age[/i], [i]Storm Watch: Post Human Division[/i], [i]JLA[/i], [i]Batman[/i], [i]Seven Soldiers of Victory: Frankenstein[/i], [i]Superman Beyond[/i] and [i]Final Crisis[/i].

"My art has changed so much," he reasons, "because I made a commitment. I talked to my wife, 'I don't know what's going to happen in this industry. I got no guarantees.' I remember using these specific words: 'I want to always be relevant. I can't be afraid to change what I do and grow as a comic book artist.'"

And if Mahnke didn't start out with discipline, he has it now. "Doug can get an insane amount of work done if he has to," says Patrick Gleason, a fellow comic book artist with whom Mahnke shares a studio in Forest Lake, Minnesota. "His work ethic is extraordinary," says Gleason. So extraordinary that after receiving a concussion in an auto accident, rather than go to the hospital, Mahnke sat down at his drawing table.

"I had a deadline the next day. I promised the editor I'd get the work done," Mahnke recollects. "I can't even tell you what was going through my mind. I didn't sleep. I just sat there. My eyesight was messed up. Everything was goofy, but I got it done."

###

Cartoonist Profile: Zak Sally

Britt Aamodt — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 18:47:11 GMT

Profile of Minnesota cartoonist: Zak Sally By Britt ZAK SALLY

Zak Sally leases a studio space in Northeast Minneapolis. The space locates in a sprawling complex of drafty rooms and uneven floors that several decades before housed packing crates and rumbled, you can imagine, with the traffic of forklifts and brawny men shouting orders. The building is an old warehouse re-constituted as artist studios and commercial space, a sign of changing times in this part of the city where blue-collar manufacturing has gentrified to bohemian industry: illustration and animation firms, art crawls and exhibition openings.

Sally has selected a basement studio, not for the moody lighting afforded by half-size windows or the background ambiance of furnaces, but for the solidity of the concrete floor. He owns a 50-year-old printing press that might crash through less stable flooring. Aside from being a cartoonist, Sally is also a publisher, the founder of La Mano, which has published three volumes of Sally's own [i]Recidivist[/i] series and a collection by John Porcellino, creator of [i]King-Cat Comics[/i], called [i]Diary of a Mosquito Abatement Man[/i].

As he sits as his desk, Sally, in his late-thirties, slim, bespectacled, flips on a lamp that throws a circle of light around him and not much else. Behind him, a smaller room radiates a chalky glow; this is the art room. This is where Sally hangs his work in progress, page after page detailing the maunderings of Sammy the Mouse and his cohorts in binge drinking, H.G. Feekes and Puppy. Feekes is a duck; Puppy is a puppy.

"[i]Sammy the Mouse[/i] is probably the only comic I've done since I was fourteen that's meant to be enjoyed," says Sally, who is the first to call his previous series, [i]Recidivist[/i], "serious." A recidivist, by definition, is someone who chronically relapses, typically to a life of crime. You don't come away from [i]Recidivist[/i] with warm fuzzies. The detailed panels aggregate into short stories that reveal an artist testing the language of comics—panel transitions, scene changes, angles, shots, the interplay of word and image—and its ability to communicate impressions and feelings.

In one story, a surgeon and team of nurses labor over the body of a patient who has evidently misspent his life in substance abuse and hard living. "If this were an innocent animal," says the surgeon, "I would shed a tear and then put a bullet in its head." The surgeon storms out, unwilling to squander his talents on a lost cause. The head nurse takes over. She too must feel the hopelessness of patching up the recidivist, someone who as soon as he's released will hit the corner liquor store. Yet, she persists and discovers, tucked inside the man's internal organs, a note. The note is from the unconscious patient. It begs her," Please don't let me die."

Serious stuff.

"I'd worked myself into this lifelong pursuit of comics as a serious medium and as a serious means of expression," recounts Sally. "With the third issue of [i]Recidivist[/i], I felt I'd gotten myself into a corner. I wanted to do a different kind of comic."

Sally sat down to figure out what comics were good at. He decided they were at their best when telling stories, like cowboys around a campfire, or coeds in the student union telling tales about last weekend. [i]Sammy the Mouse[/i], the first volume of which was published by Fantagraphics in 2007, is 100-percent pure storytelling, no preservatives added. "[i]Sammy[/i] is a talk-driven story that's practically slapstick," says the artist. Slapstick dosed with hallucinogens.

Sammy and friends exist in a world that is strangely subterranean. Bare bulbs suspend over crooked walks, which are themselves flanked by crooked buildings that cant drunkenly into streets. A giant beer bottle houses a liquor store and a giant baby a bar. Inside the bar, a spinal column rises from the center of a circular counter. Ribs curve the walls. Sammy, Puppy and Feekes stumble through this surreal world, driven on by Feekes's desire to get drunk.

The idea for [i]Sammy[/i] came to Sally a decade ago "when I was drunk," says the cartoonist. That was during Sally's days as a bassist for the band Low, which among other notable undertakings supported the Brit rock band Radiohead on their world tour. Low originated from Duluth, Minnesota, as did Sally, who was born there in 1971.

"My grandparents have these 16-millimeter films. There's this film of my sister's fifth birthday party. So, I was three then. My sister opens her presents and gets these comic books. She puts them aside, and it was really creepy," says Sally, watching a younger version of himself from a remove of thirty years, "because all of a sudden I'm like—you can just see I can't pay attention to anyone at the party anymore. I'm looking at these comics."

When still a boy, Sally and his family moved to Bethesda, Maryland. He spent hours at the local comics store, Big Planet Comics. "They had a back area for the dirty comics but also those comics that didn't make sense with everything else," says Sally, referring to the alternative comics being produced by people like Robert Crumb and Harvey Pekar. "So, basically, if you went in the back area, you were like a porn hound or something."

A teenager and a cartoonist, Sally had heard about the Los Angeles brothers Gilbert and Jaime Hernandez, whose series [i]Love and Rockets[/i], published by Fantagraphics, had revolutionized alternative comics. But the Hernandez brothers were in the back area, and Sally was a teenager. The guy at the counter knew him, knew he loved comics, so let him in the back area. Sally plucked up issue 21 of [i]Love and Rockets[/i] and the first issue of [i]Yummy Fer[/i] by Chester NAME.

Reading them, says Sally, "was like going to your first punk show. Everything I'd read before that was decimated."

After quitting the band Low, Sally settled in Minneapolis and devoted himself to cartooning. He self-published [i]Recidivist[/i], then published [i]Sammy the Mouse[/i], volumes one and two, through the same publisher that had introduced him to the Hernandez brothers, Fantagraphics. If Sally needed further evidence his life had come full circle, in 2008, he was asked to interview Jaime Hernandez for the annual Rain Taxi Festival of Books in Minneapolis.

###

Cartoonist Profile: Zak Sally

Britt Aamodt — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 18:46:25 GMT

Profile of Minnesota cartoonist: Zak Sally By Britt ZAK SALLY

Serious stuff.

Reading them, says Sally, "was like going to your first punk show. Everything I'd read before that was decimated."

###

Cartoonist Profile: Steven Stwalley

Britt Aamodt — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 18:45:31 GMT

Profile of Minnesota Cartoonist Steven Stwalley By Britt Aamodt

STEVEN STWALLEY - creator of Soapy the Chicken

Soapy the Chicken has a problem; she's dead, kicked off her comic strip like an old can of beans, and now the ducks, Quackers and Waddles, are holding elections to become the featured character in the [i]Soapy the Chicken[/i] strip. Where is Bubonic the Rat when Soapy needs him? Or Frog the Frog? Well, thanks to Soapy's extravagance, a collections agent has collared Bubonic— for Soapy's debts. And Frog, last anyone heard, was tumbling down the alimentary canal of Quackers the Duck, ingested by said duck to silence his protests over the elections.

It’s not easy being a cartoon strip character. If Soapy's looking for counsel or resurrection, she can do better than a therapist's couch. Much better. She can go straight to the source of creation, to Steven Stwalley, the man behind the drawing board and the agent of Soapy's demise. But Stwalley, who by day works as an interactive developer and animator for the Minneapolis ad agency OLSON, can't be reached for comment. He's got a full plate, what with work, family and a slew of extracurricular cartooning activities that—sorry, Soap—take precedence over the minor agonies of his comic characters. Busy, busy, busy. That's the life of a modern-day cartoonist. So, Soapy, you'll just have to lump it.

Stwalley's story begins in Iowa City, Iowa, where he was born in 1970. His father had a collection of Walt Disney comics he'd collected as a boy, which he passed down to his son. In his twenties, Stwalley moved to Minneapolis to attend the Art Institute, and incidentally to leave an impression on the school's library.

"I was working as a librarian at the Art Institute when I was going to school there," says Stwalley. "It was a great job because I got to stock the whole library with comic books because they needed to buy books. The librarian let me decide what to order. So I basically helped them buy this incredible collection of comics."

Stwalley remained in Minneapolis after graduation, and, having drawn cartoons since he was a boy, wanted to connect with other cartoonists. But how? Stwalley conceived the idea for the Cartoonist Conspiracy, a group of cartoonists who would meet every month to hang out and draw cartoons. He posted fliers all over the Twin Cities. Eight cartoonists showed up to the first meeting in 2002. Since then the Conspiracy has gone international—reflected in its name, the International Cartoonist Conspiracy—with cells in cities across the United States and abroad.

In Minnesota, the Conspiracy meets once a month in Minneapolis and once in St. Paul. Altered Aesthetics, a gallery in Northeast Minneapolis, regularly exhibits members' artwork; and every year, the Minnesota Center for Book Arts hosts the Conspiracy's 24-Hour Comics Day. The point of the 24-Hour Comics Day is for cartoonists to gather en masse and then individually crank out a comic in 24 hours. Some produce a comic in less time; others take the entire 24 hours.

The Conspiracy has developed an infrastructure for local cartoonist activities and networking, and has encouraged more cartooning work from its members. Minnesota cartoonist Kevin Cannon produced his first graphic novel, [i]Far Arden[/i], with nudging from fellow conspirators. "Kevin would produce these amazing comics at 24-Hour Comics Day that were basically better than what some cartoonists made spending a whole lifetime at it," Stwalley says.

Cannon remembers the 24-Hour Comics Day that Stwalley posed the following challenge: "'Hey, Kevin, why don't you one of these days every month for an entire year, but have each 24-hour session be a chapter of a longer book?'" Cannon took the challenge. He sat down for 24 hours each month and drew.

"After a long 16-hour sleep, after the fourth marathon, I woke up and my right arm was numb," Cannon says. "I was like, [i]Oh god, if this is how it's going to turn out I'm not going to do these marathons anymore[/i]." He ended up finishing the book but without the marathons. His graphic novel, [i]Far Arden[/i], was published by Top Shelf in 2009.

Encouraged by Cannon's success, Stwalley and a few other conspirators undertook what they're calling the 288-Hour Graphic Novel Challenge. Stwalley hasn't finished his, [i]Ezekial Fishman Versus the Martians[/i], but he's been posting finished pages online. The book features train-riding hoboes, Martians, cops and zombies.

Stwalley originated his webcomic [i]Soapy the Chicken[/i] in 2005. His process is to sit down and draw without a preconceived plan for the comic. "Usually by the time I reach the last panel, I've figured out what I wanted to say," says Stwalley. By the last panel, too, one character at least has landed in hot water. Stwalley is merciless. Soapy dies only to be cloned and sold as processed chicken meat at a chain of fast-food joints. Bubonic the Rat, Soapy's devoted sidekick, goes missing, so Management's hires a temp, Frog the Frog, to fill the position.

Frog makes a great temp worker. He shows up for work, one point in his favor, and he does what he's supposed to do: he looks for Soapy. Because you can't be a supporting cast member without a lead character. But Frog can't take the stress. His amphibian nerves crack. He seeks the end of a rope, a warm bath with toaster, a bottomless pit.

"A lot of my favorite comic strips feature animal characters, and it's definitely a tradition in comic strips to use animal characters," Stwalley says. Carl Barks's [i]Uncle Scrooge[/i] comics for Walt Disney and George Herriman's [i]Krazy Kat[/i] were particularly influential. Stwalley illustrates very human, if not exaggerated, foibles through his cartoon characters: greed, power mongering, drunkenness, addiction, loss and misplaced love. "Soapy loves this can of beans," explains the cartoonist, "and Frog loves Soapy. But the can of beans is not reciprocating anyone's love."

Stwalley posts his [i]Soapy the Chicken[/i] comic strips on the web. He is also working on an illustrated children's book, [i]The Most Delicious Cookies in the World[/i].

###

The Norm (screenplay - early draft)

Britt Aamodt — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 18:44:24 GMT

Radio Play: The Evil of Shady Lake (with production notes)

Britt Aamodt — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 18:40:58 GMT

The Evil of Shady Lake is a radio play I wrote, produced and directed for Deadbeats On The Air, the radio play troupe I founded in 2008. The Evil of Shady Lake got its broadcast premier in the Twin Cities, July 2009 and has since been rebroadcast.

[b]The Evil at Shadylake REVISION[/b]

Audio Play by Britt Aamodt

[b] [/b]

[b]SCENE 1[/b]

HENRY (narrating):

Mr. Valenzuela is a self-made man, which you can tell by the "Mr." at the beginning of his name. He's never given me another name, though I've been in his employ—"Feeding off the host," as Mr. Valenzuela likes to say—for nine months now.

I wouldn't feed off that crass, overbearing, uptight, greedy, insensitive, overrated, undersized wretch if you paid me all the money in the world—I mean if I didn't have two kids, a wife out of work, and a street address suspiciously similar to my in-laws'.

MOTHER-IN-LAW (hollering upstairs):

Hen-RY!

HENRY (hollering downstairs):

Yes, Ma!

MOTHER-IN-LAW (hollering):

What'd you do with MY vacuum cleaner?

HENRY (hollering):

I put it in the vacuum cleaner closet, Ma.

MOTHER-IN-LAW (hollering):

It's not IN the vacuum cleaner closet, Henry. It's outside the vacuum cleaner closet.

HENRY (hollering):

Okay, the vacuum's outside the vacuum cleaner closet, Ma.

MOTHER-IN-LAW (hollering):

Ma? It's Fred Withers who should be calling me Ma. I always told Margot she shoulda married Fred Withers. She'd be living in a 6,000-square-foot mansion if she had, and not in some nasty attic!

HENRY (hollering):

It's not the attic that's nasty, Ma; it's the landlords.

HENRY (narrating):

In fact, my address is my in-laws' address. Margot, our two girls and I squat in the attic of their 3,000-square-foot "storage facility"; the attic was the only space left in their house, given my mother-in-law's devotion to the shopping channel.

TV HOST:

You too can own this genuine reproduction Queen Isabella of Spain emerald dog pendant. (fade out) And now only $49.99. That's right, $49.99 for this queenly dog pendant…

MOTHER-IN-LAW (excited intake of breath):

Did you hear that? $49.99. Margot, you just know that would go so well with my imitation Zelda Fitzgerald flapper fur made out of 100 percent recycled tires.

MARGOT:

Ma, that's totally you. You got to get it.

HENRY (undertone):

Margot, your mother doesn't need encouragement.

MARGOT:

Don't be a stick in the mud, Henry. Mother likes to buy things.

HENRY: I know. Like the flame-resistant teakwood back scratcher, and the Elvis Presley singing towel rack.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:

Shhh, you two! He's about to give the number.

TV HOST (fade in):

Again, only $49.99 for Queen Isabella's charming dog pendant. But act fast. Supplies are limited. Call the number at the bottom of the screen, (fade out) or for super-speedy service, logon to our website at www.SpendMoneyNow.com.

MOTHER-IN-LAW (excited):

Where's the phone? What did—Henry, what did you do with MY phone?

HENRY:

Me-ee? You won't let me near your phone.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:

That, for your information, is a priceless glow-in-the-dark Osama Bin Laden action figure phone. Seven movable parts, and the turban is replaceable with a top hat.

HENRY:

Maybe it's in Afghanistan.

SFX: RUSTLING NOISE, CANS THROWN

MOTHER-IN-LAW (cont'd):

It should be right here…right…What?

SFX: CRINKLE OF PLASTIC CHIPS BAG

MOTHER-IN-LAW (cont'd):

My phone. What's my phone doing in the corn chips bag, HENRY?

HENRY:

Don't ask me.

MARGOT (helpfully, rapidly):

I know, I know, I bet it was that segment on Entertainment Tonight—Spot the Hottest Tush in Hollywood? You know, quick snapshots of Colin Farrell, George Clooney and Will Smith cavorting on the beach? (losing it, breathless) Well, I started to hyperventilate and I grabbed the corn chips bag and I—

MOTHER-IN-LAW (breaking in):

I know what's going on here. And don't try to protect him, Margot. HENRY was going sell my phone. Weren't you, Henry? Sell it to one of your [i]dealer[/i] friends.

HENRY:

See, that's where you're wrong. I don't HAVE any friends.

HENRY (narrating):

How I ended up in my in-laws' attic, and in Mr. Valenzuela's employ, started with a house. Margot and me, well, we kinda got wrapped up in the sub-prime mortgage fiasco. You know, two crazy people with not enough money to buy a house buying a house anyway? Well, that was us. One moment we were home sweet home, the next we were home sweet out-of-a-home.

Then Margot lost her job at the toy factory. (SFX: SQUEAKY TOY) The factory and the jobs shipped overseas to someplace called Kazikastoplestan [kah-ZEE-kah-STO-pul-stan] (SFX: SOMEONE JABBERING IN FOREIGN LANGUAGE), where they use donkeys (SFX: DONKEY BRAY) to power the machinery (SFX: WHIP LASH, SOMEONE OFF MIKE CALLS "YAH!") and factory workers get paid by the turnip bushel.

So with losing the house and Margot losing her job, that's kinda how I ended up working for Mr. Valenzuela, who I call Mr. V.

(fade out) I was in the break room at Super Cheapo Shopping Warehouse where I worked in Hardware when Teensie, from Grocery, threw a folded newspaper across the table.

SFX: NEWSPAPER SLOPS IN SOUP

HENRY:

Aw, jeez, Teense, you got the paper in my soup.

TEENSIE (gruff, untutored voice; disgusted):

What kinda glop is that you're eating?

HENRY (dejected):

I don't know. Something my mother-in-law made. I think it's concrete.

TEENSIE:

Hey, so check out that newspaper ad. The one I circled.

HENRY (grossed out):

Great. Lumpy wet newspaper…

SFX: RUSTLING NEWSPAPER

TEENSIE:

Don't you just think it's a riot?

HENRY:

Give me a minute—Where…oh, I see the ad. (reading) "WANTED: Hardworking adult, low IQ not a problem. Familiarity with firearms a plus. Unafraid to…die? Pay not revertible to next of kin?"

TEENSIE:

What'd I say, huh? What kinda dumbbell would apply for that?

HENRY:

Yeah, areal numbskull…

TEENSIE:

Like I was telling Hilda, that crippled chick in Soft Goods? Kinda drags her foot and the left eye's all, you know, saggy.

HENRY:

She's eighty-four years old.

TEENSIE (not paying attention):

I said, (shouting) "Hilda!"—You got to talk loud or she can't hear—I said, (shouting) "Hilda, we got it pretty good here at Super Cheapo, dontcha think? Our own lockers, discounts on cigarettes. They'll even give us health insurance if they forget and schedule us 36 hours." I've had health insurance three weeks so far this year. Management was wicked mad…Crappers!

HENRY:

What?

TEENSIE:

Break's almost up.

SFX: CHAIR LEG SCRAPING

TEENSIE (cont'd):

So…wanna go out back for a joint?

HENRY:

Nah, I got a random drug test next week.

TEENSIE:

Yeah, just had mine. Party on! All right, so, remember the meat raffle Friday, 'kay? Dick's Main Tap. All of us getting together to celebrate Edna's promotion to Senior Shelf Stocker.

HENRY:

I can shoplift the Twinkies from Grocery. Anything else?

TEENSIE (fade out):

Nah. I snagged the Coke and Diet Sprite when surveillance was down yesterday.

HENRY:

Okay. See ya.

SFX: DOOR CLOSES

HENRY (cont'd):

Where's that number?

SFX: DIALING SEVEN NUMBERS ON CELL PHONE; PHONE RINGS

MR. V (phone, grouchy):

Yes?

HENRY (uncertain):

Uh, hi, is this the person I call about the ad?

MR. V:

Ad? Who is this? (rapidly) Listen, I don't want your satellite TV. I don't want your 500-plus cable stations. I don’t want my windshield replaced or my gutters cleaned or my neighbor whacked by that fat mob guy on HBO. I'm doing fine, thank you, without your survey on the latest political scandal involving nude coeds, tax evasion and someone with the last name Kennedy. I've got news for you: They're politicians. In fact, I happen to be a member of a very select list. The DO NOT CALL list. But perhaps the memo hasn't reached your call center in Mumbai.

HENRY:

Uh, actually, this is an ad you placed.

MR. V:

Oh. (a beat, seductive) Is this a caller for…1-900-Meee-owwwww?

HENRY (confused):

(a beat) The ad in the Swanville Paper? "…unafraid to die"?

MR. V (realizing):

THAT ad. (a beat) Yes, of course, that ad.

HENRY:

I was wondering if the job was still open.

MR. V:

Loads of callers. Loads….but I'm listening.

HENRY:

Yeah, that part about "unafraid to die"?

MR. V:

It's pretty simple…[reaching for a name]

HENRY:

Henry.

MR. V:

Yes, Henry. It's like this: I tell you what to do, when to do it, and if you end up in the trash, that's your business.

HENRY:

Oh, like taking out the trash.

MR. V (overlapping):

No, like you in the trash because someone put you there. In pieces.

HENRY (a beat as he considers):

How much does it pay?

MR. V:

Three thousand a week.

***

[b]
[/b]

[b]SCENE 2[/b]

[b] [/b]

MUSIC: COUNTRY TWANG/ON THE ROAD MUSIC, UP AND DOWN BEHIND NARRATION

HENRY: That's the long and short of how I ended up a three-thousand-a-week chump for Valenzuela Properties, LLC, the firm started by Mr. V with financial backing from several shady unnamed partners.

Mr. V buys foreclosed properties no one else wants. (a beat) Sometimes the people being foreclosed on don't want to leave. That's where I come in….

SFX: CAR MOTOR

MR. V:

Got the mace?

HENRY:

Check.

MR. V:

Numchucks?

HENRY:

Uh…yeah, in the glove compartment.

MR. V:

Guess we're set. Chicken feed, Henry. Family of four. The Jollys, Mildred and Myron Jolly of Shadylake Estates and two kiddies. According to this bank note, foreclosed on three months ago.

HENRY:

Three months and the police haven't brought in the attack dogs?

MR. V (deadpan):

Actually, the police did go in. But no one ever heard from them again. Hold on, hold on. Don't drive so fast.

HENRY:

What?

MR. V:

I think that's our turnoff. What's the sign say?

HENRY (reading):

"Welcome to Hollow, where hospitality meets the simple way of life. Population 860"…Jeez, what happened? Buildings all boarded up. No cars. Where is everyone?

MR. V:

Who knows? Probably the day they sacrifice virgins to the forest deity. (beat) Now that I recall: I did read something about groundwater pollution in Hollow. Runoff from the local mill. Using nuclear waste to flash-cure the timber or something. (dismissive) Probably just a rumor.

HENRY:

I don't know, Mr. V. Are you sure you want to buy this place?

MR. V (devilishly excited):

Henry, can I tell you a secret? My partners and I—hold on to your panties—are going to buy this entire town.

HENRY:

Hollow, the town with a half-life of a million years?

MR. V:

Turn it into an amusement park: Valenzuelaland. Has a ring, don't you think?

HENRY:

Yeah, like Alcatraz. We're three hours from nowhere.

MR. V:

The plans are already drawn. A water flume, interpretive trails, sawmill derbies, everyone dressed in lumberjack outfits—lower cut for the ladies, to give us that AIR of woodsy sex appeal. (alerted) Hold on!

HENRY (bored):

--to my panties, I know.

MR. V:

No, that gas station. Did you see someone in the window? I thought—yes, there he is again. Turn in.

SFX: GAS STATION BELL, ENGINE OFF, TWO CAR DOORS OPEN AND CLOSE

HENRY:

Curry's Gas 'n' Go? We just filled up an hour ago.

MR. V:

I need directions to the Jolly house.

HENRY:

You said you got directions already.

MR. V:

Yes, from a Neanderthal: (imitating caveman talk) "Take a left at big forest, house big like mountain, can't miss."

SFX: FOOTSTEPS ON GRAVEL

MR. V (cont'd):

We'll just get a little clarification from the station manager. Show him the…

HENRY:

The map. Here ya go.

SFX: DOOR CHIME

MR. V:

Thanks, Henry. You just let me handle this, okay? (as if announcing the king) Mr. Station Manager? Your prayers have been answered, a customer has walked through the door and requires your help…Mr. Curry? (silence) Hmph.

HENRY:

Maybe that's not his name.

MR. V (stern):

Whoever you are, I know you're hiding under the counter. I can see the plaid of your flannel boxer shorts.

CURRY (off mike):

I don't want ya! Go away.

HENRY (shocked):

Oh my god. He's—is he under the counter?

MR. V:

How very sweet. And, yes, now that you ask, I would like directions to the property at—

CURRY (off mike, overlapping):

I know what ya are, bloodsucking beast!

HENRY (under his breath):

Someone must've told him you were coming.

CURRY (off mike):

Rip my heart out and eat it. That's what you think. Well, I got a rifle here says you ain't gonna do it!

MR. V (steady):

--directions to the property at Shadylake Estates. I've brought a map. All you have to do is point.

SFX: SHAKE OPEN MAP; MR. CURRY SCUFFLING AROUND ON FLOOR

CURRY (off mike, uncertain): You don't sound like no fiends.

MR. V:

Only on Thursdays. Fridays we rise from the flames and take on human form. (down to business) Shadylake Estates, Mr. Curry.

CURRY (off mike):

All right…I'm coming up in three seconds. But I got my rifle!

MR. V:

We're looking forward to it. (undertone, to Henry) What did I say about the drinking water, Henry?

HENRY:

Maybe we should leave.

CURRY (off mike, but fading in):

One…two…

MR. V:

This place could use a dusting.

CURRY (on mike):

Three! Ahhhhh!

HENRY (overlapping):

Ahhhhh!

MR. V (beat):

Hi. Just me. The fiend, remember?

CURRY (suspicious):

Whaddya want with Shadylake Estates?

MR. V:

Oh, you know, the annual slumber party with the Jollys. Mildred and Myron, maybe you know them? Champion curlers. Blue ribbon in the chili cook-off? Uh, maybe you could put down that rifle, Mr. Curry.

CURRY:

Who's asking?

MR. V (as to a slow learner):

My name is Mr. Valenzuela and this is my associate Henry. Say hello, Henry.

HENRY (nervous):

Hey.

CURRY:

Huh!

MR. V:

We're here to investigate the Shadylake property for investment purposes.

CURRY:

Huh!

MR. V (continuous):

I'm not one to gossip, but, the Jollys sniffed the mortgage up their noses, if you know what I mean, and now the property is foreclosed. Britney Spears lifestyle on a Laura Ingalls budget. See it all the time.

CURRY:

Huh!

MR. V:

So, Mr. Curry, if you could just point your trigger finger at our map, here, we'll be out of your long, stringy hair forever.

CURRY:

You ain't going there. No one goes there and comes back…alive.

HENRY:

Alive? Mr. V, did you hear that?

MR. V:

I see. I see how it is. The Jollys friends of yours? You know, if you don't tell me where they live, I'm sure somebody else—

CURRY:

Somebody else? There's ain't nobody else. They're dead. All of em, dead. Mayor. Kids at school. Even that dimwit sat on the porch, asked yer name every gol'darn time he saw ya: (singsong) "What's yer name? What's yer name?" He's dead too. And my poor dog. Did what with 'im, I don't care to ask, those…those demons living at Shadylake.

MR. V:

Right, the Jollys of 3220 Shadylake Estates. I have the foreclosure notice right here somewhere. In my jacket or some—

CURRY:

Don't move! Don't move a muscle.

HENRY:

Hey, watch where you're pointing that thing.

CURRY:

If you're smart—(menacing) and you don't look all that smart to me—you'll right walk out that door and keep a going. And don't ever say that name again.

HENRY:

What, Shadylake?

CURRY:

You said it. You said it again! I told ya not to say it and ya said it again. You…you…

MR. V:

Calm down, Mr. Curry.

CURRY:

I ain't talking to you, am I? I ain't even sure I'm here. Maybe it's someone else talking. Maybe I'm stuck in hell or someplace, in North Dakota! Get so jumpy sometimes, I want to shoot the first thing that moves, know what I mean?

MR. V:

I do indeed, yes, and look at the time. Five p.m., Henry, don't you think it's time we get a move on?

HENRY:

Sure thing, Mr. V. You want me to get this map?

SFX: CRUMPLE PAPER

MR. CURRY (to himself, delirious):

And sometimes at night, I get these dreams. Little green men, come here asking for TV dinners…

MR. V:

(to Henry) Henry, start backing to the door. (louder) Thank you so much, Mr. Curry. This has been really…Well, anyway, happy shooting.

CURRY (fading out, as V and Henry move away):

You ain't going to that house, are ya?

MR. V:

The house? Never. Cross my heart and hope to die.

SFX: DOOR CHIME

CURRY (off mike):

I warned ya. No one leaves Shadylake alive!

SFX: DOOR SLAM

MR. V (to Henry):

That, Henry, is what happens when you breed with your relatives. Guess we'll have to find Shadylake on our own.

HENRY:

Are you serious? He said people die out there. I've got a wife, two kids…

MR. V:

And your in-laws. Think about it, Henry, a few more months working for me, and you'll be able to afford that house your wife has your eye on.

***

[b]SCENE 3[/b]

MUSIC

SFX: CAR MOTOR, VOICES ECHOY INTERIOR OF CAR

HENRY (fade in):

I don't know about this, Mr. V. We've been driving for three hours. I mean it's almost eight o'clock. Maybe should call it a day.

MR. V:

Trust me, Henry. THIS is the driveway.

HENRY:

You said that 15 driveways ago.

MR. V:

Yes, but this is the only driveway in Hollow we haven't gone down.

HENRY (beat, sound of motor):

Look at all these trees. All dark and creepy, don’t ya think? Like Friday the 13th creepy. Like any minute some guy in a hockey mask is gonna—

MR. V:

A-ha!

HENRY:

What! What did you see?

MR. V:

There's the house. Didn't I tell you, Henry? Just beyond the headlights.

HENRY:

Oh, yeah…

MR. V:

3220 Shadylake Estates!

HENRY(beat, to give time for them to come into clearing):

This is it? We drove all the way out here for this?

MR. V:

Isn't she a beaut?

HENRY:

The shutters are hanging off.

MR. V:

Look they even lit the front porch for us. I wonder if Mr. Curry called ahead. That could be good or bad, depending.

HENRY:

Bad.

MR. V:

Just park next to that pile.

HENRY:

Pile?...

MR. V:

Just there on the left. That pile of…

HENRY:

Oh, yeah…What is that? Is that…?

MR. V (cont'd):

…bones or whatever.

SFX: CAR ENGINE OFF.

HENRY (frantic):

Bones! Those are human bones, Mr. V. I knew it, I knew it.

MR. V:

Henry, calm yourself. Do you really think a family of mass murderers resides at Shadylake Estates?

HENRY:

Yes.

MR. V:

I mean look at those charming gables, the lovely gingerbread trim, and that…that interesting door knocker.

HENRY:

Door knocker? (considers) That's an axe. The Jollys probably put it there for easy access when visitors come calling.

MR. V (chuckling):

Silly. Do you ever listen to yourself? Axe murderers, bones…

HENRY:

Well, what are those bones then? Huh?

MR. V (almost singing):

Hello! Earth to Henry—we're in the heart of Redneck, USA. What do you think these people do out here in the woods all day? They hunt. They listen to country music, and they hunt. That's what rednecks do.

HENRY:

Those are animal bones?

MR. V:

Of course, they're animal bones. Deer and bear and squirrel…

HENRY:

That deer looks like my aunt Martha.

MR. V:

In fact, I know a thing or two about the Jollys. Not to gossip, I hate even the glint of it, but word on the street is, (conspiratorially) the Jollys built a still on the lake. The moon shines every night at the Jolly ranch.

HENRY:

There's a lake?

MR. V:

Shady Lake. Just through the woods there, fed indirectly by the same river that powers the lumber mill.

HENRY:

Wait, you mean the mill with the nuclear waste problem?

MR. V:

Rumors, my dear Henry. Rumors. And we don’t put stock in rumors. But, as a precaution, I wouldn't accept Mrs. Jolly's lemonade. (business-like) All right, well, off you go.

HENRY:

Why are you scooching over?

MR. V:

To neck, Henry. This is all a set up. Starlight, parked car, romantic setting—Henry, will you marry me?

SFX: TWO DOGS HOWLING

HENRY:

I'm not going in that house alone.

MR. V:

Three thousand dollars says you will.

HENRY:

Well, what are you going to do?

MR. V:

I am going to sit in the driver's seat, here. Cmon, get out.

SFX: CAR DOOR CLICKS OPEN, CRICKET NOISE (continues under and throughout next sequence until enters house)

MR. V (cont'd):

And make sure no one borrows the car. Oh, and watch out for the—

SFX: HENRY TUMBLING IN BONES

MR. V (cont'd):

--bone pile.

HENRY (standing outside, outside atmospherics):

Thanks.

SFX: MORE CLATTER OF BONES AS HE PICKS HIMSELF UP.

MR. V:

Wait a second. (fade out, slightly as leans over) Let me get your--

SFX: OPENING AND CLOSING GLOVE COMPARTMENT

MR. V:

(fade in)--numchucks from the glove compartment.

HENRY:

Brilliant. Do I give Mrs. Jolly the numchucks before or after the lemonade?

MR. V:

How about the mace?

HENRY (impatient):

Still in my pocket. Can I go?

MR. V:

Remember, Henry, these people are probably upset about the foreclosure, want to stick it to the man. But we're above all that. We're here to examine the property, and boot the Jollys out of house and home. We've done it a hundred times before.

HENRY

I'VE done it a hundred times before.

MR. V (off mike, interior of car):

Good luck. I'll be here in the driver's seat…in case we need a quick getaway.

SFX: FOOTSTEPS OVER GRAVEL

HENRY (mumbling):

Three thousand dollars a week…Maybe I like living in my in-laws' attic. Keeps me humble. He could learn a thing or two about humility, Mr. I'll-stay-in-the-car.

MR. V (off mike, yelling from car window):

Don't drink the water, Henry.

HENRY (mumbling):

These steps are all broken up.

SFX: FOOTFALLS ON WOODEN STEPS

HENRY (cont'd):

Looks like the termites have—(beat) no, that's definitely an axe mark. Is that…

SFX: FOOTFALLS PAUSE

HENRY (cont'd):

(beat) …blood?

MR. V (off mike, yelling from car window):

What's the hold up?

HENRY:

Get a hold of yourself, Henry. The Jollys are redneck hunters with a moonshine problem. Of course, there'd be a little spillage of…of blood on the porch.

SFX: FOOTFALLS RESUME, STOP (as he comes to door)

HENRY:

Okay, mace in this pocket. Numchucks in the other.

MR. V (off mike, hollering):

For god's sake, knock on the door already.

HENRY:

We'll just use this axe doorknocker….(beat) not a doorknocker. Okay. (clears throat)

SFX: RAPPING ON DOOR

HENRY (clearing throat):

H-h-hello?

SFX: BARKS, YOWLS, CLAWS SCRAPING AT INSIDE OF DOOR; HENRY'S FOOTFALLS FAST IN OTHER DIRECTION, THUNDERING DOWN STAIRS

HENRY (voice shaky from running; overlapping with rapid footfalls, clawing and barking):

Wrong address, Mr. V. No one's home.

SFX (overlapping with "wrong address"): DOGS SILENCED. DOOR CREAKING OPEN.

MR. JOLLY (creepy monotone):

Welcome…

HENRY (to himself):

That doesn't sound good.

SFX: CAR DOOR OPEN, SHUT; FEET WALKING HURRIEDLY OVER GRAVEL

MR. V (fade in; brightly, like salesman):

Hello, hello, hello, you must be Mr. Jolly? (to Henry) Henry, the house is in the OTHER direction. Turn and face the man. You're being rude.

HENRY:

I don't feel good about this, Mr. V. I really don't.

SFX: FEET RUNNING UP WOODEN PORCH STAIRS; SECOND SET OF FEET MOVING MORE SLOWLY BEHIND

MR. V (fade in):

Mr. Jolly, sorry for the late hour.

MR. JOLLY:

Welcome….

MR. V:

My, aren't you tall?

MR. JOLLY:

Yes…

MR. V:

I am Mr. Valenzuela. The bank may have called you about me? No? Well, anyway, I'm here to inspect your property for invest…

SFX: DOGS GROWLING

MR. V (cont'd):

Dogs…Nice, little, frolicky doggies. (scared noise as…)

SFX: DOGS BARK, TEETH SNAP

MR. JOLLY (stern):

Bane! Hemlock! Settle. You can have it later.

MR. V:

Almost lost my hand there.

MR. JOLLY:

Bane, Hemlock, up with you. Up to your beds.

SFX: DOGS SCAMPER AWAY

MR. JOLLY (cont'd):

Bane and Hemlock, my daughters.

HENRY:

Daughters?

MR. V (hurriedly):

Yes, and aren't they cute. My grandmother always said a little hair on the body is good for insulation.

HENRY (hissing under his breath):

They're running on all fours.

MR. V:

The water, Henry. The water. (to Mr. Jolly) So, Mr. Jolly, may we…

MR. JOLLY:

Please, come in.

SFX: DOOR HINGE SCREECH

MR. V:

You first, Henry.

HENRY:

Uh, Mr. Jolly, are you sure your daughters won't—

MR. JOLLY:

They'll stay upstairs, until I call them. Please, enter.

SFX: DOOR SLAMS LOUDLY, VOICE ATMPOSPHERICS CHANGE TO INDOORS

MR. JOLLY (off mike):

Follow me.

MR. V (to Henry):

Definitely a teardown job, Henry. Or an extensive remodel. I can't believe this. Look at this. Hack marks in the banister. Crumbling plaster.

HENRY:

Blood on the walls.

MR. V:

Now, if it were me, if I were the one getting foreclosed on, I'd spruce the place up. You know why? Because it's a matter of integrity.

HENRY:

Don't trip on the skull, Mr. V.

MR. V:

Oh, yeah. Thanks.

SFX: KICKS SKULL, RICOCHETS DOWN HALL

MR. V (cont'd):

It's criminal what people do in a foreclosure. They figure they can't have the house, well, no one else can either. Turn it to rack and ruin.

MR. JOLLY (off mike):

This way. Follow me.

SFX: DOOR SWINGS OPEN, SLAPS SHUT

MR. JOLLY:

This is…the kitchen.

MR. V (under his breath):

Salmonella alley.

MRS. JOLLY (off mike, high diva voice):

What's this? What's this?

SFX: SMALL RAPID FOOTSTEPS

MR. JOLLY:

My wife, Mrs. Jolly.

MR. V:

Ah, the lovely, Mrs. Jolly.

MRS. JOLLY:

Dinner? Myron, you louse, you never told me you were bringing home dinner.

MR. JOLLY:

They just arrived.

MRS. JOLLY (cont'd, self-absorbed):

I mean I woulda plucked my eyebrows. Look at me! I'm overdressed. I don’t have my leather apron, my gloves…Anybody seen a meat cleaver lying around?

MR. V:

Right, well, while you discuss dinner arrangements, I think I'm going to have a little look around. As I was telling your husband, Mrs. Jolly, I represent the firm that's purchased Shadylake from the bank.

MRS. JOLLY (in one long breath):

Oh, this is no good. No good at all. Myron, can you see how mad I am? Can you see it in my eyes? And where am I supposed to dress the carcasses, huh? With your tools all over the garage. A person can't even move out there. Two of them to, and David Letterman coming on in an hour.

MR. JOLLY:

Mama, you're being a nag.

MRS. JOLLY:

A nag? Oh, I'll show you a nag, when dinner's late all because someone, I won't say who, lost my meat cleaver.

HENRY:

Yeah. Hey, Mr. V, I think I'll just head out to the car.

MRS. JOLLY:

Car? You got car? Oh, Myron, you never said anything about a car.

MR. V:

Yes, car, Mrs. Jolly, BROOOOMM—BROOOMM car. What you in the country call a horse.

MRS. JOLLY:

Now that's just perfect. Now that's just really great. Myron, I hope I don't have to remind you what happened last time our dinner got in a car and drove away…

MR. JOLLY (fade out):

I'll take care of it.

SFX: STOMPS OUT; DOOR SLAPS OPEN, CLOSED

MRS. JOLLY:

He's so forgetful in his old age. You two want a drink, something to plump you up?

MR. V (beat):

Okay, well, this is getting a bit awkward, isn't it? I'm going to just do my quick breeze through. Henry, you, uh, keep Mrs. Jolly entertained.

HENRY:

Yeah, thanks, Mr. V. I'd love to.

MR. V:

Five minutes at the outside.

HENRY:

Make it four and I'll give you my first-born child.

SFX: DOOR SLAPS OPEN AND CLOSED

MRS. JOLLY (after uncomfortable silence):

Soooo…

HENRY:

So.

MRS. JOLLY:

Have a seat?

SFX: CHAIR LEGS SCRAPING

HENRY:

In the chair with the manacles attached? No.

MRS. JOLLY:

Okay. How about…

SFX: CHAIR LEGS SCRAPING

MRS. JOLLY (cont'd):

--this chair?

HENRY:

In front of the open window? So you can push me out?

MRS. JOLLY:

We're on the first floor.

HENRY:

Yeah, well, I'll just, uh, you know, stand here, by the door…(rising menace) with my numchucks and pepper spray!

MRS. JOLLY:

Glass of water? Are you thirsty?

HENRY:

Actually, I am kinda—wait a second…

MRS. JOLLY (overlapping):

(fade out as move toward sink) Best water in the world, here in Hollow.

HENRY (overlapping, recalling himself):

I heard about the water.

SFX: TAP TURNED ON, WATER IN GLASS

MRS. JOLLY (overlapping, fade in):

Piped straight from the lake. Here you are.

HENRY (beat, as considers):

Hm. Kind of glowing, isn't it?

MRS. JOLLY:

Glowing with health! I tell you, ever since the water started to glow, Myron, the kids and I—we haven't been the same. (giddily) Appetites like grizzly bears. RAAAARRRR! (chuckles) You know? I mean those Atkins diet people had it right. Protein, that's what the body needs. Lots and lots of fresh protein.

HENRY:

Wowee. I'm feeling a little…You know what? I think I'm going to go and, uh, see what Mr. V's up to…(cut off by…)

SFX: DOOR SLAPS OPEN AND SHUT

MR. JOLLY:

Well, well, well, leaving so soon? Hoping you're not planning to use--

SFX: SOMETHING THUDS ON TABLE

MR. JOLLY (cont'd):

--the car.

HENRY (astonished):

Uh, what is that…that…

MR. JOLLY:

From your car.

HENRY:

That's what I thought. Tell me you didn't take that out of our car.

MR. JOLLY:

I did.

HENRY:

Uh, Mr. Jolly, I'm pretty sure we're going to need that to drive out of here.

MR. JOLLY:

So soon? The party's just warming up.

SFX: MR. JOLLY WHISTLES

MR. JOLLY (cont'd):

Girls!

SFX: OVERHEAD DOGS POUNDING OVER FLOOR, THUMPING DOWNSTAIRS, SCRABBLE THROUGH DOOR GROWLING AND PANTING

MR. JOLLY (cont'd):

Ah, here they come…here they are, my lovelies. Bane, Hemlock, good girls. You'll keep our itsy-bitsy dinner guest company, won't you?

SFX: DOGS BARK IN ANSWER

MR. JOLLY (cont'd):

And, Mama, you'll be so happy with me. Look what I found.

MRS. JOLLY:

My meat cleaver! Where'd you find my meat cleaver?

MR. JOLLY:

In the postman.

MRS. JOLLY:

The postman. Ah! How could I forget? And here I was blaming you…

SFX: DOOR SLAPS OPEN

MR. V (huffing with anger):

Well, I have seen just about everything!

HENRY:

Mr. V! Thank god. Thank god. You won't believe these people…the car…I mean you have no idea…

MR. V (overlapping, outraged):

Oh, Henry, yes I do. (to the couple) Mr. and Mrs. Jolly, you win the award for the filthiest, most repellent, execrable, rat-infested, gore-grimed, foul-smelling, besmirched and detesting household I have ever seen IN MY LIFE. That's saying something too. Do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to walk right out this door and inject a tetanus booster in every part of my body.

HENRY:

Walk is about right.

MR. V:

When I return, it will be with a wrecking ball and a waste disposal crew--

SFX: DOGS GROWLING LOW

HENRY (trying to get his attention):

Yeah, Mr. V?

MR. V (cont'd):

--who will have specific orders to bring some very, very large leak-proof bags. Do you know why, Mr. and Mrs. Jolly?

HENRY:

Mr. V.

MR. V:

To toss every one of you Jolly people in the lake with cement blocks tied around your necks.

HENRY:

Mr. V, you're not listening.

MR. V:

Which is more than any of you deserve. (beat, deadpan) Why are your dogs chewing on my leg?

MR. JOLLY:

My apologies. Bane! Hemlock! Back! Mustn't let our appetites run away with us.

MRS. JOLLY:

He's a spicy one, this one. Let's barbecue him!

MR. JOLLY:

Mama, perhaps you can fetch me the rope?

MRS. JOLLY (fade out):

Oh, with pleasure. With pleasure. (singing in background) [i]Tea for two, and two for tea, me and you and you and me…[/i](overlapping with…)

MR. V:

Henry, we're outta here. (to couple) Goodnight!

HENRY:

Actually, Mr. V, you might want take a look at this thing Mr. Jolly brought in.

SFX: CLUNK OF SOMETHING METAL LIFTED OFF TABLE

MR. V (unimpressed):

It's a hunk of metal.

HENRY:

Right, from your car.

MR. JOLLY:

I helped myself.

MR. V (rising anger):

Let me think a moment…you helped yourself to my car? To a piece of my car?

MR. JOLLY:

Didn't want you to…miss dinner.

MRS. JOLLY (fade in):

Got the rope, honey. This is gonna be good. Here, Myron, take this end. We'll start on the saucy one. Maybe tomorrow, we can take a family picnic by the lake…

HENRY:

Uh, Mr. V, what do you want me to do? They're tying you up. You want me to give you—

MR. V:

Yes, Henry, the numchucks.

HENRY:

Here ya go.

MR. V:

Time to teach you folks a little table manners--

SFX: JANGLE OF CHAIN AND WOOD; DOGS BARKING AS MR. V SLAPS THE NUMCHUCKS SEVERAL TIMES ON THE FLOOR, SHOUTING…

MR. V (cont'd):

Yah! Yah! Yah!

SFX: DOGS LOW WHIMPER OR FADE OUT

MRS. JOLLY:

Hey!

MR. V (cont'd):

And next time, I won't miss. Henry, grab the rope.

HENRY:

Already on it, Mr. V.

MRS. JOLLY (to her husband):

Myron, you can't just—why aren't you doing anything?

MR. JOLLY:

Typical…always my fault when the chips start to fall. Well, I don't know, Mildred, you're the one with the meat cleaver.

MR. V (taking charge):

Okay, this is how it's going to be. Henry and I are going upstairs to go nighty-night. You two Jolly old souls are going to stay down here with your freak daughters.

SFX: DOG BARK

MR. V (cont'd):

But let me inform you, should you decide to tippty-toe upstairs, Mrs. Jolly, with your meat cleaver—

MRS. JOLLY (overlapping):

And I know how to use it.

MR. V (overlapping):

--that [i]I[/i] was in the first airdrop over Baghdad. Who do you think slapped down Saddam's Imperial guard?

HENRY:

He smacked them down hard too. Smack down Valenzuela.

MR. V:

Cmon, Henry. There's some cleaning to do if we're going to spend the night in this trashcan.

SFX: DOOR SLAPS OPEN, CLOSED

MR. JOLLY:

Nice going with the meat cleaver, Mildred.

MRS. JOLLY:

And you were so good with the rope. Top of your game, with, like, our first home delivery in weeks—in weeks!—slipping right through our fingers.

MR. JOLLY:

Always blaming someone else. Myron this, Myron that. Guess self-responsibility hasn't made it into your dictionary.

MRS. JOLLY:

Because if you didn't have such a [i]gynormous[/i] appetite—seriously, the whole town is depopulated, Myron.

MR. JOLLY (exasperated):

Like you don't overindulge?

MRS. JOLLY:

I mean it used to be so easy. Grab a drunk stumbling out of the bar, or invite the ladies over for bible study. And BAM, there's your dinner.

MR. JOLLY (wistfully):

Those were the days.

MRS. JOLLY:

Now, you gotta go the next town over, and even there it's slim pickings.

MR. JOLLY:

There's still that service station attendant.

MRS. JOLLY:

Curry? Pffff! Guaranteed heartburn. Wouldn't touch him with a bottle of Tabasco sauce.

MR. JOLLY (seductively):

I know what you'd like.

MRS. JOLLY:

Oh, Myron, you know how you get.

MR. JOLLY:

Just one glass of water. Just one. C'mon, just a tiny…

MRS. JOLLY (fade out):

One! But if you start to do the "Chicken Dance"…

***

MUSIC

MR. V (fade in):

Did you try your cell phone?

HENRY:

No signal.

MR. V:

Same here. An absolutely essential piece of technology made absolutely pointless by the lack of a signal. One more thing to add to the Valenzuelaland package: a cell phone tower.

HENRY:

Hold on. You're not still planning to build here, are you?

SPX: DISTANT HOWL OF DOGS

MR. V:

You think the Jollys can scare me off? (makes dismissive sound) Pfff…I've seen worse.

HENRY:

Mr. Jolly looks big enough.

MR. V:

I'm going to tell you story, Henry. Something I've never told anyone. Come over here, sit next to me.

HENRY (disgusted):

Not on THAT bed.

MR. V:

Well, then pull up that toy chest or whatever it is.

SFX: FOOTSTEPS AWAY; DRAGGING CHEST OVER FLOOR

HENRY (fade in):

Ungh! This thing's heavy. Wonder what they got in here?

MR. V:

I already looked. You don't want to know.

HENRY:

(a beat as he sits down) Okay, I'm sitting.

MR. V:

Well, Henry, this is the story of my first foreclosure. The first with my silent partners, at any rate. A kind of trial purchase. You see, they wanted to check me out, see if I had the guts to hack it in the wilds of American business.

HENRY:

Am I ever going to meet these silent partners of yours?

MR. V:

You ever see the Godfather?

HENRY:

Yeah.

MR. V:

Then you know my business partners.

HENRY:

Al Pacino?

MR. V:

You're interrupting the flow of my story. (resumes) As I was saying about my first foreclosure, I started by hiring my first assistant. Now that I think of it, someone very like you, Henry, a milquetoast by the name of Jerome. (fade out) I remember the day perfectly. We'd been sent to a small seaside town called Bilgewash…

SFX: CHIME SOUND INDICATING A MOVE INTO THE PAST; FADE UP ON SOUND OF OCEAN SURF AND SEAGULLS

JEROME (wimpy voice, obsequious):

I want to thank you again, Mr. Valenzuela, for giving me this job. I mean picking me off the street and all.

MR. V:

Well, Jerome, it was either give you a job, or listen to you pluck "Dixie" on the banjo every time I walked out of the office.

JEROME:

Well, street musicians are kinda territorial. That was the only corner that wasn't taken. Anyway, I'm really glad to be doing something else for a while.

SFX: SEAGULLS UP, SHIP HORN

JEROME (cont'd after a beat):

So, what kinda job is this?

MR. V:

Capitalism 101, Jerome. You can't afford what you've bought, so I'm taking it away from you.

JEROME:

What I have?

MR. V: Hypothetical speech, Jerome…evidently beyond your pay grade. No, I was speaking of Sherry Jones.

JERMONE:

Oh, her. Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. You mentioned her in the car.

MR. V:

That's where we're walking now—and, in fact, this white-washed hovel looks like….(consulting his sheet) yes, it is hers. 1924 Keelhaul Lane….Oh, isn't that unique. A lighthouse doorbell. Just give it a little tap—

SFX: FOG HORN

MR. V (cont'd):

Pretty throaty doorbell. Hard to miss that. Oh, I think I hear her coming.

SFX: DOOR OPENS

SHERRY:

Yeah, what do you want?

MR. V:

Well, good day to you, Miss (reaching for name) Jones?

SHERRY:

Says so on the door. Guess that's me.

MR. V:

What a coincidence. Because right here in my pocket, I have a check for $10,000 made out to Miss Sherry Jones of Keelhaul Lane.

JEROME (overlapping):

Wow.

MR. V:

You, my friend, are the winner of Bilgewash City's Citizen of the Year Award.

JEROME (overlapping):

Oh, that's so cool.

SHERRY:

Hmph. Never heard of it.

MR. V:

May we come in?

SHERRY:

Help yourself.

SFX: VOICE ATMOSPHERICS CHANGE TO INTERIOR

SHERRY (cont'd, off mike, moving into kitchen):

You two can take a seat. I'm gonna get my beer from the kitchen.

MR. V:

You go right ahead.

JEROME:

Wow, Mr. Valenzuela, you never told me we were giving out $10,000.

MR. V (under his breath):

We're not giving out $10,000, Jerome. It's a screen. Just to get us inside.

JEROME:

Well, what's the check for then?

MR. V (under his breath, losing patience):

There is no—it's…okay, just do me a favor here, Jerome, and don't think. Don't even say a word until—

SHERRY (breaks in):

HAAAAA!

SFX: INTO SOMETHING SOFT AND SQUISHY

JERMONE:

Ungh!

SHERRY:

Ha! You thought you could trick me with that old $10,000 trick, well, I got news for you, mister, Sherry Jones wasn't born yesterday. I know why you're here. You're trying to throw me outta my house, and no one throws me outta my house.

JEROME (weakly, incredulous):

Oh my god. I'm bleeding.

MR. V (alarmed):

What was that?

JEROME (weakly, in background):

I think she hit me. Uhhhh…

MR. V (cont'd):

Did you just throw something?

SHERRY:

THAT was a five-pointed stainless steel Ninja throwing star. And there's more where that came from. Hiiiii-yah!

SFX: SOMETHING WINGS THROUGH AIR (but this time Mr. V catches it)

SHERRY:

What? How did…You caught the ninja throwing star?

MR. V:

In my fingertips, yes, Miss Jones. Little known fact, but I'll let you in on a secret of my own: I invented the five-pointed surgical stainless steel Ninja throwing STAR! (strains as throws the star and hits…)

SFX: SOMETHING WINGS THROUGH AIR AND THUNKS INTO SOMETHING SQUISHY

SHERRY:

Uh! Ya hit me. Ya hit me. I'm going…going down. I'mmm…uhhh…

SFX: BODY THUNKS TO GROUND

MR. V:

Well, that was easy enough, wasn't it, Jerome? Jerome? What are you doing on the ground?

SFX: CHIMES INDICATING RETURN TO PRESENT TIME

MR. V:

And that, Henry, is how I came to form Valenzuela Properties LLC, and you came to feed off the host.

HENRY:

Work for you, you mean. Why don't you just say, "Work for you" instead of this…(mimicking) "Feed off the host…"? You know it's not like I don't work for my money. I've got you out of plenty of scrapes. (beat) So, whatever happened to Jerome?

MR. V (chuckles):

Playing in the halleluiah chorus, in the great hereafter.

SFX: DISTANT HOWL OF DOGS

HENRY (shivers):

Ewwww. Those Jollys, Mr. V, they really give me the heebie jeebies, you know? I mean, I don't know, I think Mr. Curry was onto something. About people not coming back from here alive. I think they, well, did you get the impression they wanted to eat us?

MR. V:

Eat us? They have to catch us first, which is why (big YAWN through…) I think I'm going to hit the hay. Cut the lights on your way out, will you?

HENRY:

My way out? I'm not going anywhere. Not with those daughters—

SFX: DOG HOWL, CLOSER

HENRY (cont'd)

--out there.

MR. V:

Henry, you surprise me. A married man. Alright, big boy, hop on in. But if you steal the sheets in the…

HENRY (overlapping with "sheets in the"):

Okay. Okay. I'll go in the next room. But I get the numchucks and the mace.

MR. V:

Look, there's even a connecting bathroom between our rooms. At the first sound of anything—

HENRY (cuts in, agreeing):

Anything.

MR. V:

Just give me a shriek and I'll (a BIGGER YAWN as offhandedly says)…you know, whatever. (fade out as Henry moves away) The lights, Henry.

HENRY:

There.

SFX: SNAP OF LIGHT SWITCH

HENRY (cont'd):

But I'm going to turn the bathroom light—

SFX: SNAP OF LIGHT SWITCH

HENRY (cont'd, echoy bathroom voice):

--on, okay, Mr. V? Mr. V?

MR. V (off mike):

It's been two seconds. Do you really think I've fallen asleep?

HENRY:

All right. Night. (beat) And, uh, Mr. V, just in case anything happens…

MR. V (off mike):

I love you too, Henry.

HENRY:

Tell my wife that those magazines I stuffed under our mattress—well, I just holding onto them for someone else. This guy at work…

MR. V (sleepily):

Night, Henry.

HENRY (echoy):

Yeah, night, okay…I'll just leave the connecting doors open, 'kay?

MR. V (off mike):

(one loud snore)

HENRY (echoy bathroom voice, to himself):

Oh, god, look at the sink. And that toilet!…Mr. V wasn't kidding about the tetanus booster. We'll just open this door--

SFX: DOOR OPENS, CLICK LIGHT SWITCH, VOICE NO LONGER ECHOY (as enters bedroom)

HENRY (cont'd):

--into the bedroom and, uh.... (beat) Mmhm, I see. He would give me this room. Right. He gets a few cobwebs and I get Slaughterhouse Five. And how much do I get paid for this?

SFX: DOGS HOWLING, VERY CLOSE NOW

HENRY:

Are they…?

SFX: DOGS CLAWING DOOR, BARKING RIGHT OUTSIDE

HENRY:

They're outside the door. (running, voice gets echoy as goes in bathroom and then normal interior as enters Mr. V's room) Mr. V! Mr. V! Mr. V, are you awake?

MR. V:

Is that a rhetorical question?

HENRY (overwrought):

The dogs—I mean the Jolly daughters—they're trying to claw in my room, through the door. Clawing and leaping against—can't you hear them? (beat, all is silence) Or, they were. I swear, Mr. V, they were just, I swear on my mother-in-law's grave. Just a second ago.

SFX: THUMP OF FEET HITTING FLOOR

MR. V (hopping out of bed):

I can see I'm not going to get any sleep this way. All right, Henry, I'm going to walk into the hall.

HENRY (alarmed):

Don't open your bedroom door.

MR. V (getting farther off mike):

And open my door and—

HENRY:

Don't walk in the hall.

MR. V (farther off mike):

And walk in the hall and go down here—AHHHHHHH (continues under Henry's yelling..)

HENRY:

Mr. V! Mr. V! What are—Mr. V?

MR. V (calm):

Damn.

HENRY (stuttering):

The dogs-doggie--daughters, what…what are they…?

MR. V:

I stubbed my toe.

HENRY:

But you see them, right? They're out there.

MR. V:

Henry, you haven't been drinking any of that water, have you?

HENRY:

Okay. You stay there, Mr. V. Actually, stand outside my door, and I'm gonna…I'm gonna run back into my room, okay? And—

MR. V:

Yes, yes.

HENRY:

Okay, I'm running to my room.

SFX: RUN OF FEET THROUGH ECHOY BATHROOM THEN INTO BEDROOM; OPENS DOOR

HENRY:

Just a sec. I'm opening the door.

SFX: OPENS DOOR

MR. V:

Henry, is that you? What are you doing here?

HENRY (to himself):

I don't get it. There were just here. I heard them.

MR. V (moving away):

I'm going to bed. Goodnight.

SFX: CLOSES DOOR

HENRY:

I don't get it. I swear they were…Oh, well. Better lock this anyway.

SFX: SNAP OF LOCK, THEN LOW DOG GROWLING VERY NEAR AND CONTINUE UNDER HENRY LINES

HENRY (nervous):

—were growling. Very near. Oh, no….there you are, girls. Jolly girls. Jolly Jolly girls. You snuck in through Mr. V's room, didn't you?

MR. V (off mike, echoy through bathroom):

Night, Henry. I'm going to shut this bathroom door, okay?

HENRY (overlapping beginning "the bathroom door"):

Mr. V, don't shut—

SFX: DOOR SHUTS

HENRY (cont'd):

Figures.

SFX: DOGS GROWLING

HENRY:

Hi girls, I—I---ewwww, now don't come any closer now. Not unless you want Uncle Henry to spank you with these NUMCHUCKS!

SFX: NUMCHUCKS LIMPLY SKITTER ACROSS FLOOR

HENRY:

Butter fingers. Butter fingers. Now what am I--

SFX: DOGS GROWLING

HENRY:

Nice girls. Nice, nice…Uncle Henry was just kidding about the numchucks. He wouldn't have used his numchucks on you, not when he has pepper SPRAY.

MR. JOLLY (muffled, loud through door):

Bane, Hemlock, settle!

SFX: DOGS QUIET

HENRY:

Mr. Jolly?

SFX: DOOR RATTLES

MR. JOLLY (muffled, through door):

You've locked the door. Now that wasn't very polite, after all we've done. Where's the trust? Guess I'll just have to break it down.

SFX: CRASH AGAINST DOOR, CONTINUES UNDER…

HENRY:

Stay girls, stay.

SFX: DOGS LOW GROWL

HENRY (cont'd):

Uncle Henry's going to just see, uh, if Mr. V wants to come out and play. Let me get in the bathroom here (echoy bathroom voice), into the bathroom, nice girls, be nice. Uncle Henry's got his mace?

SFX: JIGGLING DOOR KNOB

HENRY:

Oh, shoot. Mr. V locked—

SFX: RAPPING ON DOOR AS IN NEXT ROOM THE DOOR CRASHES IN

MRS. JOLLY (off mike):

Now where's that cute little morsel?

HENRY:

Shoot.

SFX: RAPID KNOCKING ON DOOR

HENRY:

Mr. V? Uh, Mr. V? I think you accidentally locked the door. (SFX: GROWLING) Nice girls, nice. You locked the door, and I need you to open it, okay, Mr. V? Like right now.

MRS. JOLLY (echoy bathroom voice):

Oh, there he is.

MR. JOLLY (echoy bathroom voice):

You stay back, mama.

MRS. JOLLY:

Cute as a little lamb chop. Didn't I say?

MR. JOLLY:

I'll take care of this. Girls, what have you got in here? Well, if it isn't…

HENRY:

Hi.

MR. JOLLY (cont'd):

…dinner. Mama, the carving knives.

SFX: BLADES SLICING AGAINST EACH OTHER

MR. JOLLY (cont'd):

Girls, go now. Go into the bedroom. This is going to be messy.

SFX: ANOTHER SLICE OF BLADES OVER "mess"; RAPID KNOCKING ON DOOR

HENRY (cont'd):

Mr. V? You really need to get out of bed.

MR. V (muffled, distant):

Henry?

HENRY:

Mr. Jolly, not one more step. You either, Mrs. Jolly, or I'll spray you with this…this very toxic, flesh-eating virus.

MR. JOLLY:

Flesh eating. That sounds nice.

SFX: BLADES SLICING AFTER "nice"

HENRY:

I swear I will. Not one more step.

MRS. JOLLY:

Don't slice the tenderloin, Myron. You know how you just hack--

CURRY (off mike, overlapping with "hack"):

(screaming distantly) Yeeee-ah, caught ya fiends. That's right. Time to meet yer maker.

SFX: DOGS BARKING, GUNSHOT OFF MIKE

CURRY (off mike):

That's for eating the postman. And THAT'S—

SFX: GUNSHOT OFF MIKE, DOG BARKING STOPS ABRUPTLY

CURRY (off mike):

—for eating my cousin Jimmy.

SFX: FOOTSTEPS CLOSER

CURRY (cont'd; near, echoy):

More fiends!

HENRY:

Oh my god!

CURRY:

And this--THIS is for old Zeke, (getting teary-eyed) the best neighbor a guy ever had, and for my little dog Fluffy.

SFX: TWO DEAFENING GUNSHOTS, TWO BODIES SLUMP TO GROUND; (a beat) DOOR CRASHES OPEN

MR. V (close, echoy):

What on earth…? What are you doing in…? (beat) Mr. Curry? When did you get here?

CURRY (alarmed):

By Jesus! You almost got yer head shot off, ya did. Thought you was one of them fiends crashing through the door.

MR. V:

Ah, yes, the Jollys. Hmmm. Doesn't look like they'll be going anywhere soon. (beat) Henry? You haven't seen my assistant, have you?

HENRY (muffled):

Under here.

MR. V:

Henry?

HENRY (muffled):

Under Mr. Jolly.

MR. V:

Oh, yes, now I see you.

MUSIC

HENRY (narrating):

Last month, Mr. V broke ground on the new Valenzuelaland Theme Park.

SFX: CLICK OF MEGAPHONE/OUTDOOR PA SYSTEM TURNED ON, VOICE ECHOING THROUGH OPEN SPACE

MR. V (through megaphone):

I want to thank you all for coming out today, on this historic occasion as we break ground on what will come to be known as the gold standard in outdoor amusement parks: Valenzuelaland.

SFX: WEAK APPLAUSE

AUDIENCE MEMBER (off mike):

What about the free hot dogs you promised?

HENRY (narrating):

Mr. V was hoping to start construction in a few weeks, but the firm he hired to demolish the Jollys' house, the proposed site of Valenzuelaland's Lumberjack Flapjack Camp, made some discoveries.

SFX: SFX OF SHOVEL DIGGING AND HITTING BONE, HEAVY MACHINERY IN BG

CONSTRUCTION WORKER 1:

If that don't beat all.

CONSTRUCTION WORKER 2:

Watch where you're putting that shovel.

CONSTRUCTION WORKER 1:

Russell, check this out. That look like a human skull to you?

CONSTRUCTION WORKER 2:

Let me see…Hm…Nah, that's just one of them mutant squirrel bones Mr. V was talking about. Said to toss 'em in that pile over there.

CONSTRUCTION WORKER 1:

All right.

SFX: SKULL CLUNKING ON PILE

HENRY (narrating):

To date, they've uncovered over 600 skeletons in and around the Jolly place, which has led Mr. V and his partners to relocate the Lumberjack Flapjack Camp a half mile east. People were starting to wonder.

SHERIFF:

Mr. Valenzuela, I can assure you I have lived in this part of the country for going on forty-seven years and I have never seen squirrels that monumental.

MR. V:

What can I say, sheriff? Groundwater pollution. First you pollute the mill pond, and the next thing you know, you have two-headed frogs—

SHERIFF (unbelieving): --and squirrels the size of my high school football coach.

SFX: DISTANT GUNSHOT

SHERIFF:

What was that?

CURRY (off mike):

Got anther one, Mr. V!

MR. V (hollering):

Way to go, Mr. Curry. (to Sheriff) That's our groundskeeper, Mr. Curry. He's been weeding the mutants out of the local squirrel population.

SFX: DISTANT GUNSHOT

CURRY (off mike):

Got another one, Mr. V. That's eleven.

MR. V (hollering):

Glad you can count, Mr. Curry. (to Sheriff) Sheriff, before I forget. My partners and I wanted you to have this—

SFX: CHECK RIPPED FROM REGISTER

MR. V (cont'd):

—check. Consider it our donation to the Policeman's Ball.

HENRY (narrating):

So, rather than tear down the Jolly place, and risk further discoveries, Valenzuela Properties LLC decided to remodel it and put it for sale on the Spend Money Now shopping network.

TV ANNOUNCER:

Can you believe this price? $199,999 for a three-bedroom, lumberjack-era farmhouse, located in the heart of beautiful Valenzuelaland Theme Park. That's a steal, folks, and I'm not kidding when I say supplies are limited. This house is one of a kind. (fade out) So call fast or you'll miss the opportunity of a lifetime.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:

That house, Margot. Look at that house. It has me written all over it.

HENRY (undertone):

I couldn't agree more.

MARGOT:

Are you sure, Ma? I mean it's so far north.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:

Oh, where's my phone? I need my phone. Why can't I ever find my—(angry) Henry, where did you put my phone?

HENRY (narrating):

As to those bones, Mr. V knows a horticulturalist says bones are great for flower gardens. Brought out one of those bone-grinding machines one day (SFX: GRINDING NOISE) and the rest was roses.

TV ANNOUNCER:

Folks, look at those charming rose gardens. Imagine sitting in your breakfast nook with a morning cup of coffee—

MOTHER-IN-LAW (overlapping):

I see it already.

TV ANNOUNCER (cont'd):

--looking over those beautiful rose gardens. And all this for only $199,999.

HENRY:

Oh, what's this? Hey, I just found the phone under my seat cushion.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:

I knew it. Didn't I tell you, Margot? I told you.

MARGOT:

Ma, Henry wouldn't steal your phone.

SFX: DIALING SEVEN NUMBERS (overlapping with…)

MOTHER-IN-LAW:

Probably going to sell it, pay off all those 1-900 calls he's been racking up.

HENRY:

You mean YOUR 1-900 calls, to that phony psychic.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:

Margot, did I tell you what the psychic told me? She told me she saw evil lurking over the house. Evil! And we know how to spell evil, don't we, H-E-N-R-Y?

TV ANNOUNCER:

Have you called yet, for a sweetheart deal on the home of your dreams?

MOTHER-IN-LAW (anxious, overlapping):

I am, I am. God god god, c'mon c'mon c'mon. Ring!

SFX: RINGING TONE

MOTHER-IN-LAW (cont'd):

Oh, it's ringing. Oh my god, Margot. It's ringing. I've gotten through.

TV ANNOUNCER (cont'd):

This snappy little number won't be available for long. Not at $199,999. So, call now. You deserve to be happy.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:

I deserve to be happy. Yes, I do. I deserve to be hap—Oh, please pick up.

HENRY: As for Margot and me, we're still living with my in-laws. Still saving to buy our own place, yet with Margot out of work that'll take a while. But I'm optimistic. One thing I've learned working with Mr. V—people always get what they deserve.

SFX: LINE BEING PICKED UP

MOTHER-IN-LAW:

Somebody's…I think somebody's picking up…

PHONE BANK RECEPTIONIST:

Hello, SpendMoneyNow Shopping Channel, what item are you calling on?

MOTHER-IN-LAW:

Yes, hello, I'm calling about that delightful little lumberjack house. The one on Valenzuelaland. I just know I was meant to have it. (fade out) You see, I have this reproduction Mary Todd Lincoln fainting couch that would be just perfect in the living room…

MUSIC

Heid Erdrich: National Monuments

Britt Aamodt — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 22:01:43 GMT

[b]A MONUMENT OF ONE'S OWN[/b]

[b]By Britt Aamodt[/b]

[b]IN [i][url=http://heiderdrich.com/books/national-monuments/]NATIONAL MONUMENTS[/url][/i], POET [url=http://heiderdrich.com/]HEID E. ERDRICH[/url] [/b]documents the strange case of [url=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nefertiti]Nefertiti[/url][b], [/b]an ancient Egyptian queen acclaimed as the "most beautiful woman in the world" after Ludwig Borchardt's 1912 excavation of her ravishing likeness, in the form of a sculpted head, from the sands of Tel-el-Amarna.

[i]I know what historians say: Nefertiti vanished until[/i]

[i]the bust found—found me radiant eternally.[/i]

[i]The pedestal spot brought the Sun upon me again.[/i]

[i]Again He spoke my true name: The Beauty Arrived.[/i]

Wife of Egyptian pharaoh Akhenaten, stepmother to Tutankhamun, a.k.a., King Tut, Nefertiti bore many titles in her day: Mistress of Sweetness, Mistress of Upper and Lower Egypt, Exuding Happiness, Beloved One[i].[/i] But withered crone?

"A recent museum study discovered that Nefertiti [as represented by the sculpture] had lines and wrinkles. I thought, how [i]dare[/i] they? How dare they revise her beauty and qualify it by her middle-agedness," relates Erdrich.

"It cracked me up. So I read more about Nefertiti and found out that she and her husband were sun worshippers—literally. They worshipped the sun god Aten. Of course, sun worshippers are going to have wrinkles."

Taking on the mantle of the faded beauty, the poet glories in "Nefertiti's Close Up":

[i]So the Sun touched me, drew my lips[/i]

[i]to His and kissed until I flamed.[/i]

[i]How hot His tongue, like the flick of a lizard.[/i]

[i]So what if I bear His marks, His flecks and lines?[/i]

"The Nefertiti poem was one of the first to come out of my RSS feed," says Erdrich, whose morning email jolt of the arcane, outlandish, incredible, historic and scientific news provided a good chunk of the inspiration and research behind [i]National Monuments[/i].

[i][url=http://msupress.msu.edu/bookTemplate.php?bookID=3611]National Monuments[/url][/i], published by Michigan State University Press, is Erdrich's third book of poetry, and her fourth (including [i][url=http://heiderdrich.com/books/sister-nations/]Sister Nations[/url][/i], a book she anthologized) to snag a coveted Minnesota Book Award nomination. Not that she's counting. Erdrich deals in words, not numbers, and she plays those words into imaginative leaps that travel across time—from the 9,300-year-old bones of Kennewick Man and the French Revolution to a modern-day War on Terror detainee -- and place, over the Black Hills and into Grand Portage, cyberspace, myth, literature, a lover's arms, and academia.

Her poetry is research-laden, a fact which might sound snooze alarms in other hands. But with Erdrich's sense for comic turns of phrase, a poem riffing on the bureaucratese of the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) comes out sounding anything but stodgy: "[i]If an object calls for its mother,/ boil water and immediately swaddle it[/i]", "[i]Avoid using bones as drumsticks/ or paperweights, no matter/ the actions of previous Directors or Vice/ Directors of your institution[/i]", "[i]Never, at anytime, sing Dem Bones[/i]."

"I started out wanting to write a book based on my response to national literature, American literature. My response to Indians in it," says the poet, a member of the Turtle Mountain Band of Ojibway and a former professor of literature at the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul.

Erdrich gave up tenure in 2007 to pursue her writing and to devote more time to the Native community. A co-founder of the Turtle Mountain Writing Workshop and Birchbark House, a bookstore specializing in indigenous-language literature, she is also curator at Ancient Traders Gallery in Minneapolis.

The transformation in Erdrich's professional life in 2007 roughly corresponded to a fresh re-visioning of the book she was writing. "Someone had said, 'There are no national monument markers in places that are sacred to Native people,'" Erdrich recalls. "So, I thought I was going to write about that. I examined those sacred places, took trips. But what came to me were ideas about the body: the body as monument, the body as nation-building site."

And then there were the tantalizing news stories that came in through her RSS feed. How could she resist incorporating the true story of pharaoh Ramses II's stolen hair turning up on eBay, or the 12,000 indigenous skeletons housed in drawers beneath a university swimming pool, or Amazonian tribal blood sold to online buyers?

Erdrich divides the poems in [i]National Monuments[/i] into these three phases: [i]Grave Markers[/i], [i]American Ghosts[/i] and [i]Discovery—An RSS Feed Series[/i]. [i]Grave Markers[/i] takes up Erdrich's interest in national monuments and explores the notion of the body as monument.

[i]American Ghosts[/i] comprises the poems Erdrich crafted as a response to representations of the Indian in American literature. These include the poet's response to William Carlos Williams's "To Elsie" poem. Where Williams [i]spoke about[/i] his Elsie (calling her "the half-breed"), Erdrich serves as her psychic host, allowing Elsie to reincarnate for one day to sit in on a class studying [i]her[/i] poem.

[i]She endures the comments about her body,[/i]

[i]"the great ungainly hips and flopping breasts."[/i]

[i]What if her ample chest had been her pride?...[/i]

[i] [/i]

[i]What if she thought, Ah, at last[/i]

[i]A poem about someone I know.[/i]

[i] [/i]

"My poems are a conversation," says Erdrich. "I think it's the choice of a poem to be able to continue conversations others might have had. I often speak [in my poems] about thoughts and feelings that are really not mine." It's a writing habit that leaves some of Erdrich's editors and close readers feeling cheated. "They complain, 'There's nothing personal in there,'" she laughs. "The voice I use isn't mine. It can cut through and join conversations and speak with many voices. I like to think it's a wiser voice, one with certainties I don't have."

On April 25, [i]National Monuments [/i]was named the 2009 Minnesota Book Award-winner for poetry. Erdrich's two previous books of poetry are the Minnesota Voices Award winner [i]Fishing for Myth[/i] (New Rivers Press, 1997) and [i]The Mother's Tongue[/i] (Salt Publishing, 2005).

[b]About the author: Britt Aamodt BIO[/b]

Britt Aamodt is a Minnesota writer living in Elk River. She has received artist grants for her creative fiction, and currently writes and produces radio plays with the group Deadbeats On the Air.

Heid Erdrich: A Monument of One's Own

Britt Aamodt — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 21:58:48 GMT

[b]A MONUMENT OF ONE'S OWN, for a+E magazine, 2009[/b]

[b]By Britt Aamodt[/b]

[i]I know what historians say: Nefertiti vanished until[/i]

[i]the bust found—found me radiant eternally.[/i]

[i]The pedestal spot brought the Sun upon me again.[/i]

[i]Again He spoke my true name: The Beauty Arrived.[/i]

Taking on the mantle of the faded beauty, the poet glories in "Nefertiti's Close Up":

[i]So the Sun touched me, drew my lips[/i]

[i]to His and kissed until I flamed.[/i]

[i]How hot His tongue, like the flick of a lizard.[/i]

[i]So what if I bear His marks, His flecks and lines?[/i]

[i]She endures the comments about her body,[/i]

[i]"the great ungainly hips and flopping breasts."[/i]

[i]What if her ample chest had been her pride?...[/i]

[i] [/i]

[i]What if she thought, Ah, at last[/i]

[i]A poem about someone I know.[/i]

[i] [/i]

[b]About the author: Britt Aamodt BIO[/b]

Britt Aamodt is a Minnesota writer living in Elk River. She has received artist grants for her creative fiction, and currently writes and produces radio plays with the group Deadbeats On the Air.

Horse Wisdom

Britt Aamodt — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 21:56:51 GMT

[b]Wisdom Horse of Hudson ARTICLE for Wisconsin Trails Magazine, 2009[/b]

By Britt Aamodt

Wisdom Horse Coaching in Hudson is not your average executive coach experience. First off, you'll want to dress comfortably, and wear the kind of shoes usually reserved for lawn-mowing days. Because to reach the pasture, you have to trek through mud and navigate warm piles of manure. And while you're slogging, hands stuffed in pockets against the nippy air, you'll want to hang your skepticism on a back hook. "You can bring your skepticism and talk about it," says Wisdom Horse co-founder Lynn Baskfield, 60. "The horses want you to be honest. But it helps if you're open to the experience and willing to see what happens."

The horses are geldings and mares, nine of them, quarter horses with a few paints thrown in. Their home encompasses the 40-acre Hawk's Ridge Ranch outside downtown Hudson on the Wisconsin-Minnesota border, also the site of Healing Arts Wellness Center, a naturopathic clinic that comprises a main building, several acres of fenced pasture, and a horse arena the size of a football field.

Wisdom Horse Coaching is but one of the center's offerings—and probably the one most likely to excite raised eyebrows. Everyone's heard of acupressure points and homeopathic medicine, but Equine Guided Education?

EGE embodies a relatively new practice in the leadership and personal development field. Put simply, Wisdom Horse is executive coaching with horses. Lynn and her business partner, Ann Romberg, 57, teach clients how to halter, saddle, groom, and guide horses. Yet the leadership and team-building exercises merely provide an infrastructure to the real work, which you can call horse talk, self-talk, mirroring, or mumbo jumbo, so long as you remember to keep an open mind.

"The horses don't actually talk to you," emphasizes Ann, who came to coaching after 20 years in corporate America. "But they do mirror what you're thinking. So, when Lynn and I take you to the pasture and ask you to reflect on what issues are most important to you today, and you're not being authentic, the horses won't have anything to do with you. We see it again and again."

Wisdom Horse Coaching works with highly-functioning executives who want to bring soul to the workplace. People who are as committed to fostering a creative and energetic work environment as they are to the bottom line and company mission statement. Hardnosed pragmatists who, by and large, aren't known for quoting the horses in boardroom debates.

All that said, Wisdom Horse Coaching is experiencing a surge in interest. Facing an uncertain economic climate, some leaders are looking outside the office for answers to their questions. And you don't get more outside than 40 acres of country with a wind clipping from the west.

***

Yet, how exactly does Equine Guided Education work? How does voicing your dreams and dilemmas to a 1,200-pound horse, and then waiting for the horse's response—a nudge, a turn of the head, a yawn—help the decision-making process?

Lynn, a lifelong horsewoman and life coach with a master's in human development, says the human-horse connection has to do with the horse's evolution as a prey animal with a finely-tuned fight-or-flight mechanism, and an ability to attune itself to the minutest change in the environment. That includes changes in the vocal intonations, body language, and emotional state of nearby humans, a claim which might sound like a lot of hooey until you consider how important nonverbal cues are to human relations as well. If your date yawns, checks the clock, and stares blankly at the punch line of your joke, chances are you're not getting a second date.

EGE began in 2000 when Ariana Strozzi, owner of Strozzi Ranch in California, coined the term. But horse owners have long recognized a sympathetic bond with their horses, animals hardwired to know and respond to the world through their bodies. EGE is effective, says Ann, because "participants are able to use their bodies. You groom, halter, and saddle the horse. You lead the horse by a rope. And the horses mirror back your behaviors. Are you hesitant? Because if you don't lead, the horse will."

EGE gives you instant feedback on how you manage in the world.

***

Cindy Fraser-Johnson, a Madison native now living in St. Paul, wants direction. On a brisk morning, Lynn and Ann lead her to the pasture. In the distance, horses graze, for now more interested in green shoots than the three women.

"Let's just wait here a moment and ask permission from the herd to enter," suggests Ann, who along with Lynn, stands slightly apart from Cindy, a client of three years. Most Wisdom Horse clients—executives, office work teams, families, couples, professional organizations, and artists—sign on for three months. Others opt for daylong sessions or two- to four-day retreats at the ranch guest house. But Cindy, a plucky entrepreneur, has been in transition. She has been giving up control of one business while shifting her focus to a new coaching and healing touch practice.

"What sort of questions have been coming up for you?" asks Ann, with a glance at the horses. Still no interest.

"When I was driving here this morning, I was thinking, [i]Well, I’m pretty good. I’ve been working hard, and my life is going in the right direction. Is there anything I need to do?[/i]" Cindy considers. "Maybe just keep moving forward with the new business."

As she says this, a black gelding, Coal, lifts his head and takes a few steps.

"What did Coal just do?" asks Ann.

"He came forward," says Cindy.

"What were you thinking when he did that?"

Cindy rubs her stomach. "I was thinking about these work leads I've been pursuing—they've postponed till January—and how my stomach feels tight. Maybe some thoughts or feelings bubbling up. Gut feelings."

That's when the big animal trots over and, as if on cue, rests his nose against Cindy's abdomen.

"Looks like Coal's volunteering to work with you today," says Lynn. Part of the EGE process is to allow the horses to select themselves. Rarely do Lynn and Ann choose a horse for a client. As facilitators, their job is simply to observe and to ask questions. Later, the coaches take Cindy through a haltering exercise. Cindy tries to halter Coal, but he pulls away—three times.

Cindy returns the halter. "He doesn't want me to do it."

"He doesn't, or you don't?" asks Lynn.

"I don't."

"What does the halter represent to you?"

"Control," says Cindy. "A kind of control that's too confining."

"What's the difference between control and leadership?" Ann chimes in. The questions and answers flow back and forth until Coal removes himself, apparently finished with his role in the session.

***

"I thought, [i]Yeah, right, horses can sense your emotions[/i]," admits Randy Heiser, who participated in a Wisdom Horse session as part of a leadership program sponsored by the Hudson Chamber of Commerce. "Let's face it, I'm a guy. I'm in my thirties. I almost didn't go but then I figured what the heck."

Two days before, Randy, the sales manager at Hudson Chrysler, had received a new boss. He wasn't sure where his company was headed, or if he wanted to be part of it. Lynn and Ann set up three cones—representing home, work, and community—and asked the participants to guide their horses around them. Randy led his chestnut gelding, Moon, around the home cone.

"No problem," recalls Randy. "But then we got to the work cone, and Moon wouldn't go my way. He went the other way. I don't know if it was coincidence, but to me he was saying, 'You're switching directions now and you're going to have to follow me.'"

Randy remained at his job. "I don't know how [EGE] works. But at the time it changed my life. I was confused about my direction at work, and working with Moon made me realize things were going to be okay."

When clients leave a session, they come away with what Cindy calls a body sensation. "I feel it in my body. It's a feeling I can remember later at work. When a control issue comes up, I can remember how it felt with Coal, saying, 'No, I don't want to halter him.' How it feels to set boundaries."

Do you lead with purpose? Or do you put on a show of power, leaving someone else to take the reins? Are you committed to your career? To your marriage? What block is keeping you from taking that next step in life?

Maybe the horses can't give you the answers, but they can reflect how you're feeling about the questions. "The horses just want you to be authentic with yourself," says Lynn, who has witnessed the authenticity of her work with hundreds of Wisdom Horse clients. "They can be counted on to take you into [i]what you don't know you don't know[/i]. You can't fail a horse exercise because it's all about seeing how you show up in the world. There's the breakthrough."

###

WRITER'S BIO

Britt Aamodt is a freelance writer living in Minnesota. She is currently working on a history of cartoonists for the Minnesota Historical Society Press.

RADIO: Rescuing Seneca Crane

Britt Aamodt — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 21:51:03 GMT

For the Love of Roxie

Britt Aamodt — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 17:23:12 GMT

The Star News Weekender 11/24/06 For the love of Roxie by Britt Aamodt Special to the Star News June 2003, 3.5-year-old Roxie Pasma complained of a stomachache. Her parents weren't concerned. The Pasma family of Denver, Colo., had just returned from Minnesota where they'd been visiting family. Everyone was feeling a touch of "travel tummy." But the ache persisted, and a few days later father Tony Pasma discovered a lump in Roxie's stomach. It was cancer. Roxie's aunt Barb Pasnik, Ramsey, remembers the phone call. Neuroblastoma, her brother called it, an aggressive solid tumor cancer that strikes on average 12,500 children every year and has a 30 percent survival rate in advanced cases. Like a tree, the tumor had wrapped its roots deep around Roxie's kidneys. Surgery could only do so much for the little girl. There would be six rounds of chemotherapy, a bone marrow transplant and untold late-night hospital visits in Roxie's future. "My sister Sue and I felt so helpless out here in Minnesota," recalled Pasnik. "We couldn't be there in the hospital with them, but we wanted to help. So we decided to hold a craft fund-raising sale to help with the medical bills." Pasnik and her sister got the word out. They asked everyone they knew to donate something to the sale. It was from this initial call for help that Curves of Elk River initiated its now annual holiday craft sale, a fund raiser for the American Cancer Society. It started with Roxie, said Esther Ewert, manager of the women's exercise club where Roxie's aunt was a member. Ewert's idea was to make snowmen out of landscape brick. It snowballed into 385 holiday snowmen that were then sold for $10 each. Orders were taken and snowmen were sold at the Elk River Curves. The fund-raising benefit took place November 2003, nearly five months after Roxie's diagnosis, in Lakeville where Pasnik's sister lived. The collection of handmade rugs, chairs, painted ornaments, afghans, crochet work, candy, cookies, gift jars and snowmen brought in dozens of holiday shoppers and well-wishers. "Other people called and asked if they could donate to our sale," recounted Pasnik. "People came from all over. They brought crafts to donate and then left with other crafts. One woman gave us a quilt for Roxie; she'd lost her granddaughter to cancer. Another woman handed Sue a check for $2,500. Selfless acts abounded." Pasnik was stopped in her tracks by a mother of two. The woman, now in her 30s, came up to Pasnik and introduced herself by saying she had been a victim of neuroblastoma and had survived. The sale earned $14,000--money sorely needed to pay for Roxie's medical bills. Later that week, Pasnik and her sister boarded a plane. They hand-delivered the check to their brother in Colorado. In 2006, Roxie Pasma is a healthy 7-year-old, attending elementary school with twin sister, Mackenzie, and brother, Zach. Every summer, the children cheer their father along the 150-mile bike ride he undertakes for the Children's Hospital Foundation. Neuroblastoma has changed their lives, said Pasnik. They have become advocates in the fight against a cancer which accounts for 14 percent of all cancers in children younger than 5. They have opened their lives to strangers--through an online web log tracking Roxie's progress, through face-to-face meetings and grassroots fund raising. "It still brings tears to my eyes when I think of everyone who helped at the craft sale," said Pasnik. "It's amazing how generous people are. People like Esther and the woman with the check. I think I cried for two days." The tradition of giving started by Pasnik continues at Ewert's Elk River Curves. The members have formed a Relay for Life team and every November hold a holiday craft fair to benefit the American Cancer Society. "Cancer has touched most of us," said Ewert, explaining her organization's fund-raising efforts. "Some of our members are survivors. And all of us know of someone who has had cancer. But we look at people like Roxie who've beaten the odds, and we see how fund raising has made a difference." This year's Curves holiday craft sale will be open to the public 7:30 to 10:30 a.m. Saturday, Nov. 25. Besides crocheted ornaments, embroidery, towels and other handmade items, the Curves craft team has created a series of holiday snowmen made out of old-fashioned wooden spools. Hot apple cider will be served. Female guests will receive a free one-month pass to exercise at Curves.

'Some Enchanted Evening' at Zabee

Britt Aamodt — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 17:17:50 GMT

The Star News 3/16/05 'Some Enchanted Evening' at Zabee by Britt Aamodt Special to the Star News Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II formed one of the most successful musical collaborations in history, including "Oklahoma!," "Carousel," "State Fair," "South Pacific," "The King and I" and "The Sound of Music." Their musicals have played to more than 25,000 audiences and continue to be performed nightly in theaters across the world. More than anything, Rodgers and Hammerstein stand for the songs like "Getting to Know You," "It's a Grand Night for Singing," "Climb Ev'ry Mountain" and "Bali Ha'i" still resonating with audiences after more than half a century. Actors Theater of Minnesota, based in St. Paul, returns to Zabee Theater Friday and Saturday with "Some Enchanted Evening," a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical revue, sponsored by the Elk River Area Arts Alliance. The two-hour shows begin at 7:30 p.m. Actors Theater managing director Bill Collins says of "Some Enchanted Evening:" "The revue is strictly about the Rodgers and Hammerstein music. There are no stage sets. No costumes really. Just four vocalists and a pianist." For two enchanted evenings, audiences at Zabee Theater will have a chance to hum along with Rodgers and Hammerstein songs. Tickets are now on sale at the Coborn's Superstore at the information counter, Mikols River Studio, and the Elk River Area Arts Alliance office, all in Elk River. Tickets are $17 for regular admission and $14 for seniors, students, and Elk River Area Arts Alliance members. They can also be purchased at the night of the performance. After Friday night's show, there will be a special reception for Sharon Tracy, retiring executive director of the Elk River Area Arts Alliance. The public is invited. Call 763-441-4725 or e-mail to elkriverart@sherbtel.net.

Arts, Activism and Robert Bluestone

Britt Aamodt — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 17:13:13 GMT

The Star News Weekender 10/7/06 Arts, Activism and Robert Bluestone by Britt Aamodt Special to the Star News Weekender A guitar's construction is simple. Wood is shaped into a hollow body, attached to a neck and head, and strings stretched over a sounding hole. The guitarist uses his fingers or a pick to vibrate the strings and produce sounds that, when added in sequence, form a melody. Classical guitarist Robert Bluestone, who will be performing at Zabee Theater 7:30 pm, Friday, Oct. 13, envisions his instrument as embodying more than its materials and acoustic properties. On a musical campaign that has evolved over decades and encompassed cities around the world, Bluestone had advanced the guitar as a means of revolution. Not a government-toppling, building-burning revolution, but a revolution of the mind and spirit. Music, and the arts in general, Bluestone says, catalyze change. The arts have the power to improve lives. Which is one of the reasons he's planned to arrive in Elk River Sunday, Oct. 8 and spend the next five days leading up to the concert at Zabee Theater engaging the local community in dialogue, putting on small impromptu concerts, meeting leaders, conducting workshops and putting forth the message that art matters. "The arts make a difference in education because they reinforce creativity and creative thought," says Bluestone from Santa Fe, where he and wife Rebecca have lived for the past 30 years. "The arts connect kids to their town and give them something to do at night. They attract businesses. They improve the quality of life. They heal." Bluestone calls himself a creativity expert. He's also the Johnny Appleseed of music, using his residencies in communities throughout the United States to plant the idea that "We all have within us the seeds of our destiny. And our job is to connect up and nourish those seeds so that they grow into a mighty oak tree." The arts allow individuals to visualize their potential and to establish the goals that will get them there, he says. Bluestone wasn't born with a guitar in his hand. Growing up in Brooklyn, he got his first taste of "destiny" plopped on his stomach in front of the radio. Even as a boy he loved to tune into blues and country and the new-fangled rock 'n' roll coming out of the south. In the fifties, an uncle turned him onto Johnny Cash whose "Walk the Line" fascinated the eager listener. When Bluestone was eight, the same uncle delivered an Andres Segovia record. Born in 1893 in Spain, Segovia was a classical guitarist, and internationally-renowned when the youth first encountered his music. Soon after, Bluestone got a guitar. "I was pretty much hooked though I didn't know it at the time," remembers Bluestone, who entered college still thinking he'd become a lawyer. "I was accepted into law school. I was going to be a lawyer, but it was then I decided that what I really wanted was to be a guitarist." Everyone thought he was crazy. But he went ahead and enrolled in music classes, receiving undergraduate and graduate degrees in music and studying guitar in Mexico and Spain. Later, he met Segovia and was with him on his 90th birthday when someone asked, "Segovia, you're 90 now. Why don't you retire?" "Retire? Rest?" the guitarist flared back. "I have all eternity to rest. Now I have to work." Bluestone shares his mentor's unflagging spirit. Besides a grueling performance schedule, he has expanded his duties to include residencies like the one he'll be doing in Elk River. He and wife Rebecca, a celebrated textile artist, will be traveling to Mayo Clinic this fall to teach health care professionals, patients and caregivers how to use the arts and creativity in healing. This will be their second trip to Mayo. The couple has also worked with victims of abuse, cancer patients (Rebecca is a cancer survivor) and adolescents caught up in the current meth epidemic. Bluestone knows all to well the cost of drug abuse. He lost a cousin and a friend to heroin. "I give an assembly for kids, nothing preachy, where I play for them, and we talk. I try to get to this place where they see me as a role model, someone who's working toward distant goals, playing music every day, disciplining myself because I love what I do." This gets back to Bluestone's theory about the arts: that they reinforce the social fabric of communities and that they foster the creative process that says no matter what the ambition--health, career, good grades, self-acceptance--there are steps to achieve it. "When people come to my performance in Elk River they'll have fun. They'll enjoy themselves," says Bluestone. "Music isn't about edification. It's about sharing something together. It's about the beauty of the melody and the power of the arts to transform people's lives."

Stillwater Still Has It

Britt Aamodt — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 17:08:36 GMT

By Britt Aamodt Whatever trip is on your horizon, chances are your goal is to have fun. But, as you know, traveling in large groups can sometimes be a bit challenging, what with scheduling guides and customized tours, deciding where to dine, and--worse yet--finding a place to park your motorcoach. The best part of a tour for the group traveler is the destination. The best part of the tour for the group travel planner is the destination representative who can enhance your pre-planning by helping you locate group discounts, ample parking and the kind of local-color hot spots, landmarks, and events that can transform a trip into a cherished experience. If you're looking for that special destination geared to the group traveler, then Stillwater, Minnesota has your name all over it. Called the birthplace of Minnesota, Stillwater has had some practice rolling out the red carpet for tourists. Stillwater's Chamber of Commerce provides the kind of insight only a local organization could. Like, got any public restrooms in the town? Or, which joint really has the best burgers in town? One of the first things you're likely to hear about Stillwater is that it's the place to go for antiques, with dozens of furniture, houseware, book, and clothing shops huddled behind storefronts as historic as their wares. But that's not all Stillwater is known for. (This is where your inside scoop comes in handy.) Did you know that downtown Brine's Restaurant is home to Minnesota's one and only Frozen Bocce Ball Tournament? If you figured winter was for bundling indoors, then you haven't visited Stillwater. Locals consider winter just an extension of summer (with a few more added layers). Spread along the shores of the St. Croix River, Stillwater attracts legions of outdoor enthusiasts in search of snowshoeing and cross-country ski trails. Of course, if you're like me, that last thing you want to do is step off a bus and launch into a two-mile winter hike. The best kind of slog in Stillwater, whether winter or summer, is the downtown stretch. You can park your motorcoach at one end, and have it pick you up at the other. (And your Chamber representative knows exactly where you can park.) But you'll want to allow a generous margin of time for stragglers lured in by every candy shop, art gallery, bead emporium, toyshop, jeweler's, and specialty store tucked into the town's many nooks and crannies. Part of the fascination of Stillwater is deciding you've found the cutest, quaintest boutique on earth, only to discover another down the block. If you're looking for good eats or fine dining, you have your pick in Stillwater. You can ask the Chamber for breakfast and dinner recommendations, or let your nose do the searching for you. Downtown is always wafting with good smells: popcorn, fresh-baked bread, Italian, Thai, Mexican, barbecue and--the traveler's best friend--coffee! For a cup of the strong stuff, you can't do much better than Grumpy Steve's Coffee House, built into an ancient river cliff with the Joseph Wolf Cave behind it. The cave got its name from Joseph Wolf who early in the 20th century used the cave to craft and store his German-inspired brews. Or if wine is more your style, Northern Vineyards Winery on Main Street puts on daily wine tastings. One of Stillwater's most venerable eating establishments and hotels is Lowell Inn. Opened in 1927, the 23-room inn boasts several uniquely furnished dining rooms--perfect for groups--with lunch and dinner menus. The Lowell Inn High Tea is a treat with unlimited pots of fresh-brewed tea to the accompaniment of warm scones, soup, tea sandwiches, and dessert platter. To get a real taste of Stillwater, ask about Stillwater's "alternative" travel options. You can't have a river town without a paddleboat cruise, and lucky for you the St. Croix Boat & Packet Company caters to groups. So does the Minnesota Zephyr, five restored dining cars that offer 5-course white-linen dinners along a track that wends through the lush St. Croix River Valley. Arrive early because the Stillwater Depot, where you meet to board the Zephyr, has a first-rate gift shop and a full-service martini bar, and they have a lot sized for motorcoach groups. You can bone up on Stillwater's lumberjack history, architecture and its Hollywood connections (the town has been the location for several films, including Grumpy Old Men) with a ride on the Stillwater Trolley. Aamodt's Apple Farm, just outside downtown, offers hot air balloon rides, along with some of the sweetest apple cider this side of the St. Croix. Don't know where or when to start your Stillwater itinerary? Bet the Stillwater Chamber could give you some ideas.

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