Terms and

Paul, I think I told you. Henry's a writer not a fighter. He may roll up in an LA Raiders bomber jacket from time to time, but don't be fooled: Henry is a peace-loving creative. Rather than starting passive-aggressive email battles with suits, Henry believes that politeness and judicious use of mind control can achieve anything. The future is only something that hasn't been done yet. Some people fear doing the unfamiliar. But wiring up a vintage Coogi sweater to Spotify is hardly going to trigger the apocalypse. Every job is an opportunity. If not to make history, then to at least make an ad much better than it might otherwise be. Henry is not a former cast member of the Mickey Mouse Club but he's generally what you'd call a positive guy, and approaches his work accordingly. Henry is a human insinkerator. He does to the carcass what napalm does to trees: stripping it of everything that’s digestible, plus assorted internal bones and nubbly things. You should see him at yum cha. Please don’t challenge Henry to eat his own hand. ‘Work in progress’ is genuinely work in progress. Although creatives are accustomed to getting a helping hand from budgets and the leathery snap of a producer's whip, Henry is quite comfortable spurring himself on to get his own things done. Some personal projects are zooming, some are inching, but either way Henry makes hay like a turbocharged combine harvester to turn his pipe dreams into reality. Great work is its own award. Henry’s done a bunch of ads that have won awards. But he doesn’t like some of them, so they're not in his book. Truth is, Henry doesn’t allow himself to be driven by the prospect of shiny gold statuettes. But he definitely cares about making great work that happens to win them. Dubai-based recruiters calling at 3am with a job at a 'leading below-the-line multinational', take note: Being an insomniac, Henry will actually be up to answer the phone. Being an insomniac, he’ll be happy to chat. And chat. So by all means, keep calling Henry at 3am. You'll never get around to talking shop or putting him forward for a gig, but you will have a great 30 minute conversation that'll make at least one of you fall asleep. "woah, tastes like meat glue" said an American art director upon trying the murky Kiwi breakfast spread known as Marmite. Which Henry must have, in the fridge, at your workplace. You may not understand it. You probably don’t like it. But to paraphrase Everything But the Girl, without Marmite, Henry misses Marmite like the deserts miss the rain. (As for what it’s made of, the old US Military policy of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ applies here.) Please help Henry avoid a 9th career change. Henry is a former artist, former postgrad classics scholar, former (and sometimes current) DJ, former radio jock, former producer, failed actor, thwarted concert pianist, failed opera singer, and a not as-yet failed creative. After 11 ¾ years in advertising, Henry is still here, still loving it, and still channelling all his past lives to create interesting stuff. Given the only career change left for him is real estate, Henry is highly motivated to make amazing work just so he doesn't have to wear a polyester blazer on Saturdays. Let's be real. You only have to look at the prevalence of botox to know that authenticity doesn't come naturally for advertising. Although the essence of what he does is making stuff up, Henry believes in as often as possible casting real people, having them talk like normal humans, in real locations, doing stuff for real, with real stuff. All of which (as far as Henry knows) helps create good work, and might, for all the CGI and forced smiles, help offset the ambient bullshit levels in the industry's collective output. Henry is entitled to be a walking Rubik's cube. Four days a week on average, Henry will wear a tasteful combination of black, white and muted patterns (microchecks, pinstripes, that sort of thing). But on that average fifth day, Henry reserves the right to appear in a getup that would put Karl Lagerfeld’s early ‘80s Monaco apartment to shame, and make even Erno Rubik turn (gyroscopically) in his grave. Falling is not collapsing. Falling is extending. This piece of language is the title of an art work by Lebanese-American video artist Marwa Arsanios. But to Henry, it seemed like a fresh alternative to "fail faster" - which after 265,342 mentions in agency manifestos has long since lost all meaning. The idea that "falling" should be less about failure and more about expanding your range of experiences, is something Henry really lives by. (Cutely, it also echoes Henry's general lack of coordination, and tendency to fall in the literal sense.) The hippocratic oath isn't just for med school grads. Don’t market soda to 7 year-olds = don’t be tokenistic = don’t bully juniors = don’t lie = don’t exploit a noble cause to win awards = don’t touch gambling clients = don’t steal the stationery = do no harm. "Nothing exceeds like excess" - Michelle Pfeiffer, Scarface. This is a core belief. Henry goes too far with (in no particular order) records, hats, Campari, scarves, old drum machines, New Balance 998s, movies starring David Patrick Kelly, synonyms, '70s Milanese design, '90s video game soundtracks, West Coast hip hop lyrics, breakfast, failed cults, stretching of metaphors, multiple Soundcloud podcasts open in one browser, and salt.
(Naku Penda Piya-Naku Taka, Piya-Mpenziwe) (I Love You Too-I Want You Too-My Love)Liberian Girl . . . You Came And You Changed My World, A Love So Brand New, Liberian Girl . . .You Came And You Changed Me Girl, A Feeling So True….Liberian Girl, You Know That You Came And You Changed My World, Just Like In The Movies,With Two Lovers In A Scene, And She Says . . ."Do You Love Me" And He Says So Endlessly . . ."I Love You, Liberian Girl"(Naku Penda PiyaNaku Taka Piya-Mpenziwe) (I Love You Too-I Want YouToo-My Love) Liberian Girl . . .More Precious Than Any Pearl Your Love So Complete Liberian Girl . . .You Kiss Me Then, Ooh, The World You Do This To Me Liberian Girl You Know That You Came And You Changed My World, Just Like In The Movies, With Two Lovers In A Scene And She Says, "Do You Love Me" And He Says So Endlessly "I Love You, Liberian Girl" (Naku Penda Piya-Naku Taka Piya-Mpenziwe) (I Love You Too-I Want You Too-My Love) Liberian Girl You Know That You Came And You Changed My World, I Wait For The Day, When You Have To Say "I Do,"And I'll Smile And Say It Too, And Forever We'll Be True I Love You, Liberian Girl, All The Time(Girl) I Love You Liberian Girl, All The Time (Girl) I Love You Liberian Girl, All The Time (Girl) I Love You Liberian Girl, All The Time (Girl) I Love You I Love You Baby (Girl) I Want You I Love You Baby (Girl) Ooh! I Love You Baby, I want You Baby, Ooh! (Girl) Conticuere omnes intentique ora tenebant inde toro pater Aeneas sic orsus ab alto:Infandum, regina, iubes renouare dolorem,Troianas ut opes et lamentabile regnumeruerint Danai, quaeque ipse miserrima uidi et quorum pars magna fui. quis talia fando Myrmidonum Dolopumue aut duri miles Vlixi temperet a lacrimis? et iam nox umida caelo praecipitat suadentque cadentia sidera somnos. sed si tantus amor casus cognoscere nostros et breuiter Troiae supremum audire laborem,quamquam animus meminisse horret luctuque refugit,incipiam. fracti bello fatisque repulsi ductores Danaum tot iam labentibus annis instar montis equum diuina Palladis arte aedificant, sectaque intexunt abiete costas;uotum pro reditu simulant; ea fama uagatur. huc delecta uirum sortiti corpora furtim includunt caeco lateri penitusque cauernas ingentis uterumque armato milite complent. est in conspectu Tenedos, notissima fama insula, diues opum Priami dum regna manebant, nunc tantum sinus et statio male fida carinis: huc se prouecti deserto in litore condunt; nos abiisse rati et uento petiisse ycenas. ergo omnis longo soluit se Teucria luctu; panduntur portae, iuuat ire et Dorica castra desertosque uidere locos litusque relictum: hic Dolopum manus, hic saeuus tendebat Achilles; classibus hic locus, hic acie certare solebant. pars stupet innuptae donum exitiale Mineruae et molem mirantur equi; primusque Thymoetes duci intra muros hortatur et arce locari, siue dolo seu iam Troiae sic fata ferebant. at Capys, et quorum melior sententia menti, aut pelago Danaum insidias suspectaque dona praecipitare iubent subiectisque urere flammis, aut terebrare cauas uteri et temptare latebras. scinditur incertum studia in contraria uulgus. Primus ibi ante omnis magna comitante caterua Laocoon ardens summa decurrit ab arce, et procul 'o miseri, quae tanta insania, ciues? creditis auectos hostis? aut ulla putatis dona carere dolis Danaum? sic notus Vlixes? aut hoc inclusi ligno occultantur Achiui, aut haec in nostros fabricata est machina muros, inspectura domos uenturaque desuper urbi, aut aliquis latet error; equo ne credite, Teucri. quidquid id est, timeo Danaos et dona ferentis.' sic fatus ualidis ingentem uiribus hastam in latus inque feri curuam compagibus aluum contorsit. stetit illa tremens, uteroque recusso insonuere cauae gemitumque dedere cauernae. et, si fata deum, si mens non laeua fuisset, impulerat ferro Argolicas foedare latebras, Troiaque nunc staret, Priamique arx alta maneres. Ecce, manus iuuenem interea post terga reuinctum pastores magno ad regem clamore trahebant Dardanidae, qui se ignotum uenientibus ultro, hoc ipsum ut strueret Troiamque aperiret Achiuis, obtulerat, fidens animi atque in utrumque paratus,seu uersare dolos seu certae occumbere morti. undique uisendi studio Troiana iuuentus circumfusa ruit certantque inludere capto. accipe nunc Danaum insidias et crimine ab uno disce omnis. namque ut conspectu in medio turbatus, inermis constitit atque oculis Phrygia agmina circumspexit, 'heu, quae nunc tellus,' inquit, 'quae me aequora possunt accipere? aut quid iam misero mihi denique restat, cui neque apud Danaos usquam locus, et super ipsi Dardanidae infensi poenas cum sanguine poscunt?' quo gemitu conuersi animi compressus et omnis impetus. hortamur fari quo sanguine cretus, quidue ferat; memoret quae sit fiducia capto. 'Cuncta equidem tibi, rex, fuerit quodcumque, fatebor uera,' inquit; 'neque me Argolica de gente negabo. hoc primum; nec, si miserum Fortuna Sinonem finxit, uanum etiam mendacemque improba finget. fando aliquod si forte tuas peruenit ad auris Belidae nomen Palamedis et incluta fama gloria, quem falsa sub proditione Pelasgi insontem infando indicio, quia bella uetabat, demisere neci, nunc cassum lumine lugent: illi me comitem et consanguinitate propinquum pauper in arma pater primis huc misit ab annis. dum stabat regno incolumis regumque uigebat conciliis, et nos aliquod nomenque decusque gessimus. inuidia postquam pellacis lixi (haud ignota loquor) superis concessit ab oris, Dorothy was a waitress on the promenade / She worked the night shift / Dishwater blonde, tall and fine / She got a lot of tips / Well, earlier I'd been talkin' stuff / In a violent room / Fighting with lovers past / I needed someone with a quicker wit than mine / Dorothy was fast / Well, I ordered / "Yeah, let me get a fruit cocktail, I ain't 2 hungry" / Dorothy laughed / She said "Sounds like a real man 2 me" / Kinda cute, U wanna take a bath? (do you wanna, do you wanna, bath) / I said "Cool, but I'm leaving my pants on" (she say) / "Cuz I'm kind of going with someone" / She said "Sounds like a real man 2 me" / "Mind if I turn on the radio?" / "Oh, my favorite song" she said / And it was Joni singing "Help me I think I'm falling" / (Ring) / The phone rang and she said "Whoever's calling can't be as cute as U" / Right then I knew I was through / (Dorothy Parker was cool) / My pants where wet, they came off / But she didn't see the movie / Cuz she hadn't read the book first / Instead she pretended she was blind / An affliction brought on by a witch's curse / Dorothy made me laugh (ha ha) / I felt much better so I went back / 2 the violent room (tell us what U did) / Let me tell U what I did / I took another bubble bath with my pants on / All the fighting stopped Next time I'll do it sooner / This is the ballad of Dorothy Parker / Dorothy Parker, Dorothy Parker, Dorothy Parker / Dorothy Parker, Dorothy Parker, Dorothy Parker Well / Dorothy Parker, Dorothy Parker / I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkan- sas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull, who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall, who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York, who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls, incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between, Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind, who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo, who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox, who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge, a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills of Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement, who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall, suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room, who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wonder- ing where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts, who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night, who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas, who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels, who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy, who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain, who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa, who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago, who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incompre- hensible leaflets, who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed, who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons, who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication, who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts, who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love, who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whom- ever come who may, who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword, who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom. who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of con- sciousness, who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake, who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver--joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too, who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung- over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices, who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam- heat and opium, who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hud- son under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion, who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery, who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music, who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology, who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish, who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom, who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg, who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade, who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried, who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regi- ments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertis- ing & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality, who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer, who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whis- key and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles, who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to the each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity, who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes, who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salva- tion and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second, who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz, who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave, who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury, who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instanta- neous lobotomy, and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & am- nesia, who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia, returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East, Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon, with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 a.m. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination-- ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time-- and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane, who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head, the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death, and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years. II What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination? Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Chil- dren screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks! Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Mo- loch! Moloch the heavy judger of men! Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jail- house and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judg- ment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned govern- ments! Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb! Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrap- ers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities! Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind! Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch! Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ec- stasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light stream- ing out of the sky! Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible mad houses granite cocks! monstrous bombs! They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us! Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit! Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time! Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roofl to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street! FADE IN: 1. EXT. GREAT NORTHERN HOTEL - DAY Dawn breaks over the Great Northern. CUT TO: 2. INT. GREAT NORTHERN HOTEL ROOM - DAY We hear him before we see him, but DALE COOPER is perched six inches above the floor in a one-handed yoga "frog" position, wearing boxer shorts and a pair of socks, talking into the tape recorder which is sitting on the carpet near his head. COOPER Diane ... 6:18 a.m., room 315, Great Northern Hotel up here in Twin Peaks. Slept pretty well. Non-smoking room. No tobacco smell. That's a nice consideration for the business traveller. A hint of douglas fir needles in the air. As Sheriff Truman indicated they would, everything this hotel promised, they've delivered: clean, reasonably priced accomodations ... telephone works ... bathroom in really tip-top shape ... no drips, plenty of hot water with good, steady pressure ... could be a side-benefit of the waterfall just outside my window ... firm mattress, but not too firm ... and no lumps like that time I told you about down in El Paso ... Diane, what a nightmare that was, but of course you've heard me tell that story once or twice before. Haven't tried the television. Looks like cable, probably no reception problems. But the true test of any hotel, as you know, is that morning cup of coffee, which I'll be getting back to you about within the half hour ... Diane, it struck me again earlier this morning; there are two things that continue to trouble me, and I'm not just speaking as an agent of the Bureau but also as a human being: what really went on between Marilyn Monroe and the Kennedys? And who really pulled the trigger on JFK? CUT TO: 3. EXT. SHERIFF TRUMAN'S HOUSE - MORNING A rustic log house, with the Sheriffs cruiser parked in front. A rooster crows. SHERIFF TRUMAN exits the house, carrying a soiled paper bag. He walks around the side yard to a chicken coop and scatters the feed he has in the bag into the coop. They start clucking and pecking. TRUMAN How you girls doin' this morning? Sounds like you got plenty to talk about today. Hope it's good news. He empties the bag and starts towards the cruiser. CUT TO: 4. EXT. DOUGHNUT SHOP - DAY A sign reads: WAGON-WHEEL DO-NUTS. CUT TO: 5. INT. DOUGHNUT SHOP - MORNING A banner reads: GO AHEAD; MAKE MY DONUT. Another banner reads: SQUARE DEALS ON ROUND DONUTS. DEPUTY ANDY BRENNAN and LUCY MORAN are at the counter, in the middle of ordering. LUCY ... two boxes of chocolate creams with jimmies, a box of maple bearclaws, one raspberry swizzle twist, two boxes of jelly donuts (to Andy) I'm ordering extra jelly donuts because they're Agent Cooper's favorite, you know my aunt I told you about with the raccoons? She liked jelly donuts, they were her favorite, but she doesn't remind me at all of Agent Cooper. (a new thought) Her son, though, does - ANDY And one plum frappe turnover. CUT TO: 6. INT. SHERIFF'S CRUISER - MORNING Truman drives past Wagon-Wheel Do-Nuts just in time to see Lucy and Andy leaving the shop, with Andy carrying a stack of donut boxes up to his neck. Truman pulls into the parking lot next to them and leans out the window. TRUMAN Can I give you three a lift? LUCY (looking atound) But Sheriff, there's only two of us. Truman and Andy look at each other. CUT TO: 7. INT. GREAT NORTHERN HOTEL DINING ROOM - DAY Dale Cooper sits at a choice corner table, holding a fresh, hot cup of coffee, as a WAITRESS stands by, holding the coffee pot. COOPER (holding up a hand to stop her) Wait right there, wait right there ... (he sniffs the coffee; hmm ... he sips) You know, this is, excuse me, a damn good cup of coffee. I've had I can't tell you how many cups of coffee I've had in my life and this ... (another sip) ... this is one of the best. WAITRESS Thank you. COOPER I'd like two eggs, over hard, don't tell me, I know it's hard on the arteries but old habits die hard, just about as hard as I want those eggs ... bacon, super crispy, almost burned: cremate it -- CUT TO: 8. AUDREY HORNE Across the room, watching Cooper order. She slips into her beguiling, rip-your- heart-out routine and sashays across the dining room to Cooper's table. COOPER (CONTINUED) (just finishing up) ... that's great, I'll have the grapefruit juice, as long as ... (sees Audrey approaching) ... those grapefruits are freshly squeezed. The Waitress departs. Audrey smiles. AUDREY My name is Audrey Home. COOPER Federal Bureau of Investigation, Special Agent Dale Cooper. AUDREY Can I sit here? COOPER (pleasantly) Miss Home, unless I miss my guess, your father is Benjamin Home, the owner of this fine establishment, so I guess you can sit anywhere you like. And I'd also like to add it would be my pleasure. Audrey sits, a little confused, runs a hand over her forehead. AUDREY You know, sometimes I get so flushed ... it's interesting. COOPER Were you a friend of Laura Palmer's? AUDREY Not exactly. COOPER Her father works for your father. Did you know each other growing up? AUDREY Oh we knew each other ... COOPER But there was something about her you didn't like. AUDREY Everybody liked Laura. She was just Little Miss Perfect. Laura tutored my older brother Johnny three times a week. Johnny's twenty-seven and he's in the third grade. He's got emotional problems; it runs in the family. Do you like my ring? (holds out her hand to show a big rock)) COOPER Very nice. AUDREY My father bought it for me. my father was crazy about Laura. He bought her a pony when she was nine, but he let her father say it was from him. Its name was Troy. (absent-mindedly rubs her left palm) Do your palms ever itch? Cooper studies her benignly. CUT TO: 9. BENJAMIN HORNE Crossing the hallway outside the dining room, he glances in and sees his daughter sitting with Dale Cooper. He stops, takes this in, then moves on. CUT TO: 10. EXT. LEO JOHNSON'S HOUSE MORNING The trucker, LEO JOHNSON, is obsessively cleaning the cab of his semi rig with a dustbuster. A bucket of hot water, some sponges and a hose are at the ready nearby. We see that Leo's name is stenciled on the rig's door, along with the name, "BIG PUSSYCAT." SHELLY JOHNSON, in her waitress uniform, comes up to the truck. SHELLY Leo, honey? I gotta go to work now, Norma'll be here any sec ... Leo? Leo turns off the dustbuster and turns to her. LEO Did you finish cleaning my boots? SHELLY They're all done and I did the laundry, too. LEO All of it? SHELLY Well yeah. LEO No you didn't. He grabs a used grocery bag full of dirty clothes from the cab and flings it at her. SHELLY Sure, Leo, when I get home I'll - LEO Now, Shelly. SHELLY Okay. Shelly starts back towards the house. CUT TO: 11. INT. JOHNSON KITCHEN - MORNING Shelly dumps the clothes out of the grocery bag onto a laundry basket in front of the washer. She shakes out the clothes before putting them in. She stops short when she sees a large, dark red bloodstain on a faded blue cowboy work shirt. She starts to tremble. She hears a car horn beep outside. She looks out the window, sees Norma's car pull in near the truck but she doesn't see Leo. She hears the screen door open and bang shut in the other roorn. LEO'S VOICE Shelly? Norma's here. Shelly makes a brave decision: quickly folds the bloodstained shirt and stashes it behind the washer, dumps the rest of the clothes in the washer, loads the detergent, closes the door and starts it just as Leo comes in the roorn. LEO Shelly, did you hear me say Norma's here? SHELLY I heard you, Leo. She starts out. He catches her by the arm. LEO I'm gonna come by the diner sometime today. Be a good girl and save me a piece 'a pie. He pinches her cheek softly and holds it. SHELLY (manages a smile) Sure, Leo. He works her cheek for a moment, squeezing a bit harder. Shelly hides her fear. CUT TO: 12. EXT. JOHNSON HOUSE/INT. NORMA'S CAR - MORNING Norma sits behind the wheel of a maroon '64 Falcon station wagon. Shelly gets in beside her and they drive off. NORMA Leo sure keeps that truck up, doesn't he? SHELLY He sure does. NORMA (glance at her, sees her condition) We're sure a couple a' characters, aren't we Shelly? SHELLY Norma, you said a mouthful and then some. NORMA. Guys ...

Henry Kember 2016, Michael Jackson 1987,
Publius Vergilius Maro 29-19B.C., Prince 1987,
Allen Ginsberg 1958, David Lynch 1990.