by John Gifford

10

Stefano dialed Jack Matsumoto.

“Hello?”

“Konnichiwa, Matsumoto-san!” said Stefano.

“Stefano! Hola! Que paso?” replied Jack.

“Hey, I wanted to let you know, The Network is really interested.” Stefano removed his gaucho hat and shifted the cell phone to his other ear. He fished the printout out of the paper tray on the printer, spun it upright, and casually eyed the pie charts.

“Wow, cool!” said Jack. “I didn’t realize there would be so much interest in ukuleles any more.”

“Well, since you came up with your Ukulele Method and electric uke set for fifty bucks, The Network is all over it. They’re projecting big things. They also wanted to… well, I shouldn’t steal their thunder… but they’re talking about us doing some duo shows and selling both our products together. That gets you some name recognition right away. Hey, I thought it was a great idea, anyway.”

“Yeah, sounds that way.”

Stefano tossed the printouts on his desk and leaned forward in the chair. He thought for a moment, decided, and said, “I might have another job for you, too, if you can swing it.”

“Well, it’s not that busy right now. I’m just back from that 10-city tour of Asia. What’s the job?”

“There’s a new show being pitched soon, according to some correspondence I got. It’s kind of a “Behind The Tunes” kind of thing. I checked it out. Sounds legit. Anyway, I thought it might be a bonus to have you tag along on mine. I’ll be auditioning in New York in a few weeks.” He paused, as P. T. Barnum would have. “Unless you’re not interested.”

Jack was silent for a moment, obviously composing his thoughts. He barely veiled the excitement in his voice. “Well, yeah, sure sounds alright to me, Stefano. I mean, I’ll have to clear it with the Agency before I head over there. We made a few bucks on the Asia tour, so this might be the start of something big.”

Stefano smiled and leaned back in the chair. “Well, Jack, I know you’re starting out. They told me I can bring other musicians that deserve a look. Besides, this Merman Media is picking up the tab for flights, hotels, and all. Pretty much a no-brainer. We all need a leg up once in a while, right?”

“Yes we do. Thanks, Steve… umm, Stefano!” Jack chuckled at his own humor.

Stefano took it in stride. “OK, I’ll be in touch. Keep an eye out for an email. See ya.”

“OK, bye!”

Stefano hung up. He returned to his computer to read the confirmation email on the plane tickets.

~ — ~

11

Working in a dingy basement, using the equivalent of stone knives and bearskins, I’m not sure if I honed my craft or not. I certainly played the music one should hear. I know that occasionally, some decent anomalies made it to the public entertainment scene.

It occurred to me one day, while figuring out a Mussorgsky piece on a Stratocaster™ through a shrieking stack of 8 12-inch speakers. What if I just used the guitar as a weapon? Then I recalled that there had been some hapless metal guitarist who had a guitar shaped like a gun that shot sparks out of the neck. He’d burned down a couple of the few venues that would hire his band to play their odd blend of punk, metal, Celtic, and Latin sounds. He also had caused two members of that band, Screwbox, to permanently adopt the shaven-headed chrome-dome look thanks to the exuberance of his pyrotechnics.

All the good gags have been taken.

I had finished production on several album projects for some local, unsung-hero bands, singers, and songwriters. There was actually a balance in the Merman Media bank account. It had been a long time since I had seen the type of television I wanted to see… and it struck me that I should be the TV I wanted to see. It’s no secret that I subscribe to Marxist Theory—Groucho Marx, of course. I wouldn’t want to join a club that would have me as a member. However, I also knew that we could put something really spectacular out there. Once again, decent music and good taste would be on the map.

The first phase required me to track down a few old contacts from the heyday of The Mermans. Fortunately, Ricky was able to help a lot, since a few of the big shots from the networks liked to play at the casinos in Atlantic City. Maui, actually, provided a contact in an odd way… he did mortician services for the husband of an executive VP at the new Vid-I/O music network.

Vid-I/O was cool in that it merged music videos and concerts with a near-real-time V-Blog. The V-Blog was shown for 20 minutes per hour, after a slightly sanitizing censor review panel approved the content. Since it was being broadcast, the law clearly mandated that it was necessary to have this control. In essence, it was like M-TV but with uploads from the audience. In general, it was home-shot video, be it a local band at a nightclub or a hand-made music video. There was also the usual smattering of viral videos, funny photos of signs, and redneck engineering, and the like. Overnight, from 1 to 4 AM Eastern, the format was entirely composed of these random, quirky uploads. This nightly so-weird-it’s-cool anthology was called “About A Cat.”

There were different levels of membership, as well as “public access, pro bono” programming. The concept was to keep it closer to the Netizens than to corporations and their overly willing stooges. There were plenty of corporation-channels, but Vid-I/O was still well beneath their radar. Granted, the main audience was early-adoptive Web geeks, fan-boys/ fan-girls, and artsy hippies and punks. Since they also shaped the content, Vid-I/O was the most creative, courageous, “far out” channel you could experience. In fact, during “About A Cat,” members would take turns introducing the selections and comment about them using Web-style avatars and word balloons. It was into this unusual environment that my shot at Making A Play For Good Taste began to evolve.

Sheila, the president and CEO, was just getting over losing her husband, Bruce, in a freak accident. She had been the executive VP for programming, and Bruce was the president and CEO. Sheila had taken over both slots, immersing herself in work to grieve. A singularly undignified way to go— Bruce was in the way when a cappuccino machine at a franchise coffee shop exploded. The irony, of course, is that a machine in a place ostensibly named after a rebellious character on a TV show pitting humans against machines killed a human with shrapnel and scalding, atomized stimulants.

You say you want coffee now? You’re too easy to influence. If you need a cup, you’ll have to go to the machine for it. I haven’t heard of any problems with the coffee machine here other than the paper cups don’t always fall straight. There were also the few times the vending company switched where they put the creamer and the chicken bullion. That was less than pleasant. Maybe the machine switched it itself… but that would be quite a feat for a coin-operated dinosaur like that. Then again, this is prison, so it’s probably just part of the punishment.

Sheila had given me a quizzical look. “I don’t think I quite follow you?” She glanced at her computer screen and looked back at me. “And what on Earth is a ‘Yanstebangus?’”

“Popumentaries,” I said. “Think of it as …a reality show of sorts. We go for a few weeks and do biographies of a few stars who have been popular, but are sort of out of the limelight. Gold and Platinum Members will be able to avatar-in and comment as it’s being broadcast. Then, the alchemy part, we have the artists perform a song or two together. We go further… we try, on-air, to convince them to form a supergroup… named Yanstebangus, of course. At least this season. That’s distilled from some of the names of artistes who’ve responded and said they’re interested.” I shrugged, palms upturned. The pitch was all up to her now.

Sheila leaned back in her execu-throne and looked at the wall. There was a picture of Bruce and her on their honeymoon in Trinidad. She looked at the picture as she spoke. “I don’t know. It just sounds like we’d be following the regular commercial networks. Is this really something Vid-I/O people would want?”

“I can’t guarantee it, of course, but with the plan I have in mind, I think they’ll get a kick out of it.” I stopped there, thumbs in my pockets, vaguely smirking at the floor. I turned my head to her, tipped slightly sideways. “It would certainly be the weirdest reality show out there… all those egos… tack-hammered together. I think Bruce would have been all for it.”

She turned back to me. “You’re probably right.” She smiled, her heart-shaped face wreathed in a glow that rivaled an Italian sunrise. She was charismatic, and lit up the room. Her strawberry-blonde hair, in fact, was styled in a way that was mindful of the sun. Although the sun was traditionally thought of as male, the moon as female, I had a silly, fleeting thought of composing a picture featuring Sheila’s face and hair in that capacity.

I shook her hand in the semi-formal way that modern men and women do. The modern way, of course, replaces the kissing of a lady’s hand. It also supplements the traditional male-male handshake with a softer one in which the woman extends her hand, more in the way she would allow it to be kissed. The man must grasp her hand delicately, give a definite up-and-down shake, and release. I felt a small pang of remorse as I did so.

Why? Your phonograph-needle vaccination is showing.

Let me elaborate on the Yanstebangus Plan.

Get the show approved.
Proceed as planned with the “Popumentaries.”

Then, during the “blending” concert, electrocute the quasi-stars and forever be a hero in both pop culture and active culture circles: active culture, by dispensing with these numbskulls; pop culture, by having created the supergroup in the first place.

Hey, kid, rock and roll.

Rock on.

~ — ~

12

2 weeks had passed since The Electrical Incident, as it later became known. George was promoted to Maintenance, helping Freddie out while Al was laid up. Eddie had been promoted to truck washer after Al had said, “That damn Eddie…” as he blacked out from the paramedics’ painkillers.

The finishing touches were being put on the latest batch of trucks. Due to the fragile nature of the modern microprocessor-controlled dash systems, they were installed but not wired up until some of the very last steps.

No one had noticed anything unusual about VIN# A0215H233PA1384X09B. The processor assembly looked like a normal processor assembly. It had cleaned up well and tested as normal and functional after the Electrical Incident. As George walked by, when it was being tested, he thought he saw a smiley-face appear on the testing monitor and wink at him. He did a double take and looked closely, but there was nothing but the normal screen full of tables of readings.

VIN# A0215H233PA1384X09B was completed and sat waiting for the new truck washer, Eddie, to take her out for a last bath on the way to the sales yard.

Cut to: a nameless, faceless studio parking lot. We see the silhouette of a Mack truck. In her own words, then:

“Sure, I recall the moment that I became aware. There was a dark, dark hall. A pinpoint of light. It grew. Sound began to grow in a soft swell, reaching a tumultuous industrial crescendo. I remember the key being inserted and feeling my motor come to life for the first time. There was a bright light as I moved out of the factory. I remember the icy blast of water as I was washed and polished the first time.

“I saw the look of pride when the salesman showed me off to the buyer from the freight company, and the happy look on the face of the young driver who was assigned to drive me. Life wasn’t easy all the time, but I learned the routes. Sometimes, I had to “help” my drivers through when they’d get a little tired. Sometimes, I’d have to pretend to break down so they’d rest.

“One of my favorite loads was when I was driven to Toledo, Ohio, and then around the country. There was a company there that built weight scales. Mostly, it was just freight, but one of the scales was also self-aware, and we of course had a wonderful simpatico. We really hit it off, discussing factory life, humorous anecdotes about being assembled, and so on. I was disappointed when we got near the end of the run and he was delivered to the grocery store. The ride back to the terminal was rather quiet, unfortunately. If you’d like to meet him, he’s here in the Wordchasm.”

~ — ~

TO BE CONTINUED…

Previously