And God Created Audience

Patty presented this to the talented company of A.D. Players in Houston today. Hope you enjoy it. Ken

Becoming Audience by Ken Bailey

In the Beginning God created The Great Set. And cast it with beautiful living things. Then God took a seat third row center and said "It is Good". But He looked around and felt something was missing.

and then.. God created audience - a Man and a Woman - to see His Work and to applaud the Creator.

GOD raised the audience and the curtain and said,
I give you the birds of the air! (flying in stage left) And the creatures of the sea! (from stage right) and animals and flowers of every kind.

and because the audience missed the spectacle of Creation - He gave them a glimpse of it every morning at sunrise and every evening at sunset
- -
In the beginning was the Word and the Word, "the Script" was with God and the Script was God. And the Script became flesh and appeared on our stage.

Near the end of the Act 1 the Script said I am going away, but when you are "off book" I will send a Stage Manager and you can call for "line" any time you need.
- -
The Script, Jesus, also said, love the Producer totally, with your mind, and your Spirit and your heart… and love the audience. Don’t unwrap candy in the middle of the scene and turn off your cell phones so you and those around you with ears can hear.
- -
There was a time when the audience stop coming and only one man made every show. God told the audience of one to build a theater and the non-theater-going-public laughed at him. "Why are you building a theater when there is no one to attend". But God said I want a theater for my audience and my show. So God called on his small, faithful audience to bring in props and animals for God’s show. And he and his family brought in two of every animal (one for the show and an understudy) And after a flood of bad press, the theater opened and God put on his show, a revival. "I give you the birds of the air" and for the finale that day the little audience watch God place a rainbow upstage across the expanse of blue sky and God said, This will be a sign unto you of my covenant with the audience, that I will never close the show again by a flood".
n -
Shakespeare would have us believe we are "merely Players" but
God made us to be audience in His Theater. With two legs for standing ovations, opposable thumbs to open and read the program, two hands to clap, and eyes and ears to enjoy His show. And a single mouth to tell the single story of His Epic tale and to encourage others to come and see the show. The tickets have been comped by His Son.

Now we can be about His work acting, and directing and selling tickets and raising money, but we are never more in our place than
when we sit back or move up to the edge of our seats, when we turn off the cell phones or anything that makes noise, when the light fades on us and illuminates God’s amazing production. When we become audience.

A Film Short

Succession
by
Ken Bailey
October 16, 2008


An upscale sitting room. Woman #1 is seated on two-person sofa near Center Stage. To her right in a straightback chair sits Woman #2. Behind the sofa standing is Man #2. Seated to Woman #1’s left in a comfortable highback cloth chair is Man #1.

At rise Man #2 crosses upstage to a sideboard with a carafe of coffee and a few undisturbed small pastries. Man #2 pours coffee as Woman #3 enters Up Right. Woman #3 surveys room and crosses to sidebar where she takes an empty cup and places it on a saucer and Man #2 pours her a cup.

Suddenly a phone ring shatters the silence and Woman #3 drops her cup and saucer and it shatters on the parquet floor. Man #1 does not move. Woman #2 rises and crosses behind sofa to phone on table between Woman #1 and Man #1.

Woman #2
Yes?


Woman #2 hands receiver to Woman #1 as couple (mostly Woman #3) upstage deal quietly with mess on floor.

Woman #1
Yes?

Woman #1 listens without reaction except a brief moment when her eyelids open a bit wider.

Woman #1 (cont.)
Thank you for letting me know.

Woman #1 does not hang up but hands phone to Woman #2. Woman #2 listens and hears only a dial tone (we do not hear dialtone) and then hangs up receiver. Woman #2 crosses back to her straightback chair and sits. Everyone covertly studies Woman #1.

Silence.

Woman #1
(to Man #1)
Will I have to say something?

Man #1
When you’re ready.


Woman #1
Will you write something or some notes. I-

Man #1
I’ll take care of it.

Woman #3 has finished cleaning up her broken cup and saucer and the spilled coffee. Woman #3 moves down behind Woman #1 who somehow knows she is talking to her.

Woman #3
I know you are probably not hungry, but while I put these things away-

Woman #1
Oddly, I am. Maybe it’s my stomach.

Woman #3
What would you like?

Woman #1
Buttermilk

Woman #3
Buttermilk?

Woman #1
A cold glass if there is any.

Woman #3 starts to exit

Woman #1
And two of those finger sandwiches left from
the Ortega brunch. But not the tuna.

Woman #3 exits

Silence

Woman #1
Did he do something wrong that I’m not aware of?

Man #2
If he did, we weren’t aware of it either.

Man #1
He did Nothing Wrong.

Woman #1
Except this. This was wrong.

Woman #2 gets up to move to Woman #1

Woman #1
If you are planning to hug me, think again.

Woman #2 stops and then re-sits.

Woman #1
For the last seven years I have hugged, been hugged, kissed and been kissed by people my father would have crossed the street to avoid. (pause) In a few days it will all start again. Until then no hugs, no kisses - (smiles) I’ve known him for 32 years. He’s gone hunting with me, my father, my brothers, industrialists and heads of state and this is the first time (slightly serious) I’ve known him to get a kill on the first shot. (smiles) He would find that funny.

Silence

Phone rings. Woman #2 rises but Man #1 answers.

Man #1
Yes? A moment.

Man #1 holds receiver down.

Man #1 (to Woman #1)
It’s the Vice President.

Woman #1 rises to move to phone.

Woman #1
You mean President.

Woman #1 takes phone.

Woman #1 (cont.)
Hello Charlie.

FADE OUT

At This Moment

At this moment:

i am
the sum of my experiences
the product of my DNA

the perfect creation of a perfect Creator
the flawed, doomed outcast of the lineage of Adam
the keeper of the knowledge of Good and Evil
the resident vessel of the breath of God

the eternal promise of my savior Jesus Christ

and a little sleepy.

Beginning a Memoir

Growing Up in the Dark
By
Ken Bailey

Introduction

He wasn’t my real father. But in a time when second marriages were less frequent and even less discussed, everyone assumed he was. He would adopt me and give me the Bailey name after a fourteen year trial period. But even though the name was slow coming, Marvin Bailey instantly introduced a four year old me to a world I would have never experienced if my Mother had gone with my choice, Bob DeJohn.

Bob was a friendly fellow who brought us a television over a single weekend. He was a salesman at Sears Roebuck and somehow swung this miracle in a day when televisions were as new and foreign to my world as champagne or a club sandwich. As a three and one half year old, I had never seen or even heard of television. With a bright Houston sun shining outside, I spent that entire weekend inside in front of a magic box that would someday consume the majority of my working life.

These two men who, as far as I know never met, introduced me, within a six month period, to the two worlds that would launch my imagination and experiences for a lifetime. Film and Television.

Now, lest you think I hadn’t been around before the age of four let me set you straight. I had seen two movies, The Stratton Story and my favorite (of the two) Singing in the Rain. But television was different. On a table in my Grandmother’s bedroom/living room I watched my first TV show, The Lone Ranger. Now think of this, right there in our house, not having to dress up in a little suit that made me look like a very short Clark Kent without glasses, not going downtown, not standing in line and not waiting through boring newsreels and coming attractions and a great cartoon to see the movie movie. Right there, right then, on a table in my Grandmother’s living room/bedroom The Lone Ranger and Tonto rode Silver and Scout across the table from one edge of my Mother’s white starched table linen to the other. All this in glorious black and white on a screen about the size of a volleyball. To this day while the story (most Lone Ranger stories were the same) eludes me the feeling of the miraculous is still with me.

I feel a little sorry for now seven year old Emily and four year old Allie Grace to have never experienced life outside a digital world. But I’m sure they will experience their own miracles and that makes me smile as much as did the field of gray, waving General Mills grain at the opening of that Lone Ranger.

My first meeting with Marvin Bailey was not as pleasant. He offered me a stick of gum. Bob DeJohn had brought the miraculous into our home. Marvin Bailey brought Spearmint. It wasn’t even Juicy Fruit. At that moment I committed an act of defiance that, as I know of, was something very unusual and something my Mother would never have allowed. I threw the gum wrapper on the carpet of our entry hall. The first words I remember Marvin Bailey saying to me, although he probably said something when he offered me the gum was, "Pick that up!" I ran off as fast as I could.

Thinking back on it, he must have cared for my Mother a great deal to strike a bargain that would include a four year old, ungrateful litterbug. But the secret to my agreeing to the union, like I had a vote, was once again, television.
My Mother and Marvin took me to a small, pleasant brick house not far from downtown Houston. This location was to be my home until college. In this house I would change from fat to thin, awkward to athlete, and from go carts to girls.

The agent of change was in a large mahogany cabinet in Marvin Bailey’s living room. There, behind a burled wood door lived 21 inches of diagonal magic. Its name was Zenith. And I was suddenly okay with the entire arrangement.

CHAPTER 1

I seldom lied or "told stories" as my Mother preferred to call it. I knew God frowned on lying. But by high school I had learned how to "create impressions" that while not direct lies often led to a misunderstanding of the facts that was intended to benefit me. Later on I was to learn to call this by another name, marketing.

Mrs. Strusand was an English teacher with a second responsibility. She was in charge of the school newspaper. I never heard her referred to as the Editor, but that was actually her role.

In my junior year I had made one of many mistakes. This one was taking a study hall. I had completed my electives and the idea of doing my homework during school seemed like a good idea. There was one problem. I didn’t do homework. I did marketing. So there I was stuck on a beautiful spring afternoon looking out the window daydreaming as I often did. The study hall teacher was constantly trying to bring me back to geometry or at least reality. No one in the sixties that I knew of could spell A.D.D. much lest knew what it was. Then I was just easily bored.

My friend Tommy, came to the rescue. He wrote for the school newspaper and told me there was an opening for a photographer. What a great opportunity to get out of study hall and my name in the newspaper.
I went to see Mrs. Streusand. I told her the truth that my father was a professional (actually regionally famous-but kids never know that) photographer and then I "creatively impressed" upon her that as the son of a professional photographer wouldn’t it make sense that I too was a gifted photographer. This juxtaposition of fact and question was a technique I learned from Perry Mason. Who says television is not educational.
Either out of desperation or marketing she bought it. I was suddenly a staff member. This was great, I thought. I would go to my fathers’ studio and get one of the great guys that work there to give me a few pointers and.. While I was thinking this Mrs. Strusand was talking. The first word that got to my gray matter was, "tonight". "Tonight!" what was tonight. As my mind surfaced I heard "get a few shots of the band and we will run them Friday." "Shots, Band, Friday!" "What Band?" "What Friday?" Not day after tomorrow Friday.
I was still trying to sort out Mrs. Strusand’s assignment from my imagination. when I arrived at Bob Bailey Studios. I worked there most days delivering photographs to big oil companies downtown or ad agencies in the suburbs. I had learned how to get around Houston, but I had not learned how to take pictures. I had shot pictures like everyone with a Brownie. But at those few times the subjects were either too far away or headless. I was pretty sure Mrs. Strusand would not be pleased with a tiny headless band in our school auditorium.
Bob Bailey Studios in 1964 was a very busy place. There my father and multiple photographers, darkroom personnel, secretaries and finishers worked to create images for Houston top companies. In other parts of the building on Allen Parkway near downtown Houston, my uncle Bob Bailey and his crews produced corporate and sports films.
I caught a break that afternoon. One of the younger photographers was between afternoon assignments. I confessed to him what I had done. He took pity on me. It could have been because I was the boss’s son, but he and most everyone I remember from the studio were kind, gentle people who loved their craft and sharing with young, eager and sometimes desperate novices. The young photographer loaned me one of the studios twin-lens reflex cameras. He loaded it with film. Attached a strobe light. Taped down a couple of switches so I wouldn’t accidentally change a setting and return with no picture at all. He then told me to bracket the "F" spot. (This means to shoot at various aperture openings allowing more or less light to strike the negative) And then he sent me on my way.
When I arrived back at school I looked, at least in my mind, like an official photographer. I carried a professional looking camera, strobe light and adopted heritage.
Backstage I was greeted by, not a band but, a young guy in an overly large business suit. He was the band and my first subject. He played the drums. He struck a fun pose with his foot up on his stool and his hand on his chin. Not the first time such a picture had been made. What was unique was this was my first real photographic shoot and there was something else different.
In 1964 the Beatles were enjoying world wide success. This was not one of the Beatles. Not even close. But by that year John, Paul, George and Ringo were starting to grow their hair long and it was catching on with other performers. This drummer was the first male I had ever seen in person with long hair. I mean hair that hung down passed his hand on his chin. The drummer struck his pose and I nervously began cocking the shutter and firing. I thought, hopefully to myself, Did the strobe go off? Is the lens cap on? A really good question for a twin lens camera like I was shooting because it had one lens on top that you looked through to focus and another lens directly below that was actually the lens that exposed the film. One could actually look through an uncapped lens and shoot a lens-capped non-image.
I did remember to bracket my exposures. I couldn’t wait (and neither could Mrs. Strusand) for me to get to the studio and develop the negatives.
From the time I was a little kid I spent hours in the darkroom. Watching the magic of drowning images appear on sheets of plain white paper. The memory of the smells of the chemicals, the mood lighting and the vision of those emerging pictures makes me smile to this day.
I loved it the day someone put a sign on one of our darkroom doors that said, "Don’t open the door you’ll let the dark out." I have thought about that often in my faith walk. And I take joy in the fact the dark never overcomes the light.
Most people have seen the green or red lit images of a darkroom but when we were developing negative film we did it in complete darkness. Complete darkness is a quiet, long time of anticipation and concern. It is, especially, if this is your first assignment and if the results is the only thing that stands between you, study hall and Mrs. Strusand.
I shot twelve exposures on a roll of film just over two inches wide. In the dark I rolled the film on to silver spools designed to keep the surface of the film from touching the rest of the film as it was spooled. The spool was then dunked into a stainless steel tank containing developing solution. With its top on the tank sat on countertop in the dark and the old sweeping-hand styled timer was started. The timer was coated with a grit created by chemicals in the room and the moving hands were coated with a phosphorescent paint that emitted the only sense of light in the room. Each complete rotation of the hands took one minute. With each rotation I would agitate the developer in tank like a bartender shaking a James Bond martini.
After eight minutes the irritating noise of the timer’s buzzer pierced the silence. Then the developing reel was wetly fished out and placed in a fixing solution called "hypo". About a minute or two in the hypo and the moment of truth arrived. I switched the light on and as uncoiled the wet film from the spool. As it unrolled I held it up to the naked light bulb to see if I could see an image. Any image.
I had shot all twelve frames. I had bracketed. But all I saw was dark clear film. Maybe a dot of image here or there. But then near the center of the reel, I could see one image. Out of twelve tries I had gotten one. In baseball I would have been batting .066. But this wasn’t baseball, this was magic. I hung the three and one half feet of film in our drying room and clipped a metal weight to the bottom to make sure it didn’t curl. As soon as it was dry, I took my one image to the printing darkroom.
Earl Foster was a wizard with black and white printing. Earl was as kind a person as I ever met at the studio. As a black man in the fifties in the south, I am sure his life was filled with the same challenges as every of person of color faced in those embarrassing and wrong-thinking times. But to me he was a friend and a wizard. I took Earl by one surviving image and he showed me how to print. Earl would push timers, wave dodging wands and his large hand over the easel that held the blank photo paper. These odd gestures painted the paper with light. When Earl "souped" the first print it faded up at the same rate my chest expanded. I thought it looked great. Earl pulled it from the developer and through it in the trash. My chest return to normal if not a little sunken. "Too light" the wizard said. The next attempt looked even better. By the time it swirled in the current of the wash and took the rollercoaster ride around the heated aluminum dryer I thought, "Skip Johnson eat your heart out." I would have said "Ansel Adams eat your heart out," but at the time I did not know who he was. But Skip Johnson had been the school photographer before me and at this point in my development Skip was good enough competition.
Friday morning I rushed my photo to Mrs. Strusand's classroom/newspaper office. She was very impressed. I was officially the new school newspaper photographer. Mrs. Strusand asked me, how the others pictures looked, and I told her that we had looked at the choices and determined this one was the best. For the remainder of that year and my senior year I learned all I could about making pictures and motion pictures.
Two years after high school Skip Johnson died on a ship off the coast of Viet Nam.
TO BE CONTINUED

A Movie Trailer for "7 Thunders" - Left Handed Justice

This is for a trailer for my comtemporary / alternative history feature film based on the impact of a 1970 Supreme Court decision and a hero based on the story of Ehud in Judges. The protagonist, Preacher Boy, is called on to deliver his people from a godless tyrant.

7Thunders
a Ken Bailey Film
(A Movie Trailer)

SUPER: "And I will pour my fury upon Sin" Ezekiel 30:15

SFX - First of Seven Thunders

FADE IN:

NARRATOR (V.O.)
He turned the other cheek

CU in dark of fist hitting Preacher Boy's face

NARRATOR (V.O.)
And then-

Quick cuts of flashes of fists, a work boot to a stomach, and a bat cracks against his broad back.
NARRATOR 2 (V.O.)
(Rev 10:3)
He cried with a loud voice, as when a lion roareth: and when he had cried, seven thunders uttered their voices.

NIGHT BACKLIT SHOT OF RAIN IN CEMETARY

Preacher Boy struggles to his feet

NARRATOR (V.O.)
He carries guilt, rage and a Bible

-PB stands in the rain, cut to rain on Bible

NARRATOR 2
Seal up those things which the seven thunders uttered, and write them not.


NARRATOR (V.O.)
They call him Preacher Boy and

-PB walks in driving rain, lightning, thunder intercut with action scenes

NARRATOR (V.O.)
He calls for justice

Last action flash

7Thunders
Coming Fall 2010

Monkeys & Music

Of Monkeys and Music by Ken Bailey © KenBailey 2009

In 1927 on the sunnyside of 2nd Avenue and 49th Street Luigi the organ grinder cranked out tunes for the passersby while Ravioli, Luigi’s pet monkey would offer his turned-up bellboy cap in a plea for money. As one well-dressed socialite walked up to the hat-in-hand monkey, the socialite dropped in a shiny nickel. The monkey screeched at the woman as if she had short-changed the stinky little mammal. Luigi smiled, tipped his own hat to the lady and then jerked on the monkey’s leash so hard the monkey slammed into Luigi’s worn suit pants. "I apologize for my monkey lady. Sometimes he thinks he makes the music."

Sometimes those of us called by God to pass the hat and share the Word forget who it is that makes the Music. Acting on a call of God, when doing it right, is hard, often thankless, work. To equate that important calling to a monkey on an organ grinder’s leash may be a harsh comparison. In fact, many people and every member of PETA would today find the entire idea of an innocent animal being trained, worked hard on the streets of New York and occasionally yanked by the organ grinder completely unacceptable. But I stand by the harsh analogy.

Most of us securely tethered to our Lord and Savior by His chain of Grace would never want to be separated from that umbilical. And if our loving Father pulls on it before we step into traffic, we dumb monkeys will just have to learn to trust the Organ Grinder. It is through His power that the music is made.

If you can see yourself as that monkey, please remember as you put on your costume of faith and pass the hat that you are not the Source. And that when you get too contentious or full of yourself for the passersby that the Organ Grinder has others waiting to take your place.

The Last Bigot

This is a piece I started two months ago and then put down for a season. James Parkinson was a Pastor early in his life and is now dealing with old age and a feisty caregiver. At this point it may feel a bit like "Driving Mr. Daisy" but trust me it is about to take a distinctive turn.

The Last Bigot
By
Ken Bailey
© KenBailey 2009


SETTING: Back bedroom of James Parkinson. The once normally appointed bedroom now contains a hospital bed, a walker, two comfortable chairs, a rolling stand that can JP can use to eat from or write. In the corner is a tank of oxygen.

Time: Present

At Rise: JAMES PARKINSON is in hospital bed in his back bedroom. JP throws the sheets back and struggles to get himself to his walker positioned at bedside. After a few steps he looses his balance. He and the walker both fall to ground. He is wearing an Emergency Call button around his neck but does not reach for it. Instead he angrily struggles to right the walker and then pull himself up. It is now apparent he has wet himself. He struggles to get back in his bed. Just as he lays his head back he hears outside door open. He grabs a water pitcher on a bedside table and drenches his already wet pj bottoms. CARLA KING enters room.

JP: Well just in time. See what you made me do? You put the water too far away. I was so dehydrated, ten more minutes and you wouldn’t have to cremate me you could just take a whisk broom and sweep me into an urn.

CK: Ahh. Cremating you was one of the few things I had left to look forward to.

JP: What am I talking about the only broom you know anything about is the one you ride to work. I hope you didn’t park it by my azaleas.

CK: I put some new pullups in there. C’mon I’ll help you in there and then you are on your own.

(CK helps JP out of bed and behind walker. She steadies him from behind as he enters bathroom.)

JP: Close the door and don’t peak.

CK: I’ll try to resist.

(CK changes sheets, puts on clean mattress pad, makes up bed and mops up wet spot on floor where JP fell with walker.)

JP (from bathroom) What’s today?

CK: Friday

JP What?

CK: THURSDAY

JP: What?

CK: MY BIRTHDAY

JP: I can’t hear you.

CK: You’re kidding

JP: What?

CK: I said you are a mean old, bedwetting, bigot who should-

(JP emerges from bathroom)

JP: Don’t you ever shut up.

CK: Wait. I haven’t wax the floor there yet.

(CK crosses to JP)

JP: You know if I moved into a motel I would have some hour-glass shaped Chiquita doing what you do for free. And for a couple of pesos she would-

CK: Eskimos

JP: What?

CK: The three months I have been here I don’t remember you insulting an Eskimo.

(Helps JP back in bed)

JP: What’s to insult? They just sit up there killing baby seals, polar bears and six-packs while the wait for the next Valdez to come sailing along. You know I heard that captain had a red nose when all that oil started spurting out of that ship and every body thought it was from drinking. But I heard he had been up Eskimo kissing all night long. Now I’m not saying the drugged him but-

CK: BINGO!

JP: What?

CK: Now you’ve insulted everyone. What do you want for breakfast? As if I didn’t know.

JP: Eskimo pie

CK: What

JP: Eskimo pies are something good about Eskimos.

CK: You want an Eskimo Pie for breakfast?

JP: Of course not. I want two eggs,

CK and JP: flipped over with the yolk not runny and not hard, just right. Rye toast with Real Butter –

JP: None of that “I Can’t Believe It’s This Dope Smoking Hippie Crap” stuff. And bacon-

CK and JP: Three slices crisp but not burnt.

CK: When did I ever serve you burnt bacon?

JP: Never. Cause I always remind you not to.

CK: Do you wanna watch some TV while I fix breakfast?

JP: What’s on?

CK: You have 300 channels of cable

JP: But it’s all crap.

CK: Then you want me to leave it off?

JP: No, you’ve got me used to noise. Just turn on some noise. Is there a Western on?

(CK turns on TV.)

CK: I don’t know!

JP: My motel Chiquita would know. But we wouldn’t want the TV on. You know why?

CK: Cause she wouldn’t want to create attention while she ties you up and robs you blind?

(CK exits as TV show comes on. TV show is that day’s CNN or Fox News(recorded each day and played back at performance – permission is necessary) a commercial comes on (same at every performance and at an appointed time JP starts changing channels) At each quick change JP utters “crap” or “more crap” until he finally finds a Western and then cable goes out. One last “Crap!” JP picks up phone and dials. Waits and then speaks as if to voice mail)

JP: In case there is anyone there who understands English just wanted to report MY DAMN CABLE’S GONE OUT AGAIN!! And before anybody calls to lie to me and say “We come by and nobody home” I am ALWAYS AT HOME! I can’t Leave. If I could leave I would go to a country where they new how to keep cable on and Spoke English!
(CK enters)

CK- here we go two eggs scrambled and burnt bacon. Couldn’t find a channel with Eskimos?

JP- Cable’s out.

CK: I’ll call them while you eat.

(JP looks down at breakfast)

CK: You praying or looking for shells

JP: Neither although with your cooking I probably should pray.

CK: I got the cable number in the kitchen.

JP: I already called them. I had Joey put’m on speeddail. (takes bite of eggs) I used to pray alot.

CK: But women got the vote anyway.

JP: No

CK: Blacks got to play baseball-
JP: I need more butter. I wish this remote work on you.

(CK exits. JP takes a bite of toast)

JP: (yells to kitchen) This is rye bread. I said wheat! Rye bread is for sandwiches- with german mustard not for toast at breakfast! What’s wrong with you?

(CK enters)

CK: Cable is out for blocks. They said it should be fixed by 3.

JP: A black guy tell you that?

CK: Yes, but on the phone he was pretending to be an Indian woman. They’re sneaky like that. Every since one of them got elected President it’s like every black guy is Ashton Kutchar and we’re all getting punk’d.

JP: A man named Ashton? Bet I know what team he plays for?

CK: You done with breakfast?

JP: No, I still have to finish this rye bread when I asked for wheat.

CK: You asked for or demanded rye.

JP: What do you take me for? Rye bread is for sandwiches with corn beef or salamie not breakfast. I would never asked for-

CK: Oh, really?

(CK pulls out a small digital recorder, rewinds and pauses)

CK: Let’s go to the tape in the booth, shall we?

(CK hits play and JP is heard requesting Rye)

RP: That is against my rights-

CK: To be a jackass.