And we're at some sort of street fair, watching Cass and John stroll among the great unwashed. It's all handheld cameras and quick cuts and...well, it's really tedious, to be quite honest with you. But because I am a professional, here goes: there's a "Question 9/11" sign and a dancing person of indeterminate ethnic original and a Hare Krishna-looking dude who John is simply fascinated by, and Cass is filming it all, because she's an artist, goddammit, and a documenter of truth and a...no, sorry. Tedious. Can't continue.

Back at the nice hotel, the Babe Ruth of Porn and the Babe Ruth of Surfing Impresarios continue their summit. Tina wants to know if Butchie ragged on her all the time; to be quite honest, Linc says, he never heard Butchie utter word one about her. "'Cause he loved me so much," Tina snorts. "Knowing Butchie," Linc says flatly, "that would probably be why." "When we knowing each other, he'd less ignore you than knock you into a wall by accident," Tina remembers with a smile. Sounds like a delightful courtship. Linc asks if it was Tina's idea to call her offspring Shaun; she nods. "We'd come off tour," Linc said. "And Butchie would go to Mitch and Cissy's house, threatening to burn that place down because they wouldn't call him that." Aw, see -- it is love. Or horrible dysfunction. Oftentimes, it's hard to tell the difference. Anyhow, Linc points out that it's a smart play to maybe not let Butchie know about this little get-together. "I don't know yet if Butchie's talking to me," Tina says. Linc offer his assistance -- advice, a shoulder to cry on, the sinister influence of pure, unadulterated evil. You name it. Tina nods.

Over to the street fair -- ethnic drumming, John dancing with a group of burn-outs and hippies. Film it all, documentarian! Film it, lest the world be deprived of one pretentious, impenetrable frame of your self-indulgent student film!

At the motel -- the craptacular Snug Harbor, not the swanky place Linc is staying -- Butchie is pacing about his room and scratching his neck and face. Only fitting, since his patina of filth makes me inadvertently itch. There's a knock at the door. Butchie peers through the peephole, chuckles ruefully, and opens the door to reveal Tina standing on the other side. "What do you want?" he demands. "Not bad. How have you been?" she retorts. They are like the Tracy and Hepburn of the Aughties, if Spencer Tracy were hopelessly hooked on heroine and Katharine Hepburn did a lot of gang-bang movies in between Adam's Rib and Pat and Mike. If Tina's wondering why Butchie's so cross, he notes that it was she who left the "baby on [Butchie's] parents' doorstep" when Shaun was two hours old. Tina counters that they didn't exactly have a doorstep of their own: "Or a bed. Or food in the refrigerator." Oh sure, break out Maslow's hierarchy of needs -- real mature there, Tina.