As the hippie pulls out we see two things: one, that his license plate says "deadhead"; and two, that he is somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. There's a sign showing that he's a hundred miles from Portland, two hundred miles from Tacoma, and three hundred miles from Seattle. Which is really not possible at all since Tacoma is sixty miles from Seattle and Portland is way closer than three hundred miles from Seattle. It's only a two-and-a-half-hour drive, unless you stop in Olympia for vegetarian Mongolian Beef. Then it takes three hours. I know, I know. No one cares but me. But still, how weird to make a totally fake road sign. But I guess placing them in the Northwest makes sense, since there are so many serial killers there. Really, there are: Ted Bundy, Green River Killer, I-5 Killer, Happy-Faced Killer. So a granola-cereal killer makes some sense. ["And even if it didn't, the hippie is played by Eric Roberts, which indicates a critical lack of sense somewhere along the line here." -- Sars]
A young man is glaring into a jukebox. He gives up and heads back to his seat at the diner's counter. The waitress asks him how everything was, and he says that everything was fine, except for the music. Why couldn't they have any Pearl Jam in the jukebox? Oh, oh! I know! Let me answer! Is it because you're in a podunk diner in the middle of lumber country where the patrons would rather listen to George Strait than Eddie Vedder while they chop down evergreens? Is that it? The waitress rolls her eyes and asks where he's headed. She's acting very strangely. Or, perhaps more accurately, badly. The woman can't act and has instead substituted rocking back and forth, staring blankly, and raising her eyebrows. Interesting technique. The young man, who kind of looks like Doogie Howser, says he's headed up to a concert in Seattle. The waitress stares at him blankly for a minute and then remembers her line, which is "maybe you can get a trucker to take you as far as Portland." Doogie thanks her and says that he hasn't had a problem getting rides this far, and he's come up all the way from Missouri. She raises her eyebrow, rocks back and forth, and says that's a long way to go with strangers. Doogie points out that they're only strangers until you get to know them. Which just proves my point that there is no difference between the free-love hippies of the sixties and the modern free-love crusties of today.
Doogie is out on the road when the aging hippie pulls up in his oil-guzzling, anti-green coupe. As they drive they begin to talk about -- what else -- music. Doogie has even fewer manners than the last girl. He says that "his music," like such fine acts as STP and Tool, matters, and that his mom used to listen to that hippie crap. Then he starts flicking the hippie's peace-sign air freshener. The hippie tells him to stop it and turns up the tunes. They make fun of each other's music and generations for awhile. Pot smoking this, junk bonds that, Vietnam here, derivative there, blah blah blah. Doogie moves to turn off the tape, and the hippie grabs his hand and shoves it back. The hippie's car starts to break down and he pulls off the road. He pops the hood and asks Doogie to get the screwdriver out of the trunk. Doogie looks suspicious and asks why he has to get the screwdriver. The hippie says that he can either help or start walking. Doogie goes to get the screwdriver, and the hippie picks up a claw hammer from the floor of the car. Doogie starts going through his trunk and finds the signs of all of the hippie's previous victims. Meanwhile, the hippie starts going through Doogie's backpack and finds a stack of license plates that say things like "Flwr Pwr" and "Woodstck" and "Prple Hze." Just as he's about to look surprised, Doogie bangs on the window and says, hey, Bob, you're my first New Hampshire, and holds up the hippie's "DeadHead" license plate. D'oh! He's serial killer too! Hijinks are bound to ensue.
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Dr. Dave is still scratching himself when the paramedics show up in response to the accident. Dr. Dave mumbles to himself about his sorry lot in life until he spies a CD on the ground. Well, at least we always have tunes, he grumbles, as he puts the disc into his CD player holster
which, in my humble opinion, is an inexplicable accessory. Who makes those? Who buys those? Anyway, once Dr. Dave pops in the smooth sounds of Sabbath, the paramedics find a heart beat. Dr. Dave, being the brilliant Granada-educated physician that he is, figures out that the tunes started his heart. He runs toward the club entrance, but the bouncer stops him, saying that he's no longer on the list. Dr. Dave goes to the bathroom window where the chick in the blue jumpsuit is loitering. Let me in, he yelps. But, but, but Dante won't like it at all. Dr. Dave and I point out that she's already in hell and Dante already made her make out with Dr. Dave in a bathroom, so how much worse can it get? She lets him in. The paramedics lose his heartbeat as soon as he enters the club. They shock him back to life with the defibrillators, but Dr. Dave dies again in order to sally forth onto the dance floor to save Hyde. He hands Hyde the Discman and pushes play, but it's too late. Hyde already has the white man's afro, the platform shoes with the see-through plastic heels, and the bellbottoms. It's too late for him. Satan comes up and points out that it's only rock and roll, and even Alice Cooper can't fix Hyde's broken neck. Dr. Dave apologizes for being a complete fucking moron, and the paramedics shock him back to life again. As he opens his eyes, he sees that the building across from the crash site where the club is -- drumroll again please -- a condemned
building. Hoo! Those writers sure are witty. At the hospital, Dr. Dave is being fussed over by nurses, but they get called away because a girl is waking up from an extended coma. It's the girl in the jumpsuit. Rock and roll saved her life! Now they can go to concerts together. How cute. You know, if Satan was going to tailor-make hell for me, it would certainly involve watching this crap over and over again for eternity. And this is only the first of four. Oh god, my eyes are bleeding.
Can you imagine that this one is even worse? 'Cause I think it is. Of course, it doesn't have Dr. Dave, which is a big plus in my book.
A young girl and an aging hippie are driving around in a big old gas-guzzling car, which doesn't really say much for the hippie's environmental activism. The girl is going on and on about some concert she's traveling with. I rewound the tape twice to try and figure out which one, but I couldn't understand her, so I think they made it up. She says it's way better than Lollapalooza because they have two stages and thirty bands and blah blah blah, and that sounds an awful lot like Lollapalooza, but I'll believe her because she has hipster hair and a certain air of wide-eyed innocence. The hippie says that it sounds like a traveling Woodstock and the girl, like, totally agrees. She's kind of a valley girl, you see, and while I could draw parallels between rebellion-filled San Fernando Valley Girls and the idiotic hordes of middle-class children who follow crappy bands around the country, I'll spare you. The girl prattles on some more about the show at Red Rocks and how she and her girlfriend made money in the parking lot and how Lenny Kravitz rawked last night even though he only got to play for forty-five minutes because Bob Dylan was making a special appearance. The hippie looks surprised and says that that's pretty amazing. She, like, totally agrees. I mean, why would they bump Lenny? Lenny! For some old guy who can 't even sing. And she does this really awful Dylan impersonation that was downright painful. The hippie grimaces along with me, and we sigh in unison. Kids today. No class, no clue. And you know, no matter how much of a Lenny Kravitz fan you are, you have to, HAVE TO, recognize that his music is incredibly derivative of his predecessors, including one Mr. Bob Dylan. Not that he's not talented, because he is. Talented at taking other people's music and making it his own. Okay, I'll stop.
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