Yes. No. Yes. Ketchup or blood! Does it matter? They both disgust me. Ketchup or blood, does it matter? Ketchup or blood, I asked you a question. Ketchup or blood, ketchup or blood, ketchup or blood? Does it matter?
We pour one on our meats to make our meals more colorful, we pour the other on our flesh to make our deaths more colorful, to make our banquets more colorful, to make our wars more colorful, to make our table tops shine brighter with red, to make our battlefields and burial grounds run richer with red. Let the movies be seasoned with ketchup, let the stockyards be seasoned with blood, and let us all take it wherever we get it.
Do you like the movies? I find them immeasurably more entertaining than the theater, don’t you? You do? Then get out!
It’s all the same, no matter how you slice it. The last supper will be exactly the same as the last day of judgment. Nothing but ruin and emaciated, starving people nibbling on one another… with ketchup, and with blood.
I am an historian. I have to keep reminding myself; something that hideous, you try to forget. Our deal is long. So little to do and so much… time… to do it in. Centuries. Endless centuries.
I think… I’m going… to puke. I make myself sick, don’t you? Then get out! Now, then. Well, forget what I said. It’s irrelevant. It has nothing to do with tonight’s subject. Nothing to do with it at all. Forget it.
Shut up! Don’t anybody move! I know just what you’re thinking. Forget it! Ladies and gentlemen, I am an historian. I am also your narrator for tonight. Don’t anybody move. Don’t anybody so much as look around, or wince, or twitch, or blink, or laugh, or convulse, or cry. Stare straight ahead, stiff and stony as a corpse. Now that shouldn’t be too difficult. Most of you look like rigor mortis was a way of life.
Oh, you bore me! You bore me. You bore me! Who do you think you are, anyway? Well, you’re not! Perhaps you are, so much the worse for you.
Oh, ladies and gentlemen, how… how must I appear to you? I can guess your answer. You see one very slimy, very greasy, perhaps even… dare I say it?… repulsive man. Don’t let it bother you, it’s only my business manner, my own little brand of distilled insanity. Without my madness, I’d lose my mind. Whatever’s left of it, anyway.
It is not easy being caretaker to the largest, the most inevitable, the most relentless, the most rancid, and the most inescapable cemetery in the scope of the human imagination. It is not easy being an historian.
There is a major lesson to be learned, here! And I have no idea what it is. No, I have only the facts. Oh yes, here it is, wait, hold on… "Vaseline is no cure for cancer." I can’t argue with that. I offer no more comforting lubrication, only the facts.
There through my admittedly putrid business manner, I am what you see. No more, no less. You can ignore me for now. Do you think I care? Sooner or later you will all, ALL be victim to… the historian!
My heart is foaming, my brain is soaking wet. My stomach is queasy, my eyes are shaking; my tongue, my thighs are hallucinating. I… I’m in the middle of a fit. We’re all in the middle of a fit. Oh, it’s starting again! Won’t you join me?
So! Moving right along here, what have we learned? That I am an historian, my products make you sick, and yet you remain. My faithful, foolish customers. Why can’t you learn, idiot? Or… or perhaps my products don’t make you sick. Perhaps it’s too late for that now, maybe you’re immune. A terrifying thought.
But why go to the historian if he has lost his power to shock? Am I no longer rated X? Have even little children ceased to be afraid of my finest atrocities? My most brutal visions? Oh god, is there no sucker? Oh!… Shit.
It’s at times like these that I, I remember the words of the great Indian mystic, Kuturu, who looked at me with infinite sadness, saying [a phrase in another language], which means… well, the same thing in English.
I was not always as you now see me. Hard to believe, but, once I… once, I was so innocent. Nothing on me mind. Once, I was in love with a lady. How nice it would be to feel clean again.
I can see you smirking. How amusing this all is, the little man is making a fool of himself! At least, that’s what the young ones think. The old ones, they understand my power better, they’re closer to me now, but… the young ones, the babies, sometimes they never really do understand until the time comes. And the time has come!
Tonight, you will see it. The ludicrous parade of young boys. Sorry. The ludicrous display of young girls stuck to their cruel mouths in exhausted breathing, ecstatic moaning, and voluptuous…
I… am going to cough. Again and again. It’s expected of me. I always do what’s expected of me. That’s why I’ve lived so long. I think. Alright, already, alright!
I am an historian! I hope you knew that. But I have vomited up your poisons for centuries, and still you feed me your vile foods. Still, you continue to live in your own shit! And still, I continue to deliberate your doorstep. Must we continue to torture one another? [gets carried away and falls into an audience member’s lap] We can’t go on meeting like this, it just won’t work.
I could go on, but I won’t. Tonight is a festive occasion and I, well I… let myself get carried away. Forgive me. It won’t happen again.
I am an historian. I don’t ask for pity. I don’t ask for compassion. I don’t ask for condolences. I don’t ask for hope, I don’t ask for promises, and I don’t ask for feelings, I ask only that you keep your distance as I have tried to keep mine, though we have both failed too many times to count.
I am an historian. I ask only to be left alone. After all these years, I think I deserve that. I think I deserve that, don’t you?
I’m sorry. There is nowhere else. I’m really very sorry, but I’ll… I’ll do my best. But lakes dry up. Lakes dry up…
I… I suppose I seem to be crying. Well, don’t let it fool you, shitholes! Oh, I’ll admit it, there is nowhere else. But I’ll do my best. I’ll do what’s expected of me.
We are on the coast of southern California, on the jagged rocks overlooking the purple ocean. We are on the jagged rim of the searing edge of the west, in the farthest dream of essential America, and we are in the long and distant future. Nearby is a huge black and blue and silver city, a monster that breeds on its own inescapable pollution and corruption, and wears it’s decay like a shrill, mincing smile. The great Metropolis of Obsidian. Built upon the ashes and the ruins of the Great Earthquake, like an ancient, medieval fortress it stands, beaming its blinding light out over the desolate surrounding country side.
As our story begins, a young man miraculously escapes from the clutches of the city and the Asylum for the Chemically Insane. He is 18 years old. His name is Baal, and he is our main character for tonight. Baal. B-A-A-L. Get it right! He becomes the leader of a pack, a pack of lost boys, wild children; ruthless, restless, reckless, nomadic, wandering, get the picture? Always searching for new adventure. They come here. One by one, each of them all alone from far and wide, they come here to the rocks of the coast, in the shadows of Obsidian.
Historian: After a while, rumors spread! It is said that strange, orgiastic, and brutal rights are performed on these rocks and in the sulfurous caves beneath. The rulers of Obsidian are terrified that Baal and his track pack might leave their primitive home and come wandering into the city limits, thus destroying the peaceful balance of urban life.
And just between you and me, their worries are not entirely without justification. I mean, really, I ask you (but I must not take sides!)… Civilization is tense! Action is taken! Baal’s youth, freedom, and extravagant use of leisure time is a threat. The city sends out Max and Emily! Two special agents, assassins of the young, and masters of impersonation. (Charming couple, I’ve known them for years.) Their job is simple: tame the wild beasts and bring them back alive for proper public punishment!
Max: Emily, look! Look about you. We are in the clouds! Each year, the towers of the city seem to reach higher and higher, further and further away from the filthy earth. And someday, all this will be totally enclosed, sealed tight within a huge, antiseptic bubble. Nothing will get in and nothing will get out. Everything will be controlled. The ultimate hygiene will be triumphant. There will be no need for nature! The era of the new man, free from nature! Totally free.
Nature is the ladder we have climbed up on. Now we kick her away. Eventually, we will have total command from the beginning of life to the end.
Even as I speak, the test tubes are starting to bleed. The test tubes are starting to bleed! First blood, only the beginning! The experiments are far from over. The laboratories are everywhere. Find chemical blood to fill all the vessels! Leave nothing to nature!
And in the end, you will die, but even then you will not become filth. In a few moments, you are a little heap of ash, clean white powder, and there will be no wind to blow that powder about. Each grain will remain exactly in its place where you died until the end of the universe!
I see chrome! I see chrome everywhere! I dream of chrome. And still the towers grow. Obsidian rides even higher! Split the stars! Slice up the rim of heaven! Rip up the night! Shine in the moonlight! Ah! Just like a blade! Just like a blade!
Historian: But meanwhile, back on the rocks, there is intrigue afoot. The rebels continue. There is a plan.
Baal:Something new. I used to watch her by the light of the window in the asylum. I’ve always wanted her. And now I can have her
Historian: Ladies and gentlemen, come with me now, stay by my side, as we follow Baal and Tink, his fiery henchman and most trusted lieutenant, through the gates. A treacherous journey, to be sure, as we pass through and enter into Obsidian.
And now, in her room, on top of the north high tower, we can see Wendy, here, right next to the Asylum for the Chemically Insane. While up above, we will observe her loving parents, Max and Emily, and beneath them all, the city comes to life.
Emily:Really, I don’t know where you pick up these ideas. You haven’t slept for days. What do you see out there?
Wendy:It’s been so long. The sea is watching the sky, the sky is watching the sea, nothing will ever happen.
Emily:Poor child. She makes things so difficult… There, just what the doctor ordered. Wendy, dear! I have something for you. You will at least turn around? Here, have a piece of fruit.
Emily:You’ve got to eat something! You need the nourishment! You’re getting so… thin! For our sake… Put our minds at ease, and we won’t bother you any more tonight… Go ahead, it won’t bite. There, that’s better. That’s a good girl. Well, I guess we’ll see you in the morning, then. Your father and I may be out very late tonight. We’re working on a case, you know.
Emily:Quite safe. Until we return, there is almost nothing that can awaken her… For your own good. You were in the deep end again, with no one to guide you. It’s so dangerous there, in the deep end. You get wild ideas, keep bad company. You’re much too far.
Emily:Someday you’ll understand. We’re only trying to protect you. Someday you’ll know what it’s like.
Wendy:The sea is watching the sky, the sky is watching the sea. Nothing will ever happen. Nothing will ever happen.
Baal:You don’t have to shout! I believe you. Not that I wouldn’t. Now what can you… offer us? Besides what we already have.
Wendy:Oh, I’ve got plenty of that, but you wouldn’t like it. Make you sick… Let me in. Look… My skin is white. Incredibly white. There are no scars on my body, you’ll have to make some.
Baal:I’m sorry. There are no more hiding places. All the hiding places are hiding. Tell me about yourself.
I dreamt about them once. I dreamt about them a lot, over and over again, and now I can’t stop. Mirrors. An army of mirrors out of control. An army of mirrors out of control! Reflecting people to death. Reflecting people to death! To blindness, then death.
The mirrors kept getting larger, they kept growing, the kept swelling, they kept spreading out and I can’t seem to stop them. They’re still growing, and I can’t seem to stop them. I have to keep filling them up, I have to keep feeding them, and they are still getting larger … and larger. The mirrors have become vast and beautiful and very, very hungry. Hungrier than I’ve ever been in my whole life. Too hungry.
I no longer have any control over what they show me or what they see. I no longer have any control over the mirrors. They decide what they would like to reflect. They won’t obey me anymore!
They create a reflection, and then … then I have to go out and find the real thing that matches it. Yet almost always when I put the real thing in front of the mirrors, it is not nearly as beautiful as the reflection that came first.
I go out looking again, until finally I find another real thing, a thing that does match what’s inside the mirror, a thing that truly is worthy of the beautiful reflection that came first. But I almost never find it. The mirrors get even hungrier. Pretty soon, they’ll be ready to devour me. They’re going to tear me apart, they’re going to swallow me up, piece by piece, bit by bit, shiver by shiver, tremble by tremble, sliver and sliver, and splinter by splinter.
But you can help me. Please? They want you. Please? They’ve given me your image. Before I ever saw you, they gave me your image. Please?
I’d like to make you one of my reflections and feed you to the mirrors. Please? They only need one more to fill them up, and if it were you, I feel that they would be satisfied, as I would be. Please?
Baal:There. Listen. Now, catch up. Make it even. Make it exactly even with mine! Catch up! Speed! Don’t worry, it’ll be alright, I’m sure of it.
Baal:I don’t know. I’ve forgotten. I remember reasons for a lot of the other stuff, but not this one. I’m sure it had a point, though. Probably a very good point.
Baal:No. Why should I? You didn’t have to do it. It was your idea. You were the one who wanted to do it in the first place! It was your idea. Listen.
Baal:Your body. So much louder than before. So much louder. Like mine. Exactly like mine now, racing like mine, together! Flying! Listen. They rhyme. You can hear our bodies rhyme!
Historian: Lades and gentlemen, has it come to this? Nature takes its course. There’s no doubt about it, they were doubly blessed, for they were barely 17 and they were barely dressed. They’re young and in love, and the whole world is springtime.
Historian:On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses, till death do you part?
Tink:Get rid of her now! It’s gone too far, she means too much to you! We don’t need her anymore! We never needed her! We’re finished with her! Get rid of her!
Baal:I was there on the freeway, looking in the dead cars for food. I didn’t find any. There were some bones, but no food. I want to sleep in the hulk of a big, black car.
Tink:There’s always bones down on the freeway. There’s always bones in the dead cars, but there’s never any food.
Baal:Just a hulk. I started touching the metal, stroking it. Put my face up against it, like ice. But after a while, I swear I could hear that dead car dream. It was dreaming.
Baal:All that scrap iron, weeping rust. That ugly trash, which could probably lay in a heap on that freeway forever. Still, that cold steel really burns to be a gun. It’s dreaming about coming to life again. Burning to be a gun. Someday, one more chance, burning to be a gun.
Max:I walked far beyond the boundaries of the city. I came to a beach at the edge of some water. It seemed the bright sun-white sky had shed the black ocean below it like a winter skin. Everything was so clear. I lay down and tried to remember what it felt like to be young. I tried to reassemble my youth in my mind, but it would not come back. It would never come back to my mind. Because, after all, that’s not where it was. That’s not where it was.
Historian: Max and Emily have lost their way! But, girding their loins for the task before them, they sing the Assassins’ Song, their bitter creed and fervent anthem.
Historian: Calling out! Max and Emily make no progress as they face the possibility of ignominious failure. Is there nothing that will lure Baal and his pack into Obsidian where punishment awaits? Max tries a special tactic. Ladies and gentlemen, we meet Dr. Hook. He is a noted psychiatrist, coming in the name of reason.
Max: I find, my friends, that these kids are really fascinating people to meet and mingle with. I share their concern, their confusion, their hopes and disappointments. I think these young folks… no, let me change that, these young adults, truly do want to build a better world,find a better way to live in their own peculiarly naive, roundabout, sometimes misguided but basically idealistic way. I find contact with their fresh young minds embracing, invigorating. After all, we can recognize this phase in growing up. We were kids once, weren’t we? And though their styles and mannerisms and customs may have changed a great deal in the interim, underneath it all, boys and girls growing up have always been pretty much the same, haven’t they? And I have a fairly strong feeling inside that they’ll continue to be. There’s nothing here we can’t manage. Let’s try to communicate. At the beginning, at the point of ‘X’ where it starts. And I, as a trained and experienced doctor, have never had any trouble in the least in that area. After all, we have ways of making people communicate, don’t we? Nothing, Baal, nothing at all.
Max:You see, I find that you’re basically unable to cope with human beings on a mature, civilized level. For example, your relationship with young girls, such as the one we saw a bit earlier; that dreadful initiation. You couldn’t get through to her on a personal basis, so you protected yourself behind sadistic games and rituals. They envelope you like… like…
Max:No, not exactly. More like a womb. You built a barrier between you so you wouldn’t have to make real contact with a girl as a person equal to yourself. We could deal with it easily in treatment.
Max:We first have to get you to redefine your distorted outlook on people. To begin with, a girl is a young woman, and a woman is more than a piece of merchandise to be evaluated in the pain. More than a prop in narcissistic ceremonies, more than a stanza in a poem to be memorized.
What is a woman, you ask? Well, I’m glad you asked that. A woman is a proud, passionate, boiling river about to burst its banks.
Max:We danced to Guy Lombardo after the last war, and we’ll dance to Guy Lombardo after the next war! It’s what clearly separates man from the animals. You can’t withdraw from reality! Sooner or later you have to negotiate with it.
Max:You wanted to see! All right, look! See how they stare right at you. Sometimes at night, I can feel them crawling up and down my arms, biting like they’re insects. There. My hideous memories forever engraved on my wrists.
Baal:Back, you bloodsucker! What, this? I found it down on the freeway. There were a lot of them. Maybe they were used in a movie. Maybe not. That’s official because it wasn’t saved. Max:What are you doing with that wretched thing?
Baal:I could care less. I’ve heard rumors of course. But it doesn’t matter. Anyway. It’s just a piece of junk. Just a pretty toy, someone else’s toy, way before my time. Somebody else’s children. Somebody else. It’s been used.
Max:You disgust me. There is more to that subject than the whinings of a self-indulgent adolescent. There is more to that subject than the droolings of a spoiled artist! There is more to your fantasies than your toys. There is more!
Max:There is also truth! My truth. Here. 1-5-7-3-8-9-6. You’ll never know such horror. Your dreams are petty compared to this. This was really on a big scale. I’d like to give you, just once, a fraction of the pain that I was given. You should be tested as I was.
Max:It would do you good! The beauty of total and complete control of life. Everything was so clear. And I understood it all perfectly! For the first time in my life, I felt the great sense of form. Ah, there was a grand design, and I was a part of it.
Max:You have everything in the world to prove! I’ve earned everything I have! This city belongs to me, I am the city. I am Obsidian and I am proud of it. Once, I was trapped like an animal, but now I know I’m trapped like a man, and now I could buy you.
Max:I have a right to control you! A right to own you! This is my right! This is my proof! Where are your numbers? Where is your proof?
Max:Exactly. Baal, do you remember these pictures? They fascinated you as a child. You must be getting bored out of your mind now. Here, look at them again. Do you remember them? Saint Sebastian, dying in the pride of his youthful glory, arrows piercing his pure and silk flesh. And see how the blood shines over his body? Like a rose garden drenched in sunlight. All the young gods whose blood must be shed. Marvel. I’m offering you a chance for a spectacular marvel. Attain the glory of Saint Sebastian! It’s yours. We have the resources to deliver. All the media will be at your disposal, and dying could be an awfully great adventure.
Baal:You’re forgetting one thing, Max. They all had a reason. That’s the whole point. You see, there’s nothing I believe in like that.
Max:True. But a mere technicality. Surely we can’t worry about details like that. You may have no cause, but you can have an effect, and I’m here to offer it to you. We’re no more interested in reasons than you are. It’s the image that holds. That’s what they remember. That’s what you want. The zap, the flash, the rush. Come to Obsidian. You could have a great culmination, worthy of your finest dreams. Sooner or later, you’ll never grow up.
Historian: You’ll have to do it, Baal. It’s the way I planned it. If you don’t, I’ll never come up with a really exciting finale. The people demand that of me. They know it’s what I do really best, wipe things out with flare. Without that particular talent, I, I think I’d be out of a job. It is funny, I have a terribly difficult time making lives interesting, but death does always come naturally to me. Especially in large numbers. Although admittedly I always feel perfectly dreadful the next morning. But that too passes.
Baal:Just thinking. Nothing I’d like to burn down out here. I’ve always loved the look of fire. Makes such a fine backdrop.
Max:Now, I really think we should keep this whole thing simple and stark. We don’t want to clutter it.
Historian: Ladies and gentlemen, to close the first act, Baal and his pack sing a challenge to the gods and a hymn to fire, the one element in nature that illuminates as it destroys.
The first part of the second act of “Neverland” is unfortunatly not available. According to Barry Keating on Facebook: It is a huge miracle that the recording of Neverland exists on the internet. The only reason it is there is because I asked Jim to record that performance (Richard Dunne played Baal in Washington replacing Richard Gere replacing Jim — but that's another story) Jim recorded act one on the ghetto blaster we used for rehearsals but forgot to turn it on until half way through act two skipping me and Ellen Foley singing Dance In My Pants (the new Keep On Trucking) and Joanna Albrecht's amazing Hushaby (borrowed from Rhinegold.) Kingdom Come was exactly the same as Hear The Screams in Dream Engine sung in both by Larry Dilg.
Larry Dilg was stunning as Tink … I am pretty sure nothing was resolved about what at happened to Tink except that he died with the rest of the Lost Boys and Killer nuns. Only 13 year old Con Erico, Baal, the Historian and a pre-teen girl from the City survived.
I don't think we worked very hard to justify Mother River replaced by Hushaby. Joanna just blew everyone away with her singing but I don't think it made too much sense in the plot. It was a lullaby to the Lost Boys who were about to be slaughtered. The Scene that followed it was exactly the same as the Max and Emily nun scene at Amherst.
Wendy: This is addressed to all the people who have answered or are thinking of answering the personal ad I placed in volume 2, number 15, two weeks ago Friday.
First, my apologies to the huge bartender with the voice and the light-hearted, dark-skinned advertising man. If either of you had called back, I might not be writing this retraction of my ad, even though I will soon be too busy to date much, but why didn’t you call back?
But to the others, which includes the two lesbians; the under 25s and over 40s; the numerous ones who dialed my number and hung up as soon as I said hello; the 35 or 40 of you who made dates with me and never showed up, including the one that complained his penis was so large that he couldn’t get it into anybody;	the wife-seekers, the already married; that one that was so one-sided that he could think nothing of sex, then had the gall to ask me if his nationality was the reason why I wouldn’t sleep with him; the two who couldn’t raise their cocks when I was agreeable, and the many who could and did when I was not; the pleasant young foreigner who ended up being the private property of his gigantic girlfriend; the ones who were so grotesque in their appearance that I couldn’t possibly consider a relationship with them, especially sexual; the jerk-off artists and the 69ers (the latter category which I specifically said I didn’t want!); and the ones that wanted hand jobs, the ones who wanted to be spanked, the ones that could only boast about the size of their bank rolls and/or their penises (and this definitely includes the teacher who said, "All the girls want my cock!"); the businessman who had an adjective for every letter of his last name ("r is for rich"); the ones, and there were many, who said "my name is so and so, when can we get together and fuck?"; the fag who wanted me to support him; the diminutive actor and the other short ones; the racists, including the one at whose home I left me right sweater (and I’d rather cut off my right thumb than go back for it!); the drunks, junkies, and pillheads, the multitudes of liars, and especially the nice ones who never called back.
To all of you, I say: just forget my phone number! I don’t need all the hassles! I’ll be started school next month and I just don’t want to be bothered.
Baal: They asked me where the earthquake would begin. I offered to let them feel my pulse. They asked me what I was doing out there. On the edge. They asked me what I was doing out there on the edge. Balancing myself, I told them. Balancing myself.
Historian: Half the world is insane, the other half is scared, and who knows which came first or which will finish last?
Baal: The entire city is burning. We see the flames like the inside of a mad jukebox, lighting and striking itself. Lost boys stalk the streets with jungle markings on their chest. Barbarians prowl in the shadows, their heads dropping in rows. Motorcycles reproduce in nocturnal alleys, groaning in greasy pleasure. And they’ve blown up the YWCA like a giant balloon, and sent it out to sea, full of screaming, lovely, lonely girls.
I once killed a boy with a Fender guitar. I don’t remember if it was a Stratocaster or a Telecaster, but I do remember that it wasn’t at all easy. It required the perfect combination of the precise power chords and the correct angle from which to strike. The guitar bled for about a week afterwards, but it rung out beautifully, and I was able to play notes that I had never even heard before.
Thinking of who? I can’t remember. I can’t ever need to remember who it is I can’t stop thinking about.
Historian: America was not discovered by Columbus. America is still a secret land, as yet undiscovered by anyone. And this land, which has been trampled, dumped on, stepped on, torn apart, blasted out, weeping up, widdled down, dragged over, hauled under, punched in, and throttled; forbidden, divided, twisted, deluded, distorted and perverted. Plundered, pillaged, banished, bought, sold, resold, bought again, and sold again through one century after another, conscious and unconscious. This land will never die and never surrender. This Neverland will always be here, and will always be clutched desperately by somebody, like a crucifix in the stiff hand of a dead man.
Historian:Reality is infected. It has been cut too much. Too many amputations and impurities, abscessed, indefinitely gangrenous. Reality is in agony. It should be put out of its misery. Is there nobody left with the grace to try euthanasia?
Historian:Lower. We can barely get over the bodies. It’s so much warmer than you’d expect. Everyone is satisfied, or at least satiated.
Historian: I’ve forgotten. I remember the reasons for a lot of the others, but… not this one. I’m sure it did have a point, once, when the whole thing first came to me. Anyway, it was your idea to go ahead. You were the one who wanted to do it in the first place, I only made suggestions, recommendations.
Historian:Ketchup or blood? Ketchup or blood, and what’s the difference? It’s all madness, anyway. And in madness, as well as in dreams, it’s not how far out you go, or what you see out there. It’s what you bring back. Give them time.
Young Baal:Baal. My name is Baal. Listen. Listen to it. The deep end. Down in the deep end. Lost boys are waiting. You know you’ve got to follow. You know you’ve got to go along.
Baal:It’s all right. It’ll all be the same. Nothing really ever changes. Or can it? The sea is watching the sky, the sky is watching the sea, nothing will ever happen.
Historian:Ladies and gentlemen, while we still have time — IF we still have time, please, let’s make our cemeteries safe for our children.
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To obtain a low-interest loan from Blue Earth County, approval is needed from two local agencies, Blue Earth County Soil and Water Conservation District and Blue Earth County Environmental Services. Application forms are provided by each office.
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