[Fade in. The scene opens to the interior of a diner, a real greasy spoon kind of place. Two people, a boy and a girl, sit at the bar.]

BOY: Hey, it's pretty dead in here. You want to hear some music?

GIRL: Yeah, cool. There's one of those old-timey jukeboxes in the corner. Drop a quarter in and see what it's got.

BOY: Hey, who's Jackson?

GIRL: Who?

BOY: I don't know. This jukebox has "Jackson's Jukebox" written on it. Who's Jackson?

GIRL: I don't know, but I hope he doesn't get pissed at us for playing with his jukebox. These things are expensive.

BOY: Yeah, right. Someone named Jackson doesn't sound like much of the ass-kicking, name-taking type.

GIRL: I don't know. It could be his last name, like remember Carl Weathers in "Action Jackson?" He was pretty bad-ass. Or it could be his last name, like Jesse Jackson. You know, the Reverend'll beat your teeth out with a pipe-wrench if you fuck with him.

BOY: Point taken. But I don't think Jesse Jackson listens to this kind of music. I haven't heard of any of these bands-- C Average, Long Hind Legs, the Peeches, Unwound, Mocket, the Geraldine Fibbers, Sleater-Kinney? Who are these guys?!

GIRL: Well, we have the quarters out already. Let's give this a swing.

[BOY drops some change into the machine. Comet Gain's "I Close My Eyes to Think of God" begins playing. GIRL immediately covers her ears.]

GIRL: Christ, that's terrible!

BOY [dancing, grinning goofily]: Aww, c'mon. It's not that bad!

GIRL: Not that bad? What are you, headless?

BOY: I know it's not what you're used to, but it's not that bad. The guitar is nice and the vocal effects are just so cosmic. It's spacy and weird.

GIRL: Yeah, weird like hemorrhoids. Sure, the music is catchy, like kinda a fuzzier Oasis or something. But don't these goofy art-school lyrics get to you? I mean, "I close my eyes and think of God/ But he ain't there/ I close my eyes and think of you/ But you ain't there" ain't exactly Bob Seger.

BOY: You just have no soul. Let's see what else is on here. Hey, Ronnie Spector. GIRL: Who's that? Wasn't she a singer once?

BOY: Yeah, my dad has some of her old records. She's alright. It's like '60s R&B; stuff.

GIRL: Alright, let's fire it up.

[Ronnie Spector's "You Can't Put Your Arms Around a Memory" begins.]

BOY: Oh, man, this is tragic.

GIRL: What's wrong? It sounds okay.

BOY: That's just it. It's only okay! Her old stuff was classic soul music-- this is just watered down. It's like someone strung together every soul cliché to turn a quick buck off her reputation. And listen, her voice is all flat and edgy. She can't even hit half the notes! This shit's sadder than Dionne Warwick's psychic hotline.

GIRL: Hey, what about that Sleater-Kinney stuff?

BOY: Alright, we'll give 'em a shot.

["What If I Was Right?" begins.]

GIRL: Is this like a parade of mediocrity or something?

BOY: I know. This stuff is slack. It's like they're strumming some song to tune their instruments or something.

GIRL: Yeah, this is some pretty lazy shit. Corin Tucker has written grocery lists more inventive than this song. It sounds just like everything off The Hot Rock, but in a worse way. And it doesn't even compare at all to their new record, All Hands On the Bad One, which I think might be the best thing they've done yet.

BOY: What did you just say?

GIRL: Uh, I don't remember. Who is this again?

BOY: Sleater-Kinney?

GIRL: Who? BOY: Man, whoever put this collection together just didn't give a damn, I guess.

[BOY and GIRL, undaunted, listen to the rest of the songs. The smirk of quiet boredom never leaves their faces.]

BOY: God, these are all exactly the same. They're just this gray mass of songs that aren't exactly bad, but aren't any good, either. It's got to be the most pointless, insignificant 70 minutes I've ever spent sitting around, listening to a jukebox full of songs I don't know.

GIRL [jerks head up from table]: Huh? Whaa? Is it done? Did I miss anything?

BOY: Hey, wait! This isn't a jukebox! It's a CD!

GIRL: [holding sheet of paper]: Hey, what's this?

BOY: [staring at the paper]: What is this? A press release? With a picture of a dog? It says: "Jackson, our office dog, has complied a sampler of some of his favorite songs from each Kill Rock Stars full-length in the past 12 months or so." [BOY begins to shiver compulsively. The press release slips from between his fingers and lands lightly on the restaurant's tile floor.] The music... chosen... by a dog? But how?

[Dream Sequence, dissolve to a shot of a large, brown German Shepherd standing over a pile of records by such Kill Rock Stars luminaries as Sleater-Kinney, Thrones, Hangovers and Comet Gain. The dog scratches at some fleas, wags its tail, then walks around a bit. Suddenly it stops, lifts up its left leg and drops a log on Deerhoof's new album.]

VOICE: [off camera]: There. That'll be the first track.

[A SCIENTIST in a gas mask, a long medical coat and yellow rubber gloves picks up the shitty CD.]

MASKED SCIENTIST: We're on it.

[Dissolve back to restaurant. BOY stands by jukebox with a visible tear in his eye.]

BOY: All hope is lost.

[BOY walks to the restaurant parking lot where he pours gasoline on himself and strikes a match. Laugh track, fade to black, roll credits.]

-Steven Byrd