Radio drama, episode one

Our intrepid heroine, supermodel Intarsia, and her 13 year-old ward, Native American Purl Twotogether are on their way to a high-fashion photo shoot in the mountains of Transylvania. Intarsias's fiancee, the notable pro golfer, Fargo FairIsle, is between matches and has taken the opportunity to travel with them. We join them now, en-route.

Purl: Hey, Intarsia, Fargo, this scenery looks a lot like my home in the Washington Cascades. Steep, craggy mountains, miles of gloomy evergreens and not a mall in sight. I bet there isn't a Gap store in this whole country!

Fargo: You're probably right, Purl. I just hope there's a decent auto mechanic. I don't like the sound of this transmission.

Intarsia: You know, Fargo, Sweetie, much as I appreciate you taking the time to drive us to Castle Turistrappe for the Versace shoot, I don't know if your Fiat Spider was the right car for these roads.

Fargo: You may be right, Intarsia. It was fine for the main highway, but this detour IS getting awfully rough.

Bang, crash, rattle, rattle, tinkatinkatingtingtinginging!

Silence

Intarsia: Gee, Fargo, I don't like the sound of that transmission either.

Purl: So now what?

Fargo: Now we get a lovely hike in the unspoiled forest primeval. Grab what you need for a walk, girls. We'll lock everything else in the trunk. Here's your bag, Intarsia, just unpack what you need for the day.

Intarsia: (grunting in a ladylike fashion.) This IS what I need for the day, Fargo. Lipstick, emergency nail repair kit, knitting, back-up knitting, moisturizing spf 50 foundation, alternate knitting, Hair accessories, stitch markers, tape measure, Knit-Picks convertible circular needles set, credit cards, just the essentials.

Purl: Hey as long as I don't have to carry it, I don't care. I've got my Swiss Army knife, a roll of duct tape, and two yards of aluminum foil. I'm good to go.

Fargo: But Intarsia, Darling, that bag must weigh 40 pounds. You can't possibly consider carrying it all day.

Intarsia: The last Issey Miyake shoot I did, he gave me a 70 lb stuffed buffalo head as an accessory, and had me running up a flight of stairs with it. We shot for ten hours and he still wasn't satisfied. He wanted a neo-faux Rennaisance statement rendered with pathos. (voice begins to fade in the distance) The dress was copper wire and mylar. I could have given him Retro Venetian with pathos, or even quasi-proto Enlightenment, but . . . Fargo, dear, are you coming?

Fargo: Your shoes? Why are you carrying your shoes?

Intarsia: Surely you don't expect me to wear my Manolo Blahnicks in the DIRT?

Fargo: But you're barefoot.

Intarsia: I've spent so many hours stomping around in five inch heels that I've lost all feeling from the ankles down.

Purl: Really. Check out those bunions!

Intarsia: Anyway, You're carrying your golf bag, Fargo. What's so essential in there?

Fargo: I just got these custom-made ash-shafted woods and I'm not leaving them in the car to be stolen by some clod with a crowbar.

Intarsia: Ash-wood shafts, Fargo? But I thought everyone was into space-age metals for their clubs now. Titanium, niobium, and annodized aluminum. Aren't wooden golf clubs terribly old fashioned?

Fargo: I prefer the weight and resiliancy of real wood. And it has such a satisfying thwock when you nail the ball on the sweet spot. (Sighs)

Intarsia: Now why are you stopping, Fargo?

Fargo: One last look at the Spider. It looks so forlorn, abandoned there in the shadows.

*Eerie music*

Tune in tomorrow for our next exciting chapter.