Terry and John sit across from each other. John explains himself:

"My failures are not...stylish."

Terry concurs:

"When you sideswiped a Pinto, when you bounced an eighty dollar check, when you were unable to replace a spare tire--these were indeed not what one might term spectacular."

"Spectacular. That's it. My failures are...neither spectacular nor stylish. I want them to be both."

"At what cost?"

"Any."

"Sure about that?"

"Absolutely."

Terry blows smoke in a different direction. "What is a spectacle?"

"A noticeable event. An event watched by many. An event reported far and wide. In my case, a debacle."

John's dog approaches the table and sits. His name is Bono Fido. John pets him. Terry pets him.

"And what is stylish?"

"Avant garde. A la mode. Trendy, slick, hip, contemporary, fashionable but not conformist. Not too conformist."

"And therefore, in your case...?"

John considers. "Something partially bleak and somewhat urban but not too overwrought. Mildly a comment on today's society, but not just that, it has to be a little deeper than just that."

Terry straightens his back, popping a few vertebrae. "Okay, let's start with an obvious one. You apply for lots of credit cards, get lots of credit cards, buy lots of things with them, fail to pay them off, and end up with a horrible credit rating."

"Passe'. That was an 80s thing."

"So what's a 90s thing?"

Bono Fido starts circling the table and growling. John says, "I don't know. That's why I need advice."

"Well, why ask me? I never fail."

"Exactly."

Terry thinks about this for a long time--minutes maybe. Then puts out his cigar. Then leans towards John:

"How about this one?"

John wanders, glazed, unbelieving, through the studio. Everything whirls around John like a dream--the garishly painted and repainted walls, the grungy yet harmless-looking sound engineer, and, of course, the vampire-like Talent Coordinator. His throat is parched. He steps up to the mike. He is already forgetting his lines as the reality sinks in. With a burst of indescribably joyous despair, he whispers to himself, "MTV. My God. I'm really on MTV."