Who The Fuck Is Jack Parsons?

It’s the summer of 1979 on the island of Kauai. A dark haired
boy around five years old and a beautiful young woman
meander through an immense wall of green rain forest.
The sound of a nearby waterfall hums and thunders.
The two hold hands and stop in a small opening.
“I want you to concentrate Bruce, and not be afraid”.
The young woman whispers into the boy’s ear.
“I’m not mom, scared…” Remarks the boy clearly nervous
“Good, because my son could find his way home no matter what”
The woman offers back with a slightly sinister smile.
“I am your son”, says Bruce. “. “We’ll see…” the woman replies,
letting go of Bruce’s hand she walks back into the jungle leaving
Bruce behind as the last hint of daylight dances away with the
fleeting warmth and reassurance of tomorrow. He waits there, counting the brightest meteors he’s ever seen streak past.

Today, Hollywood California, our subject soap opera star Bruce Devlin is charming, witty, and edgy with just the hint of seedy danger
laced redemption. He has been nominated two years in a row for best supporting actor in a daytime TV drama, and he is about to win again. We begin the film with Bruce and his wife arriving at the 33rd annual Soap awards in Hollywood, California. Not a far drive for Bruce, because he lives under Griffith Park in a trendy condo with his wife Nancy and their two kids Apollo and Cyrus. The sun has set like a bloody orange into the big-bad-blue Pacific as the couple and Bruce’s manager Freddy Weisbaum exit their limo at the posh red-carpeted roll of confetti-chatter and paparazzi-baboonery. They make their way towards the event’s entrance. Scores of cameras flash and swing about as a million questions are hurled at Bruce and company.

Back on the island, five-year-old Bruce watches the burning trails of light streak and pop across the charcoal constellation filled sky. He’s been standing there in the same spot for hours hoping by some miracle that his mother is still watching; waiting to reveal her self and take him back under her wing, take him back home. Something stirs behind the bushes and emerges with carnivorous stealth. It’s a giant boar with one long sharp maize colored tusk. The other tusk is gone; jaggedly broken off at the boar’s mandible. The wound festers with maggots that are changing into flies by the handful.

The boar and the boy stare at one another unflinching. “I know who you are”, says Bruce to the boar. “And whom might that be” replies the boar in a raspy but booming voice. “You’re the devil”, Bruce states with a sudden burst of courage. The boar circles the boy and laughs. “Did your mother tell you that?” it chides. “No, my heart did; are you going to eat me?” asks Bruce “No, I’m going to tell you a secret, can you keep a secret Bruce?” The boar closes in.

Inside the gala nominees, guests, and craft service buzz about like bees high on June honey. White floating lilies bob around inside crystal bowl centerpieces. There are name signs and kitsch swag awaiting every happy attendee at their seat. Bruce is practically retching; he can hardly keep his eyes from rolling back in sheer predictability from the keen narcissistic masturbation put into this whole fiasco. Complete with shuffling wannabee actors looking for numbers, scraps, and contacts among the ushers, servers, and bartenders.

Every year, right when he thinks it couldn’t possibly get any worse, it does in spades. His wife and manager are all smiles and loose handshakes as they share info on the best pilate classes and power yoga instructors between Larchmont Village and Beverly Hills with the other guests and nominees. Bruce doesn’t know if he’s turning into a mini Regis Feildman, or preparing to do a contemporary Siddhartha swan dive into the capitalistic bliss of celebrity.

Bruce can’t help but feel that somehow somewhere he took
a premature turn down the wrong fork in the road when he left
the military and decided to become an actor instead of say a lawyer, or an engineer, ten years back (not that he would have made it through college). His initial dream was to become a writer/director and make movies that made a difference in the lives of many, just as books and film had done for him growing up. But now Bruce was faced with the rapid decompressing realization that whether he was a lawyer out of Harvard, or a simple carpenter out of Dover all careers these days, life rather, had been corrupted by the insatiable need of all in society to either worship celebrity, or do anything imaginable to achieve it. Thereby, in essence, establishing their cravings and beliefs as law to anyone that would listen. The bible replaced by The National Enquirer.
Bruce’s father was incarcerated for 90% of Bruce’s childhood, fifteen years to be exact. His mother also abandoned him at nine months old then came back 4 years later and kidnapped him. For a year they lived together on Kauai. After that she would occasionally show up once every eight to ten years like a comet to mess with his head and turn life upside down. That is until he put a stop to it a few years back after a twisted sexually charged Oedipus experience occurred between them in his late twenties.

Bruce was still feeling the shocking residue that tempest. She had gotten pregnant. His mother claimed Bruce and her were lovers in a past life. It was safe to say that she’d lost her mind along the way, and wanted to take his mind and soul along with her. But alas, little did she know Bruce had made a hell of his own to occupy, and that incident was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and it was that incestuous convergence of energies that had brought Bruce and his mother full circle. What she thought was going to be her checkmate move to enslave Bruce in her 360 degree trap actually stripped her of any further control over him, and ironically let the 5-year-old boy frozen inside of him thaw out to join the real world. That’s when Bruce landed his first big acting role. Well, as big as soap opera parts go.

By most standards and comparisons today Bruce was a great husband, friend, and father living the perfect life, but he knew deep down inside something was horribly wrong, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was not only driving him insane; it was forcing him to question everything that he had come to know and grown comfortable with. For Bruce’s generation there were no great battles to fight, no space race. Only shadow wars on terror that were more subjects of conspiracy than fields of charging heroes. Revolutions were officially things of the past. Vague subterfuge and fuzzy stories told through the mouths of drug-addled hippies and black listed McCarthy era survivors perched on some ass blasted barstool in Hamtramck.





The biggest obstacles in the way of Bruce’s generation was how to blow up bigger than the last act, and make more bling-bling than the guy on MTV cribs before you. It was whom you were hanging out with and fucking that mattered as a whole, not what you personally believed in, or achieved. A youth oriented pacifier called “celebrity” based on a hyperspace model turned rollercoaster of Andy Warhol’s “fifteen minutes for everyone” quote had replaced Marlon Brando’s integrity and individuality on screen and in life metaphorically speaking. A new God for a new age, consumerism, based on idolatry, and hooking pre-adolescent kids on TV trends early.

Bruce noticed that the majority of artists, actors, musicians, singers, and even criminals and drug dealers after the 90’s would begin their careers with a message from the bottom of the barrel about how they came from nothing to make it against all odds, and the way they were going to show the world how important that achievement was to them was by spending all of their new found fame and money on the most shallow and short term endeavors ever imagined. In other words, by squandering it, behaving just as they had with no money or education, acting just as they were predicted too, but now with more entitlement and foolishness due to the lawyers, accountants, and false financial security only new money can trick the mind into believing. The Man had a new way to keep the kids down whether they were suburban or urban, by making them think they’ve made it when all they’ve really earned is more to lose, and all they’ve gained is a higher altitude to crash down to earth from.





It was as if the entire population was under mass hypnosis Bruce surmised. Trained and programmed to happily except blue-collar defeat as readily as Fantasy island amounts of wealth and indescribable lottery ticket dreams. The division between rich and poor and the most technologically advanced from the most tribal and third world was vaster now than ever before in the history of written records. But Bruce couldn’t help notice on an anthropological level that the majority of these indigenous tribes abroad whether in South America or Africa possessed something in their eyes and demeanor that he did not, even while their lands and lives were being eradicated by the powers that be. They continued to hold an understanding of life and death that had escaped his being in this lifetime thus far.

However, Bruce was damned if he was going to let this observation flitter away like the other thousands of quirky questions he ballooned through during his days. He was going to find a foundation to build his family’s future upon that he and they could be proud of: a foundation that stood for more than just him, his heir’s, and his ancestor’s will, but a foundation that could be shared by all that came into contact with it, a contemporary quest for fire on the level of Prometheus and Hercules. At this juncture Bruce had concluded that it was either all or nothing, because that’s what he was now, simply not much at all. A pin up boy with a quick disintegrating ellipses; wandering through unimaginable promise and adventure, poised at the precipice of infinity.

“And the winner for best supporting actor in a day time soap opera is Bruce Devlin!” Bruce is daydreaming when they call his name. He feels a gentle tugging at his sleeve. His wife is telling him to “go!” “Go on up honey…” The theater is filled with applause and people pat him on the back as he approaches the stage. He grips his award with one white knuckled hand and the podium with the other as he delivers a few unprepared apologies, and “thank yous” before giving his second hand speech on how none of this would have been possible without his co-workers and the talented writers and producers on the show.

Of course he thanks his parents and loving family, and most of all, God (although he believes in none of it). Bruce hesitates before getting down, and looks into the sea of faces. Not one connection, not one hero, just empty stretched canvasses of flesh and parlor trick smiles. He instantly realizes why acting has been the perfect camouflage for him all these years. Bruce is a liar, and most of all? Terrified of reality on all levels. Acting gives him the perfect excuse to just float through life and not rock the boat, or in turn be rocked while pretending just the opposite is occurring. In that very moment Bruce realizes that he is his own worst enemy. His own slave master.

Bruce gets back to the table and whispers to his wife and Freddy that he’d “like to leave”. The room is spinning and he’s feeling nauseous and paranoid as he uses their arms and shoulders as support to make his way out and back into the mild hum of the Hollywood night. Countless faces jut in front of his congratulating him and asking if he remembers them from “this show” or “that series”, and to “keep in touch”. The limo pulls up just as he almost loses it. Inside he pours himself a drink and tells the driver “don’t go immediately home, drive around a bit”. His wife asks him “what’s wrong?” and Freddy reassures her that “it’s just typical guilt associated with feeling like he doesn’t deserve this kind of success in his life”.

Bruce doesn’t say a word; instead he stares out into the neon-crackling streets while half listening. Bruce instructs the limo driver to “take Freddy home”. Freddy lives in a stilted Hollywood hills house over looking the strip. Freddy gets out, and offers Bruce some witty ten-cent advice before shutting the door. Bruce rolls down his window and tells Freddy, “You’re fired if you don’t find me another job other than acting on a shitty soap by next week, preferably developing and directing an independent film, documentary, or short”. Freddy begs “Bruce, darling, please reconsider” but the limo pulls quickly out of the driveway, and heads up the mist-enshrouded hills away from the insomnia-laced beast’s epicenter.



Nadine, Bruce’s wife, tries to get cozy with him on the way home. Saying how “proud” she is of him and his “recent accomplishments”. He half smiles at the lip service, not wanting to tell her what he really thinks about it all and the big picture. She wouldn’t understand. She’s used to the stability and predictability that their easygoing life has convinced her exists for them, and many others. But he knows that it doesn’t, that it’s all an illusion that can disappear as quickly as it came.

He was looking for something else now besides money and notoriety in this plastic wheeled monster called the movie industry. A thing when found by the righteous that does not dissipate or soften in time, but maintains its significance indefinitely like the stars and planets above. Although they too fade away, their light travels as long as there is space to travel through. Bringing with it the hope for a new future. A radical new diversity to all things the likes of which Darwin would have failed to categorize.

Suddenly a shooting star blasts across the smoggy sky directly in front of the limo careening along Mullhouland Drive. The Limo spins out of control sending the occupants bouncing about the cab. The Limousine screeches and spins towards a cliff. Nudging the guardrail and sliding a third of its length off of the edge it stops. Teetering precariously, the driver lowers the window between him and its occupants and asks, “Fuck me, is everyone all right? Did you see that UFO!” Everyone is dead quite. “It was a meteor, actually” states Bruce. His wife and the driver just stare at him confounded. “I need to buy a telescope, remind me to do that when we get home honey”. Bruce concludes. The limo driver corrects the vehicle with a hiss, and shake of his head and they continue home. Bruce makes a wish.








Upon exiting the limo and going inside Bruce decides that he’s going to do some Internet surfing for telescopes, and to hunt for some ideas regarding his future pet project. But what was he looking for really? What had he spent his life feeling passionate about besides film, literature, and survival? Metaphysics, but doing a documentary or a film on Aliester Crowley or Madame Blavatsky was suicide for a first time director, or an established one for that matter. Otherwise they would’ve been done, that’s how this town works From Rasputin to John Dee, history is full of fascinating witches and hermits to write a story or make a documentary about, but none that he was familiar with struck a chord that pacified his inner thirst.

He knew that whatever he was looking for when ‘found’ would register with his soul like a junky scoring the first fix of the day. He decides not to press it, and just let it come about organically. Bruce begins browsing for affordable telescopes while percolating through his mental library of metaphysical and alchemical heroes and villains. He spots a relatively cheap first time easy to use telescope on E bay. He clicks on it, and notices that it comes with a list of craters on the moon’s surface to observe. Cool, he thinks, I’ll scan the stars, planets, and moons until it comes to me. He buys the telescope, and turns in.

When the telescope arrives both Bruce and his boys are thrilled at the curiosity and prospect of peering into outer space. The boys are used to their father being too busy to do much of anything with them, but now he was just as excited as they were to be doing something together like fathers and sons should. Part of their condo’s multi levels was a flat roof, which they used as a spot to set up their chairs and telescope. It took Bruce awhile to dial in the telescope, but once he had he was astounded by what he saw.

The moon as he and the boys had never seen it before; pocked and perforated by millions of collisions with rocks and space debris, but still hearty, formidable, and brilliant nonetheless. A giant glowing orb of influence and control not only over our earth, but also in our solar system. Every celestial body affects other heavenly bodies while orbiting in space. The moon moves the tides upon our planet; lords over the water if you will, and humans are made up mostly of water. At least that’s what he told the boys.

His oldest son asks, “Why is part of the moon called the dark side of the moon dad?” To which he had to go inside to the computer and investigate that perplexing query himself. Bruce learns that “only one side of the moon is visible to us due to the rate at which the moon spins, and likewise for the Earth. Therefore, there is a half of the moon that we never see, but it’s not dark, the sun shines on it too.” He told the boys this to which his oldest Apollo replied “Than what’s the use of naming craters after people and things on the dark side of the moon if we can never see them?” Joking around Bruce suggests “that that must be where the government pretends to honor those that they’d rather make disappear so no one ever knows about them” To which his son states “like this guy… Jack”. Bruce asks, “Jack who?” “Jack Parsons” the boy says. It didn’t ring a bell, it rung Bruce’s world.

Who the fuck is Jack Parsons? He thought. Jack Parsons as fate would have it is exactly who Bruce was looking for. He looked up at the moon, then into the telescope. “That’s why I couldn’t find you Jack, you’ve been taken off the planet, and stashed on the dark side of the moon”. Bruce says with a snicker. For a character as huge as Parsons to have escaped Bruce’s radar all these years was not only practically impossible, but also just damn odd.

First, he had to find out who Jack Parsons was. There proved to be very little information on Jack Parson’s short but magnificent life as of yet. Bruce found two biographies out there that were worth a hoot, and a few off beat articles over the years turned up too. It turns out Jack Parsons was the American version of Aliester Crowley crossed with James Dean. Bruce wondered, if we could send men to the moon, and supposedly have, why have we not gone back, and why did we not set up shop there afterwards? That's very unlike America to not stay in a place it has once occupied. Just look at the Philippines, Japan, Germany, and the Middle East to test that fact. You ever see the Australian Navy in San Francisco, no? Well, it's quite common to see the American Navy emptying its boats in every port around the world. That includes the Army and the Air force.

What is on the dark side of the moon? And why does Jack Parsons have a crater named after him there? Jack Parsons, now here, finally, was the real deal Bruce thought. Some called him the antichrist, a James Dean high on witchcraft and rocket science. The quintessential magician/scientist dead at 37 due to a supposed accident involving a fulminate of Mercury, and some other explosives. Parsons starts NASA indirectly, so to speak, and our entire space program, by inventing and working with solid rocket fuels and pushing the envelope at a time when rocketeering was viewed as a cockamamie hobby delighted in by science fiction fanatics and hopeless dreamers. He started JPL (Jack Parson Laboratories, Jet Propulsions Labs) accidentally, by putting together a rocket experimentation group and think tank.





Parsons and company were eventually known around campus as the “suicide squad” at Cal Tech University (now the worlds leading institution in aerospace engineering, but back then a fledgling institution of learning just cutting its teeth). With his child hood friend Ed Foreman, and a couple of young scientists from Cal Tech, the suicide squad made science fiction a reality in less time than it took the Wright brothers to build their plane and fly it. But what Bruce found more interesting was that at the same time Parsons was breaking monumental new ground in rocketry he was also moonlighting as the head of an OTO lodge (Agape) in Pasadena, a sex cult originated by Crowley, steeped in ancient Enochian and Masonic magic called Thelema. Bruce had hit the jackpot.

As far as mainstream culture goes? Everybody likes to think they know what Aliester Crowley was all about because they’ve heard a couple of songs by musicians inspired by the crafty sorcerer’s life, or read that he was claimed abroad to be “the world’s wickedest man” at one point. However, Bruce knew that not only was Crowley the most influential voice in the world during the turn of the century when it came to secret societies and magical workings, but he was also a brilliant society player in the court’s of royalty around the world, and spy for the British Empire, not to mention the head of the Golden Dawn and the Rosicrucian’s, two of the largest most influential secret societies in existence.

A 33 degree mason, Crowley was at the center of the world stage in more ways than most will ever care to discover. Bruce then finds that it was no mystery that this young man turning Bruce’s head inside out (Jack Parsons) was Aliester Crowley's adept and head player in Crowley’s Thelema cult in Southern California for a spell. Of course, it wasn’t much longer after Parson’s death that Thelema was in the spot light again.
Not to far back a psychotic cult figure by the name of Charles Manson was found to have Thelemic literature from the solar lodge of California in his possession after the Tate murders.



Jack Parsons claimed to have decoded the infamous Book Of The Law, and broadened upon it with his own take upon the ushering in of the age of Horus. A book that Bruce was more than familiar with due to his extensive occult experiences, and here’s the real kicker that blew Bruce’s mind; Parson’s did it with L. Ron Hubbard in tow as his magical scribe! In the middle of the Mojave Desert, Parsons and Hubbard attempted to create a moonchild, a homunculus, and summon Babalon! Parsons had even written his account of the deed in his only surviving collection of essays called “The Babalon Workings”. Many close associates of the two men claim that wasn’t the only thing Parsons and Hubbard brought forth from other dimensions into this world that day. The Babalon Workings ritual occurred simultaneously with the first documented flying saucer encounters in the U.S.A at the Cascade Mountain range and in Roswell, New Mexico.

Jack had quite a few odd relationships in his short lifetime Bruce soon found out during his consumption of everything written down about Parsons. In fact, L. Ron Hubbard, or what some like to call him the “Beardless Messiah” irrefutably, and matter of fact, stole Parson's girl and his money on a business proposition gone south, and went to Florida with said girl. Well of course Jack followed in hot pursuit. He got the authorities involved in Florida and a court order to get his money and any acquired assets with said lent money back, the story goes that Hubbard tried to sail away, but Parsons casted a few spells of his own summoning the wrath of the weather and the sea to push Hubbard back in to shore, which reportedly a storm did come in, and did force Hubbard to return and give the modicum of Parson’s money back that wasn’t spent, and some peace of mind.








This of course is all after the Babalon Workings. And can be proven by biographies in existence and paper trails. Of course the Scientology camp claims L. Ron told them he was “on a top secret mission from Naval intelligence at the time when he was interacting with Parsons to break up a black magic ring in Pasadena.” Yes, picture it, L. Ron Hubbard, all alone in the bowels of a satanic cult... fighting evil for the U.S. Navy and Americans everywhere, whilst doing illegal activities of his own in his own best interest. I doubt he mentioned the finer details of said black magic rituals; namely all of the sex, and buggery used to exhaust participants involved by putting them in a closer state with the astral plain and ancient entities by trance. Bruce wondered if Scientologists would even care? After all they do pay money out of pocket to rise through the ranks of their order; hardly what one would call an ethically balanced and universally appealing religion. Bruce snickers.

When still a young man Bruce learns that Jack Parson’s inherited a beautiful mansion in Pasadena from his maternal grandfather. And as an adolescent growing up in Pasadena led a relatively secluded and privileged life until the stock market crash and great depression nearly bankrupted his grandfather, and forced Parsons into a more public setting as far as school and activities went. That’s where and when Parsons met his life long collaborator in rocket building Ed Foreman. Foreman was blue-collar and tough as nails. Providing Parsons with the protection and companionship he would need in order to survive now that he didn’t have his grandfather’s money.

Parsons and Forman complimented each other perfectly like Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise in Kerouac’s “On the Road” In his twenties and early thirties Parsons rented out rooms to various bohemians that answered his ads in the paper “Room for rent”. It was not uncommon to see Actors, writers, and scientists mingling at the Parson’s Estate chatting about magic, and affairs of state, politics, nature, and the arts.
Another fascinating note is that Parsons never graduated
from high school. But either thought Bruce did he. In fact he was never able to be a part of any large group or institution for very long. Nor did Parson’s have a degree from a university. He had taken a few classes here and there, but never found stability in scholastic establishments. Most of his knowledge in chemistry evolved from his own experiences working with explosives while employed near Berkley at the Herculean powder company. Herculean was a leading manufacturer of TNT and other explosives on the west coast during the early 1900’s up until around the 50’s.

Now here is a guy that invents a solid rocket fuel mixture stable enough for us to base a future space program and military missile program on thought Bruce, yet Jack Parsons belonged to no college fraternity, or alumni group. Every nuke we have currently pointed in any suspected enemy of the West’s direction has a little bit of Parson’s magic in them. However Parsons did not fit the mold of your typical scientist. He was tall dark and handsome, and quite the ladies man. He loved fencing and discussing taboo esoteric subjects, chess, and chain smoking. These were all too familiar routines to Bruce.

Parsons was an autodidact in the truest sense of the word.
Bruce had no idea what that word meant until he was 25, and a producer friend of his told him that he was an autodidact. Bruce looked it up, and it meant someone that was self-educated. Jack Parsons had some how taught himself enough about chemistry and engineering to mingle, and gain the trust and respect of 6 to 8 year college level peers and revered professors. Here we have an interesting case of a juvenile delinquent growing up without a father and by Parson’s own admission having had an incestual relationship with his mother which he credits for bringing the perfect amount of clarity to his experiences as a young man; He found running to science and literature as a means to escape from his reality early on
to be ultimately his secret salvation.







This in Parson’s own words surrounded him with the kind of information and imaginative freedom that he needed to develop his insatiable love of mythology, chemistry, and science fiction through such sources as Jules Verne and H.G. Wells, and then even further back to Arthurian legends and ancient Sumerian and Indian mythos. Bruce had never read about anyone that shared as many similar events with him in life until this moment, and for the first time in his life he didn’t feel like a total outsider, or freak. Parsons had even tried to summon the devil at the age of thirteen, and claims to have succeeded. Bruce, although a bit put off to admit it did the same at thirteen during a moment of weakness and confusion, yearning for any amount of control that could be offered up at any price.

He wondered if most boys at some point early on in life slept with their mothers and tried to summon the devil? Those weren’t the only odd things that Bruce and Jack Shared. Bruce has been kidnapped by his mother at the age of five and spirited off to Kauai for a year. His mother at the time was part of a hari-kari cult and working as a maid at a beach resort hotel. She would leave him for long periods of time alone in their small house to fend for himself. She taught him how to read so he could pass the time, and she would quiz him when she would return. If he hadn’t read and comprehended what he had read? He would be tortured and beaten. Bruce’s mother would often take him to places far away and remote, and then leave him there with this advice “If you’re my son you’ll be able to find your way home”.

Bruce began reading mythology and strange fiction at a very early age, and by his late teens was thoroughly versed in a range of subjects from Ethnobotany to anthropology; metaphysics, to alternative history and sciences,
but there was little to be had now a’ days in those fields besides becoming a professor, a niche author, or if lucky, both.
Both he and Jack had Oedipal relationships with their mothers, and both grew up in their grandparent’s home.



Also, there were the fathers. Jack’s father Marvel wasn’t allowed to see Jack his entire childhood, because when Jack’s mother was pregnant with Jack, marvel was caught with a prostitute. She never divorced him, they separated, but she also never saw, or spoke to him again along with Jack. Bruce’s father spent all of Bruce’s childhood behind bars for something or another, and the two barely knew each other beyond the guilt-ridden letters.

Bruce came to the conclusion that Jack Parson’s was not only an amazing scientist and modern day hero, but he was an immaculate writer. His book Freedom is a Two-edged sword (a collection of essays) was as amazing a read to Bruce, more so than anything he could ramble off from the greatest writers of all time. It was steeped in Libertarian patriotism, and a cry to salvage the idea that all men were indeed created equal and therefore should be free and protected by the state to work at what they love, raise a family, and die having led a fruitful and productive life, not taken advantage of by the politically corrupt heads of government.

Yet Parsons had the candor of Voltaire and the rebellious discipline of Thomas Jefferson or Alexander Hamilton. It was clear to Bruce that if Jack Parson’s was the Antichrist as some claimed? He’d hate to meet the Christ. Regardless of what the public at large knew about Parsons (which he was convince was very little since he himself hadn’t even known of Parson’s until recently) he would make the perfect subject for Bruce’s first documentary. Now Bruce just had to check the rights, and put together a film crew, story, and shot plan. Jack Parson’s was going to put Bruce Devlin once and for all on the map along side the greatest authentic visionaries of all time.








Bruce immediately calls his manager Freddy to get him started on pinning down ownership rights, possible interviews, equipment, crew, and a budget. Freddy is naturally screening his calls and nobody is answering. Bruce decides to go down there and pay him a personal visit. He arrives to find Kim the receptionist on her cell phone text messaging away oblivious to what’s transpiring around her at any given moment. He asks her “is Freddy’s around?” and she tells him that he’s in his office with a new client, then she whispers “I think he’s the guy replacing you on the soap opera since you’ve decided to pursue bigger goals, and like by the way? You’re hot and stuff, but he is like so frickin hot!”

Freddy and a young man emerge from behind Freddy’s door laughing arm in arm as if they’ve just witnessed the parting of the Red Sea. Freddy sees Bruce and grins ear-to-ear “Bruce, come here for a minute. I want you to meet Jason Taze. He’ll be replacing you on Another Day To Give.” Jason stops and grabs his chest “Holy shit! Bruce Fucking Devlin! Oh my god, my mom will never believe this”. “Jason Taze huh? What’s that short for? Tazinsky?” Bruce says shaking his hand while wishing him good luck and all the best on the show. But Jason has already moved on and started flirting with Kim. Bruce pulls Freddy into his office, and gives him the exciting low down on Jack Parsons with all the enthusiasm of a cherry popped suburban prom brat.

Freddy listens with the intent of a gnat hovering over a mule’s ass while checking his sell phone before he says,
“No can do Bruce…” with a big sigh. “Why not Freddy?
This is a no brainer,” states Bruce while pacing and grabbing his hair in disbelief. “Because I don’t represent directors
Bruce, I manage actors, but I know an agent
over at Independent Assholes that might listen to you, he’s got a thing for flash in the pan soap stars that want to turn into Stanley Kubrick mid career, because well, you know? Everyone one is doing it” Freddy concludes with a hearty chuckle.




“See ya later kid, let me know when you’re ready to be realistic and we’ll get back in bed, but in the meantime I’ve got to groom and feed my new talent, before he inevitably implodes from the new success and nightlife. We have to draw these 'knowns' out Bruce, and make the most of the time we have on this spinning turd-ball”. Freddy pats Bruce on the shoulder, tells Kim to “get to fucking work”, and exits with Jason in tow, and his keys
jangling about in his change riddled pocket like a pleased ghost down the hall of progress. “Fuck” mumbles Bruce. “Yep”, chimes Kim without a moment’s hesitation. “He’s a keeper”.

Bruce exits the building on the Beverly Blvd. side and looks for his car. It’s up on a tow truck slowly pulling away. The truck driver sees his dismay and honks with an ironic wave of middle finger. “Figures” Bruce says. “When it rains in this purgatory, it pours fucking acid”. Bruce hails a cab, which in Los Angeles is a spectacle unto itself. People literally look at you as if you’re crazy, because that’s how much we pray to luxury and sports car in this town. Folks in Detroit just don’t know. No car in LA equals no life. Bruce heads to the tow facility, which happens to be by Nadine and his first apartment off of Mansfield and Melrose in transvestite town. Those were the days…

He makes his way inside accidentally bumping into some big guy while reading his ticket as he walked by. The guy grabs Bruce by the collar and throws him up against the wall rattling all of the pictures. “Got some kind of problem there pretty boy?” Mouths the giant angry man. Bruce looks at the guy while gasping and straining for air, and raises his eyebrows. He manages to say “Byron stop… It’s me, Bruce…” But it comes out as “Boost” Byron pauses for a moment as Bruce thankfully inhales, and says in a small voice “Bruce? Jesus man, I could have killed you! You should watch where you’re going there pilgrim I thought you were some nut job wanting to get thrown further just now”. Byron playfully socks Bruce in the arm adding a Charlie horse to his current list of daily calamities.




“Did you get towed dude?” Asks Byron. “No, this is where I park when I’m scoring a chick with a dick and some go fast Byron” Bruce says in all seriousness. Byron just blinks before opening up with a bellow of laughter. “That’s a good one! God man you were always so funny. Remember that time on the set of…” Bruce cuts him off “Do you work here Byron?” “Oh yeah, dude this is my new gig, do you like it?” Byron smiles. I will if you have some way to help me get my car back without losing my wallet, savvy?” insinuates Bruce. “Oh yeah man, no problem, what are friends for? But beers on you tonight buddy!” Bruce Looks at Byron cryptically and asks “You still got all of that audio equipment from when you were a lead gaffer over at Paramount?” “Of course dude, that stuffs expensive” Byron quips in all seriousness. “Excellent” Bruce grins “You want to make a movie with me Byron?”

“What do you mean you’re quitting the soap opera, and Freddy’s no longer representing you?” Nadine confronts Bruce while Bruce is looking for his bowling ball to meet Byron and a friend that has some cameras and lighting at the Lucky Strike Lanes for a few games and pitchers