The boardwalk is packed wall to fictious wall with the families hoodlums drunkards teens all doing their own thing like the twelve year old girls and the twenty year old boys at H2O and H2O2 with their clever chemistry inspired names that those frequenting the clubs are too young or stupid to understand and then there are the screaming kids at the prize booths lining the first few streets, either pregaming or postgaming for their evening inside The Pier or Trimper Amusements then there are those who travel in packs - strollers and younguns on father's shoulders and embarassed tweens forced to tag along as the family walks and shops up the streets passing Dough Roller and endless snack stands that smell of hot dogs and cotton candy and funnel cakes and "Oh let's go back and get Thrashers" you hear every five minutes and then you reach the arcades with their beeps and boops and loud yelling mechanical voices with equally loud techno with equally large and cheap and worthless prizes and oh boy the kids are still screaming and a skeeball thuds to the hardwood and a toddler runs after it and now a mother is screaming and the bathrooms smell like vomit and piss and shit and the benches outside are full of husbands and brothers and boyfriends waiting for their women who go every hour and later at night the thugs come out to prey on the drunks stumbling home and the clubbers too loud for their own good and then all you hear is the crashing of the waves and all you see is the pale glow of the moon twinkle off the water and the volleyball nets that were crowded even just earlier that night now sway in the breeze and you see the late seagulls perching on the concrete slabs because they're looking for Thrashers too but they need to be careful of the trams but you can't see the faded white light lines of the lanes anyway so they honk once, honk twice, then you yell at your friends to get out of the way and they do but their is still ignorant people in the tram's way because The Boardwalk On A Friday Night is obnoxious.

The most insane artists are typically the most fascinating. Proof: one of the most famous artists of the 19th century, Vincent Van Gogh, cut off his own ear. Perhaps people are merely fascinated by the erratic behavior of outsider artists. Or perhaps outsider art allows for voyeurism among the general public – a glimpse into an unhealthy or deranged mind, a freedom from the rigors of everyday existence. And as much as we wouldn’t like to admit it, every one of us is at least a little bit insane, and outsider art appeals to us because it touches upon and acknowledges this insanity.

The closing lines of Alan Shapiro’s poem “Space Dog” appear on an otherwise black screen. They read, “the earnest dog eyes fixed on black space like a door the masters have walked through and will return from, surely. Surely they'll come to get me. Surely they didn't love me all that time for this.” Next there is footage of Laïka, inside of the Sputnik 2 capsule, enduring weightlessness. She looks nervous and extremely uncomfortable. She wears something similar to a space suit with an oversized helmet on her head. Additionally, around her neck is a small leash that is tied to one of the control panels, greatly restricting her ability to move. The narrator informs the audience that Laïka died merely hours into her space flight, in the process becoming the first living thing to orbit the Earth. The narrator explains that the Soviets knew that Laïka would not survive her voyage on Sputnik 2. Throughout this opening sequence, stills of Laïka in addition to the footage from the space flight will be shown.