Cinderella: Part 4

Here’s the next chapter in the Cinderella tale where everything gets all horror and, really, nothing is resolved. Just the way I like it. Here’s the first part and here’s the second; you may want to check those out first. Where were we? Oh yeah: in New Orleans…

Cinderella Part Four…

Just got off the phone. Been looking through the envelope I was given and I had a few questions. Oh, did I mention I’m doing this thing? I am.

I get my groceries for free now.

Some of the stuff in the envelope went into the embalming fluid. A pint of her blood sits over on my counter. My part’s pretty much done as far as all that goes.

I’ve got Cindy on my table. I’m able to see all the artwork she’s got on her body. Lots of winding ivy and some ribbed hearts. She’s marked up everywhere.

I’m sewing her head on. Being so close to her face I catch myself telling her things. I tell her I’m going to try to make sure the vines creeping from her shoulder to her neck matches up. I can see where the jagged flesh had been sawed through. Not a sharp blade. I have to attach a post in her spinal column to hold her head on and I excuse myself when I leave her head on the other table to do this.

The bones in the neck are shattered. Maybe he had to chop through with a blade that dull. Looks like he hacked from the front. Did she see him doing that? I ask her.

I pick up her head to study the damage done to the spine there. Pretty bad. I put another post there to connect and some Sculpty clay to hold it in place. I consider using Sculpty to kind of cement her together because the family might try to move her. Families do that. Best not to have the head tear off when Mom’s giving her daughter a good-bye hug.

While I’m waiting for the post to set in there, I turn Cindy’s head over and look at her. She needs eye caps. I slide them in and get my needle gun ready to sew her mouth. It’s sad but it’s easier to do when the head’s on your lap. Sorry, Cindy. I’m dealing with this best I can. I think you understand.

I know you do.

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

I’ve got a dress with a high neck to cover up that seam. It’s too bad I thought like that because I actually did a wonderful job with those tattoos. I’m looking at her now: Job Well Done. And I even put her magic powder in and saved some blood. I’ve done my part.

I wonder, though, what that’s all going to do. The note she left didn’t say. I just followed the directions. Obviously, it’ll be Bad Ju-Ju Luck for her killer but will it kill him? Maybe it’s working a spell on me and I’ll kill him. Or maybe it’s zombie powder and she’ll rise up and take care of this herself.

I look at her again and the tears start up a bit, “I didn’t even know you. Why am I so upset? Can you tell me, Cindy? What’s wrong with me?” I get up to leave.

Turning out the lights, I tell her good night and she tells me good night and not to worry.

I know she does.

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

Cindy comes to me that night and lays down with me. Nothing to be worried about. We’re not like that. She’s just cold. I understand that. I give her some blankets. She hugs me from behind and only succeeds in transferring her coldness to me. I have dreams that I can’t remember and wake up every now and then to tell her about them. She shushes me and says to go back to sleep.

The last time I wake up, she’s not there. Of course she’s not. Cindy’s still laying on my embalming table. I think I might be in need of a vacation after this, though..

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

I’m driving Cindy to her home where she’ll be laid out for viewing. I’m worried about my dreams because I’ve never dreamt about the dead like that before. I’m not worried that it was sexual and you shouldn’t be either. I do worry that I’m getting paternal about Cindy. Is this where the voodoo takes over? She comes to me like a child in my dreams and I kill her murderer?

Her brothers meet me and we get Cindy into the house, which is newly uncovered and decorated for her welcoming home, as well as her final exit. I wonder where they’ll bury her? Best I don’t know, I’m already involved enough. Still, I wonder if they’ll just bury her in the backyard..

The family invites me to return later that evening. I say I will. I’m made to feel very welcome.

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

I’m drinking in the mortuary. I should go back to my apartment but I have more stuff here to keep me occupied. Should just move in. Here all the time anyway…

There’s all my books and my DVDs. Hell, even my bed’s better here..

My bed. I’m breathing kind of shallow. There’s a smear of make-up on the pillow. I bend down to touch it. Yeah. That’s what it is. I’m breathing faster now. Probably going to pass out. Before I do, I gotta know: Did she come in here on her own or did I drag her in? Fucked up either way but one way involves me being bat-shit crazy and the other involves the living-fucking-dead.

I need to call. I need to call them. And say what? They don’t want to hear either option. I do need to go over there, though. Got another two hours. Tick-tock..

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

I’ve spent my time pacing, smoking, drinking and shaking. I’m not even getting a buzz because of how hard I’m shaking. It’s like I’m working it off.

I haven’t seen any other signs that she was walking around. God, I must have dragged her in. Or, my new theory, I curled up with her on the embalming table and got make-up on myself and transferred it to my bed. Sheets in the wash as we speak.

What if Claude had come in? He wouldn’t have because he’s a motherfucker but, man, if he had? I would have woken up and freaked out.

At least I don’t feel the need to kill. I don’t think she put the spell on me. Or I might do it tonight. Or she might. I need to just go and get this over with but I still got another hour.

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

Getting ready to go. It seems like it’s been a quarter to eight for twenty minutes now. I jog out to the van, then decide on the hearse. That’s sense talking. They might need me to drive her somewhere.

I can’t get there fast enough. Not even buzzed. I could use a buzz.

Pulling up. The house is dark. Did they go somewhere else? There’s no one around. I swear they asked me to come back. Am I late? Time’s right. I get out.

I hate this. I hate this. I’m walking up to a dark house of people I don’t know. Is she in there? Do I have to walk in on some scene like the one when I went on the removal? Candles and alone with Cindy’s severed head? I’m on auto-pilot again, walking to the steps.

Someone’s coming from around back. I hope they’re all back there. I hope it’s well lit because I can’t do this in the dark anymore. I squint into the night.

And of course it’s her. She’s walking towards me, a little slow but there she is. She’s far but I recognize her dress. She’s coming right towards me and I’m not moving.

She’s got a head in her right hand, held by the hair. A little closer and she’s got another one. Is she on a mindless killing spree? Am I next? She smiles but only with her lips. I sewed her mouth shut.

First, the right head falls to the ground, then the left. She’s close enough that I can see she’s pulled her plastic eye caps out. I watch as she points to the hearse. She’s still walking to me.

“What?” I whisper.

She puts a hand to her throat, holding it together. She whispers to me:

“Beignets?”

I’m suddenly relaxed. I smile.

“Of course. Cafe DuMonde?”

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

We stop back at the mortuary to get her a change of clothes and a shower: she’s just covered in blood. She’s trying not to do her creepy whispering thing, so we motion the simple things. She hands me her dress from the bathroom and I stuff it into the hazardous waste bin. I’m looking for clothes and she steps out, wrapped in a towel. She looks pretty bad. I powder her up and do quite the make-up job for her. Totally passable. Hey, the girl wants to go out for beignets. Do I say no, you look too dead? Adapt and overcome. Besides, this is the best I’ve felt all day.

Dressing her in slacks and a button down shirt, she could be anyone in the quarter.

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

We’re sitting under the canopy. She’s looking at her plate. I realize she can’t eat with all that wire holding her mouth together. I also realize that she doesn’t look as passable under these lights. Whatever.

“I need to clip out your mouth if you’re gonna eat,” I explain, “Sorry I didn’t think of that before we got here.”

She looks at me, hurt. She does manage to sip some coffee but it threatens to spill. Putting her cup down, she begins to pout.

“Here. Come here,” I say standing up. I’m pulling her to the bathroom and we get a few stares. Yeah, cause I’m gonna nail her in that filthy bathroom you got back there.

I shove her into the bathroom and take out my keys, “Open up,” I say, “Go like this..” I show her my teeth.

Let’s just say I got it done. And without popping any teeth off.

We go sit back down. No shit from anyone. Cindy happily eats her donuts. I watch her. Believe it or not, this is a much nicer memory. I lean in.

“Hey,” I say gently, “How long have you got? Do you know?”

She shrugs but she doesn’t seem bothered. Okay. That’s what I need: just be happy for a while. I let her be and just sit quietly. That’s what I do.

Suddenly she stops eating and holds her throat. She’s going to speak and it’s not pretty.

“We got them,” she whispers, “Thank you.”

I want to ask questions but decide against it. I don’t want to ruin the moment.

“You’re welcome, Cindy.”

“Will you just sit here with me until I‘m done?”

“Yeah, of course I will.”

She’s alive and happy as she picks up her second beignet. She’s dead and gone before she finishes it.

Cinderella: Pts. 2 & 3

Let’s return to New Orleans, where the accents are confusingly Brooklyn and the rum goes down a little harsher than we’re used to. If you’re just joining us, you’ll want to check out Part 1. It’s right over here. Now, if you’re all caught up, let’s settle back for some Neurosis and Horror in part two of…

Cinderella

    So now I’m sitting in my little room in the back of the mortuary when Claude comes in. Claude runs the place and, incidentally, is a bastard. He’s a bastard til I start working, that is. I work well for nothing and he doesn’t want to mess that up.

    He comes in and, in what is his typical mean-spirited move, gives me the latest walk in. “Walk In” translates to “Poor” around here. Won’t make a dime on this account. S’okay. Not in it for the money.
 

   “Hey,” he says walking by me to change the channel, “Couple of gypsies out there for you.” He sits down.

    Claude has no idea what this means for me. How much I’ve wracked my system, waiting for this day. Man. I knew it was coming. Everyone who’s come in for the last two weeks has had me bracing myself for Cindy. It’s been a nightmare. One after the other. I stand up…
 

   “Yeah,” I say, “Yeah, I got ‘em.”

    Sounds horrible but I sort of hope this is it. Eating me up, all this waiting. That’s not right.

    I’d wait forever if she’d just be okay.

    I walk out to the front room. There’s two women. Old women. Scary women. They’re clutching lots of charms, crosses, clothing. And an envelope. Fuck, man..

    I introduce myself and, of course, they know who I am. They thrust the envelope at me and I take it. Feels heavy. There’s stuff in there. Hope it’s not bullets.
 

   “Where is she?” I ask. They tell me.

    One of the women tries to give me money: looks like about a hundred bucks. I already thought about how I’d handle this and start to shake my head. The woman grabs my hand and puts the money into it and pushes it back to me. I nod.
 

   “I have to go get Cindy, now.”

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

 

    I’m driving to the address. I’m thinking about how happy Cindy was when I brought her coffee. That’s what’s on my mind the whole time. Her laughing at my stories. The last time I saw her, she was happy. I had made her happy.

    I turn into the lot with the huge, new houses. There are mobile homes, more like camping trailers, parked along the sides. This is the neighborhood? I never would have thought.

    I don’t even have to check the address because I can see one of the houses is covered in cloth. There are drunk people wandering around outside. A lot of them. Maybe a hundred.
 

   I pull over and a wailing cry goes up. They know who I am. They know I’m going to take away their Cinderella. I wonder if they will even let me take her. Even worse, I wonder if they know I’m the guy who’s supposed to be “helping” her. Damn. I wasn’t even thinking of the revenge plot, or whatever. I told myself last week that it was gong to involve making her look so wonderful in her casket that her killer would realize what a beautiful thing he destroyed.
 

   Yeah. Right. I’m going to have to kill someone. I just know it.

    I get out of the hearse, which I’m glad I brought with all these people around. Looks better. I did not, however, bring Claude to help me with the removal. He would fuck this up. I’ll have to ask for help but from who?
 

   A woman comes up and implores that I not take Cindy away. Not away from her home and family. She’s kissing my hands and asking me not to take her. She calls me something I recognize as, like, Mr. Death. Local thing.

    This scruffy, handsome man comes to get her. Tells her to let me go through. I see similarities. Cindy’s brother. He looks at me.
 

   “My brothers will take you to the stairs,” he says.
 

   “Where is she?” I ask.
 

   “She’s in there but you can’t go in yet.” He turns his attention to his mother. His mother? Maybe.
 

   “I’m sorry,” I tell her, “I’m going to help Cindy as best I can.”

    The brother nodded grimly, “She wasn’t sure.”
 

   Oh. Damn. That’s not what I meant. Oh. Fuck. Was that what I meant? Why didn’t I say, ‘I’m going to do what I can for you‘? Or ‘I’m going to help you‘? Because, you know, am I going to do this? I don’t even know what ’this’ is. I took the money and the envelope. Now I think I just promised the family I’d do it.
 

   Suddenly, two wiry men are on either side of me, leading me up to the house. I look back and see two more are getting my gurney out of the hearse and following us. Okay, then.

    We get to the steps and one of the brothers stuffs something into my jacket pocket as the other one, I don’t know, anoints me? He pours something oily and sweet-smelling on my head and rubs it into my hair. Then, they gently push me up the stairs.

 

x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

 

    Pushing aside the cloth covering the door, I see that it’s marked with all kinds of little x’s, which, if you’ve been to New Orleans, you’ve seen around. People claim they don’t mean anything. They’re something for the tourists to look at. No tourists up here at the Gypsy Death House, though. I open the door and push my gurney through, letting the door close behind me. And I’m alone.
 

   The noise outside fades to the silence of the house. There’s no one in here. It’s quiet enough that I can hear the draft blow through.

    I don’t know where she is and, worse, I don’t know what’s happened to her. I mean, has a coroner been through? Probably not, as they’d want to take her to the lab. These people don’t call police. Am I going to find her crumpled in a corner where she fell? How bad is this going to be? Is she laid out peacefully? In bloody clothes? I notice that the mirrors are covered too.
 

   Walking into the first room on the right, I can see the flickering of  candles, casting shadows everywhere in the cluttered room. I walk in slowly, floorboards creak a little. My cart squeaks.
 

   The room is not big. Over to the left is a couch, facing the covered window. The candles give my only light. I leave my cart and move to the couch. Slow steps. I peer over.

Cindy’s there.
 

  I’m suddenly very sad. My wonderful little memory of her laughing and eating the beignets I brought her… That’ll never be as strong as seeing her on this couch. It was such a good memory, too..

    I pull my gurney over and realize that if I have to do this alone, I’ll have to get a little closer than usual. No one has come in; I’m sure the house is ‘unclean’ or something.

    I adjust the bed to be even with the couch and kneel down by Cindy. I sigh. I can smell incense on her, just like in the tent. I get my arms under her back and start to pull her over to the cart. Her head shifts. I stop.
 

   God Fucking Dammit.

   They cut her head off.

    Is this another superstition? Some old-country vampire prevention? Even worse, did her killer do this?

    Now I was flooded with imagery.

    Was she alive?
 

   Was she scared?

    Did someone force Cindy to her knees, pop her throat out and saw through her neck as she cried?

    Did he tell her beforehand?

    I keep seeing her head hitting the floor, her lips moving in a silent protest. In this light, this candlelight, it’s really too much.
 

   My body goes into automatic. I lift her over to the cart. I carefully lift her head up and put it where it should go but there’s no way to keep it strapped down. I lift her arms up and over, letting her forearms keep her head from rolling off. Even on auto-pilot, I might fall apart if it hits the floor.

    But her arms are doing a good job of keeping everything in place, so I cover her and hurry out to the hall. Opening the front door, I see everyone is lined up along the sidewalk. The wail goes up when they see me. I pull the gurney, Cindy, through the door and they cry again. The two wiry brothers come to help me get the cart down the stairs and follow me to the hearse to make sure it gets in. Another wail when I slam the door.

    Then I drive around til I stop crying.

Cinderella, Pt. 1

I’ve been to New Orleans a good couple of times now. Every time I go, I think of something else to add to this story. Grab yourself a Four Roses and Coke for this little Southern Gothic tale I call…

Cinderella

It’s not like I have any reason to go into the Palm/Tarot Reader’s tent: you just do things like that when you’re at the carnival. And I love me some Carnival, or Fair, depending on where you’re from, I guess. Amusements. You know. Corn Dogs. Ferris Wheels…

I’m eating here. I’m eating really bad here. I spend stupid amounts of money for the rides but I rarely play any games. Mostly because I can’t walk around with a giant stuffed Disney knockoff for an hour. Unless I’m with a girl. That doesn’t happen real often, though..

And, you know, like anyone ever wins anything anyway..

That Tarot Card reader, though. That’s the kind of thing the old traveling shows used to do, like Freak and Geek Shows. Not that I ever actually saw them. Not that old. I’ve read things, though…

You gotta realize that New Orleans is chock full o’ Tarot Readers but when you see them every single night coming home from work, well… I don’t hold a lot of stock in either the authenticity or the novelty in such a thing. Not that I really am a huge believer in oracles or magic anyway. Not so much in my line of work. That type of thing might actually scare the hell out of me as a mortician. Or Funeral Director, depending on where you’re from. We don’t mince words down here. You know, in California, they don’t even like ’funeral’ director. They’re calling themselves ‘Grief Counselors’.

Grief Counselors? Just stop all that..

Maybe, I’m thinking, it was the reader herself that got me in there. Young, dark, pretty girl. Tattoos circling around limbs, running in and out of her clothes. You know: Exotic. And I’m not really a sucker for pretty girls. I like them, of course, but that’s not what got me in there. I wasn’t looking for a date or even to flirt a little. No, I’d say she got me in because she was a least attempting to be the Genuine Article.

All those Fat, White Women (and their Bearded Men counterparts) out in back of Jackson Square just don’t click, you know? Might as well advertise on late night TV with a phone number to call.

And yeah, maybe that’s not fair. Okay, I’m biased when it comes to my Fortune Tellers. Who cares? It’s not like I require a stereotype in my doctor or landlord. Just my Carneys, thank you..

She looked like a gypsy, with her tattoos and patched up dress trimmed with tiny gold coins. I could see her through the open flap of her caravan tent. She was sitting there, smoking, actually looking at cards spread out on the table. How cool is that? Actually doing mystical gypsy stuff, not watching TV or flipping through some paperback. Not eating Chinese Take-Out. No, she was at least acting like she was into her work..

I step in and say, “Hi, can I get a reading?’ Just like that.

“Oh, sure,” she says, no trace of a Jamaican accent. She sounded like Brooklyn. Or Hoboken. More accurately, we sound like New Orleans.

“You local?” I ask, sitting down.

“I am,” she says, gathering her cards and starting to shuffle, “A lot of us are. Any festival or carnival that comes to town always drops a notice when they’re in town.”

“Nice. What do you do in between?”

“Work at a grocery store.”

“Never seen you before,” I say staring at her inkwork.

“You, uh, been to all the grocery stores in New Orleans?” She smiles so sweetly. It’s too bad her teeth are not so great. Kinda gray. Adds to it.

“I suppose not,” I say, returning the smile.

She leans into me like a child telling a secret.

“You want the tarot or palm reading?” She looks at my hands when she says ‘palm’.

I shrug, “What’s the difference?”

“What,” she says, “You not from here, or..”

“No, I am but it’s not like I know a lot of gypsies or anything.”

Is ‘gypsy’ a bad word? I can’t remember.

She doesn’t react. I’ll be careful about saying it again, though.

“Tell me,” she says, slowly, “what you do.”

“Mortician.”

Her face goes dark. She takes a breath and now it looks like she’s relived, “I’m glad you’re here,” she says, “I’m going to do the cards. The palm’ll just tell you personality traits you already know anyway.”

“How does that help?”

She shakes her head with a nice smile, “Won’t. It’s cheaper and so people go for it. When I tell them things they already know, they sometimes want to go in on the cards.”

“Gotcha.” This is so cool. Even if it is a trick. Who cares? That’s kind of what I came in for, right? “So why am I the lucky one who doesn’t get the business end of this deal?”

“This is gonna sound all mystic and shit but,” she looked sad for the first time, “I think I’ve been waiting for you.”

Okay, now we’re off into the movie fortune tellers’ way of doing the deal. Or she was telling the truth. Either way, Money Well Spent.

“Let’s do the cards, then, since you’ve been waiting here for a handsome mortician and everything.”

“Aren’t we all,” she winked.

Okay.

I give her my name and my birthday. She loves my birthday and gives me all kinds of reasons that I should too. Her name is Cindy.

Cindy?

“That’s the first thing about you that doesn’t, you know, scream ‘fortune teller’,” I say.

Cindy laughs, “Short for ‘Cinderella’. Like that?”

“Yeah, that’s good. That for real?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Nice.”

Cindy-rella has me shuffle for a bit. The cards are regular size so I can do all my one-handed, slight of hand shuffles. She likes that.

“You do magic,” she says.

“Nope. Just the shuffles.”

“Cool,” she says, taking the cards back and beginning to turn them over.

“You use regular playing cards,” I say, watching her.

“Gypsies do. We don’t fuck with the Ryder or Cat People decks. That’s for those people out by Pirate’s Alley.”

“The one’s reading Anne Rice books,” I nod, “I seen ‘em.”

“You’re funny. I’m glad.”

I look up, “Yeah? Why’s that?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know. Why wouldn’t it be?” She pauses to look at the cards, then turns over a few more and says, “Everyone likes a good sense of humor. And just imagine the seriousness that comes in here sometimes,” Cindy rolls her eyes, “And the assholes. Why come in here if you’re just going to nay-say everything I do? I feel like they just pay to abuse me.”

I sit back and light a cigarette, “You know they do,” I say.

“Yeah..”

She finishes the spread and looks at it as she lights a cigarette. Then she starts telling me things.

Things about me, things that lead up to me, things that influence me, especially the things that I don’t know are doing all the influencing. She tells me how all this will come out in the next few weeks and how I can recognize them when they happen. Got it. Cool.

“These cards here,” she says, blowing a steam of smoke upwards, “are important because I already know what these are about. I‘ve seen them in spreads I‘ve done for myself.”

“Oh, right,” I say brightly, “You said you knew I was coming..”

“Yeah,” she starts, “You’re to be part of something kind of frightening…”

She looks up to see how close I’m listening, “It’s a revenge, actually, and it involves this,” she’s pointing at a card she had previously identified as my job.

Now I’m just not dumb. I doesn’t take any kind of genius.

“Are you in trouble?” I ask, just out with it, “Is someone going to kill you?”

“Yeah..”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s kinda my fault. Or will be..”

“No,” I say, shaking my head, “I’m just sorry you have to know that. Really.”

She’s quiet. I let her be. I learned that on the job.

See, Funeral Directors hate that silence and they comfort themselves by getting on with the business of selling you souvenirs. Those Grief Counselors probably give a ‘there-there’ and maybe a hug. I’m neither of those things. I’m a Mortician. I sit in silence with them and talk when they’re ready. Oh, it’s definitely bitten me in the ass before: I had this one lady go quiet. I went quiet with her and suddenly she blurts out, “Well, fucking say something! That’s your god-dammed job!”

That’s not my job, though. My job is to let you scream at me if that’s what makes you feel better right then. It’s okay. It’s your dollar, you know?

“Yeah, so,” says Cindy as she’s collecting up her cards, “You’ll be seeing me again.”

Now I’m quiet. Next time I see her, I’ll be embalming her. This is new.
“Is there anything you can do?” I ask.

“No,” she sighs, “And I’ve already written my wishes out and sealed them up in an envelope. My family’ll have it. What you do with it is up to you.”

I can’t go killing people. I can’t even go hurling bricks through people’s windows for this girl. If I even say what do you want me to do, there will be some kind of understanding that I’ll help her.

I look at Cindy and she looks so down. I understand and everything but I just can’t leave like this. What, pay her, say thanks and I’ll be seeing you? That’s fucked up. Okay..

“Hey, Cindy?” I say, getting up, “Can I get you some coffee or a pack of smokes or something?”

Wow. Brightened her right up, “Yeah,” she says, smiling, “I could really use a chicory coffee and a pack of Camels. Straights.” She doesn’t really want me to leave either.

I give her a quick point-and-nod before ducking out of the tent and back into the surreal-ness of the carnival. I feel good about running her errand and, of course, horrible about everything else. I’m really hoping I don’t believe any of this. I bet she’s saying the same thing and that thought makes me feel really depressed. Wouldn’t you be? You fucking should..

I leave the park thinking about the closest place to get coffee. Figure what the hell and catch the street car running down Canal. Coffee should still be hot when I get back but it’s really the thought here. Since I’m going to the French Market anyway, might as well get the beignets.
I think about details all the way down to the river. What a cool girl. All the more depressing. I’m thinking more about her situation than my own. The revenge plot and everything.

The cafe is busy, as usual. The best way to get take out is to get a table because you’ve got all those servers just hanging out by the door, next to the cigarette machine, out of which I get Cindy’s Camels. It’s really just coffee and donuts, so I should be right out of here.

Order taken, I light up.

Nice night for tourists. What I mean is, the tourists are nice tonight. There’s a couple sitting here by me who are so excited about their trip, they’re looking through the Picayune trying to gage rent expenses. They’re talking about what kinds of jobs they could get. It’s cool that they like it so much. Hope they like hot, sticky weather, though.

Some of the locals hate the tourists. I think most are pretty harmless and a some are even interesting. All of them make the Quarter what it is. Them and the street performers. Even the tarot ladies over there. Anyone else wandering the quarter are bigger phonies than the tourists as far as I’m concerned.

Coffee and beignets are brought out and I hurry to the streetcar. Yeah, I don’t actually have a car apart from the company ones: a van and hearse.

I jump off across from the park and weave through to the carnival. A shudder runs through me, I don’t know why. I get to thinking: Is this all part of it? Is she dead already? I’m going to see her and her killer and will be forced to murder him. Fuck. She got me.

But no, I see her, standing out in front of her tent, smoking, looking for me. I’m too close to this thing.

Let me take a second to get something clear, though: I’m not falling in love with this girl. Yeah, she’s cute and interesting and everything but I’m not falling for her. She’s like the cat you see in the alley behind your apartment. You might leave food down there for her but you can’t take her in right now. You want to show you care even if she can’t come to live with you. Kinda like that.

Cindy smiles and hugs herself when she sees me, “Did you go all the way to the water for that? Thank you.”
I hand her coffee, smokes and donuts. She stares at the bag and starts to look serious.

“Don’t…” she starts quietly. There’s an uncomfortable pause, then she shakes her head and clears her throat, “I actually was kind of struggling with the temptation to get funnel cakes.”

Don’t? Don’t what?

Could have been Don’t feel sorry for me. Or Don’t fall for me. Whatever. It’s donuts, you know?

We’re eating and smoking. She’s got a sign up out there that says she’s not in but anyone could look and see we’re right there.

I talk about movies and a book I’m reading. Told her some funny stories. She talks about a trip she took to Savannah. I’m all the while making up my mind that I should leave when we’re done with our coffee. Anything longer makes me look like I’m scared for her, which I am, but she doesn’t need that.

Finally, we part ways with a cheery, but simple, good-bye.

Okay… Let’s hit them bars, alright?

Having a quick drink before I go out. A little pre-game. I always know it’s time to go out when I look up at the TV and see Gossip Girl is has come on. What a horrible show…

But you knew that…

Moving to a new place within the month. Between that, I may be going back home for the first time in over two years, which doesn’t seem all that long when I write it. And the more I write it or say it, the less urgent it becomes and the more I say, “That’s kind of a lot of money…” But, you know, you need to see Grandma. She doesn’t understand why you’re so far away. Then again, she’s old, so two years is nothing to her. A blink of an eye…

But, yeah: moving. Always a bitch. Since I was really little, though, I’ve wanted to live by the sea. And though I’m not technically moving oceanfront or anything, the Chesapeake is close enough. Never thought that’d happen. I’m pretty much moving to Sweethaven Village a-la “Popeye”. A working seaport with a history that goes back to the 18th century.

So still-working, in fact, that the Canadian Navy pulled in this weekend. Those drunken Canucks. So funny. They really wanted us to come on board but the Officer of the Deck denied us and got kinda pissed at the sailor who was trying to be our guide. Didn’t want him to get in trouble, so a retreat was in order…

I’m gonna get a boat. Not this year but some year soon…

My good friend Josh is moving down here from the Hamptons. He’s got to be by the water also and this place passed his muster, apparently. That’s some thrilling stuff there…

This past weekend, I met up with an old friend of mine from high school. Not as stupid as that sounds, that guy and I were way close. Brandy and I rolled into DC and met up with him…

I blacked out in the last hour. Shame on me, same old Grego…

Hoping he moves here as well.

I promise some writing this weekend. I’ve got an older story that I’ve been editing. I’ll put into serial form and you’ll love it…

Storms have been rolling in and rolling out for a month now. Killer. Right now, it’s actually cold. Beat back that heat, you know?

Ah: there’s the rain. Just now…

Soapbox Soliloquist Strikes Us…

European thunderstorms cry for victims of injustice, rumbling in sorrow unlike the hateful cries of a southern lightning bolt.
Tom Sawyer looks at the reflections in the lake of haste and hangs a silk tapestry of cubist primetime daydreams off the dock while red ice cubes melt away in the sweetened tea of bedtime atrocities suffered at the hands of innocent lust…
Mozart’s breath got caught in the canoe, fishing for the meaning of page-a-day calenders who shoot razor blades for the dumbed down masses at the gods of corruption.
Southern Savannah secrets held up for ransom in the cushions of couches illegally dumped into the hearts of bandits and gremlins, New Year’s Eve, not hardly any fanfare for the cut off tie wearing gypsy who stole mother’s bike, not giving a second thought of who would wipe the mascara off the crying and tortured…
Seven Gnomes is all it takes to lose your mind, Seven Gnomes is all it takes to gain your peace, Seven Gnomes in your soul, it all comes down to riding the horse through the stream…
Sawyer knows this; they mean no harm.

Out

Ha! I suckered you in with a new post. I’m really just writing as I think (which is the name of the game: Stream of Consciousness and all…).

Brandy’s getting a shower and is wanting to go out. Let me tell you: I’m really drunk. Don’t know how I’m going to deal…

I was walking around Fells Point earlier and getting a feeling for the neighborhood. The Canadian navy has pulled in for liberty and the guy on fo’c’s’le watch waved to me as I walked down the pier. ‘Course, I waved back: welcome to Baltimore and all. Let me get you guys a drink…

Gotta tell you: I’m a little too wasted to go out right now but if Brandy’s game, well…

She got a house, that girl. A nice one too. I’m just renting because, you know, she’s way too independent to trust me but I gotta admit: she picked a sweet pad.

We’re getting tattooed tomorrow, right before I meet up with Mike V.

You gotta realize: Mike V. lived with me for a few months, at my parents house. It was awesome: we ate bagels with cheese and my dad co-signed on a guitar for him. We were, like seventeen…

Okay, that’s it. Suckered you in to read my drunken musings. Now I’m going out into the bar-saturated streets of my neighborhood to hang out. Gotta put pants on: that sucks…

Beat Poetry and a Pulp Serial Coming Soon..!

Christ, it’s hot today. I feel like Tom Ewell in “The Seven Year Itch” except I’m drinking rum instead of martinis and the hot girl is downstairs rather than up…

I’ve got a Guest Writer coming to this space sometime within the next week or so. Mark is a good friend of mine currently living in Germany who is a writer of such old and unique style that you can’t help wishing you were around in the late 50s to listen to him speak at the Six Gallery.

Actually, Mark is not that West Coast of a writer. I’m sure he would have been much appreciated there, as I’m also sure that the poets and storytellers on the East Coast would have accepted him. Mark, though, comes from the South.

The Beat writers talk a lot about New York and even more about San Francisco but Mark’s Southern upbringing lends a different, yet familiar approach to the Stream of Conscious writer.

I don’t want you to get the idea that he’s Southern Gothic, in the way that Flannery O’Connor and Nick Cave are. He’s not. He’s a fully urban writer who, without trying to emulate a style, reminds you of what the original Beats had going on. But there’s such an alien flavor to Mark’s work that we up North have never really been exposed to.

Of course, he’ll hate that I gave him this introduction. He doesn’t want it. But he’s not in any way a mopey, reclusive writer. Like Hunter S. Tompson and Edgar Allan Poe, he is an outgoing, outdrinking, relatively happy person who’s work, while sometimes a touch dark, is never depressing or self-centered.

The kind of thing I’m used to reading from this guy was sent to me via text message. Being limited to so many characters (back then), he would give you a quick snapshot of his world, usually late at night. I’ve certainly missed it and will be happy when he posts that type of thing here…

My next project concerns a pulp-type serial about a mortician’s relationship with a girl he believes he will have to embalm and bury. I wrote it quite a while ago and some of you may have read it but I’ve made a few cosmetic changes. Part one should be up within the wee, along with some of Mark’s work…

Make sure you comment to let us know what you think because a writer is much more inclined to write if he knows he can entertain someone else.

Other than that, I’d just tell it to myself in the car on the way to work and that’d be it…

The Wedding Planner

So this is it. The last of the Dreadful Ten. I’ve watched ten horrible movies and taken notes, live, while watching. I did it because I needed to know. I did it because I was bored in Afghanistan. I did it… because I could. Now, for a final Fuck You from two stars we’ve already loathed in previously reviewed films…

The Wedding Planner

Cover Features:

Matthew McConaughey looks dopey as J-Lo looks like a cross between Oh What to Do and the same dreamy look she had on the cover of Maid in Manhattan.

This says that this movie will suck.

Tag Line:

A romantic comedy about love, destiny

and other events you just can’t plan for.

One of the reviews says:

Jennifer Lopez is smart and sexy. There’s no doubt that she has ‘It’.”

Richard Corliss, Time Magazine

Okay, right, if by ‘It’ you mean another bad movie. And, by the way, to each his own on the ‘sexy’ but I don’t think ‘smart’ is up for debate no matter what definition you’re using. I mean, do you really want to go on record saying J-Lo is smart?

Short Answer: no.

The DVD menu is set up like a day planner. The ‘play’ button is a Post-It Note that says, “Don’t Forget!” which tells us what kind of audience we’re writing for here.

Oh, there’s our I’m Fat. Two minutes in.

And I wasn’t paying attention but J-Lo just said to a girl, “But you’ve got more than great thighs.” I don’t really know what that was about but she’s the only woman who could have said that to a another girl and it wasn’t at all sexy.

Busy, busy, busy! J-Lo’s so busy but so good at her job. She uses acronyms for wedding terms. She fixes cleavage. Watching her run about with her little pouch of last minute touch-ups, like breath spray and Krazy Glue to make sure a lot of people see the same old wedding.

I’m looking at it and, though I’ve only been to a dozen or so weddings, it looks like about ten of them. It doesn’t matter if you’ve got a quartet or a CD, you’re still going to make me listen to Here Comes the Bride. And for that, I Fucking Hate You.

J-Lo is so sweet! She spends her days playing Scrabble with old people! This fucking sucks…

I can’t tell yet if we’re in Manhattan or not. I need landmarks, street names. And is it Christmas or what?

Now, she doesn’t wedding plan on her own, no siree. There’s a whole god-damn company that does this and they’re acting like fucking lawyers. And this high/soft voice thing she’s doing is starting to make me want to go back to the gym for another two hours and sweat this anger out.

J-Lo feeds the best man his speech through an earpiece and I now know that either this movie desperately wants to be clever or there are people who actually do this and therefore, I no longer feel bad about hating rich people.

This is the last movie I have to watch, right?

Matt rescued her from a runaway dumpster and she’s using that fucking voice: “My shoe” and “You smell like grilled cheese sandwiches”. Every time she talks, I have to try to forget that I have a loaded M-16 within five feet away from me.

Speaking of adorable, Matt’s a pediatrician just surrounded by precocious kids as J-Lo lies in the hospital being “cute”.

I do enjoy the way the starlet’s friends always act like complete dumbfucks around the leading man. This movie does not fail in this department. This woman…um…Penny, is it? Yeah. She’s the worst.

While talking about Scrabble, Matt makes fun of her and she actually says, get this, “So, I can spell! What can you do?”

Well, J-Lo, I can help you out there: He can be a Fucking Doctor.

So they’re watching a movie in the park because, of course, that’s cute. And they dance. They talk also but it’s not so much, you know, “dialogue”. As they’re ready to kiss, it begins to lightly storm and I throw up.

I throw up…blood. It’s all over, man. As I throw up all that blood, I think about how I need to stop because I’ll have to clean it up later. I shake my head and think, stop. You gotta stop. The stains’ll never come out. But I just. Keep. Throwing. Fucking. Up…

I think this girl J-Lo is hanging out with was ‘Sonja’ in Mortal Kombat. I’ll not be forced to kill tonight if Sonja bicycle-kicks anyone. It doesn’t have to be J-Lo, though they owe it to me.

You could save someone’s life tonight, Sugar Bear.

Looks like Matt’s engaged. I really don’t care. The two bicker as they dance well. Because that’s clever. Speaking of clever, I have a great idea: I should put in my bootleg of Grindhouse with this movie minimized in the corner.

J-Lo wants to quit and her annoying friend annoys her til she agrees not to. Meanwhile, Matt’s starting to think that maybe J-Lo’s some kind of challenge. I really don’t know: I’m currently picking through trail mix for pineapple and not paying attention.

There’s comedy going on, so says the Lying Music. It involves a foreign guy. Actually, he kind of reminds me of Balki but Matt is no Cousin Larry.

I have to admit, I have no idea what the fuck is going on with this runaway horse chase going on. Some woman was singing like a moron and J-Lo’s horse bolted, causing Matt to have to save her and explain that he liked her the one night but that’s over. Or something. Do you care? I’ll keep going if you do but if it’s all the same, I’ve got a copy of Reno:911 within my peripheral and I think I’ve got another fifty minutes of this. I don’t think I’ll sleep very well if I go to bed this pissed off.

Matt’s girl is going on a business trip and leaving J-Lo and Matt to plan the wedding. If you were, say, an idiot and you actually wanted to watch this, you probably also like weddings and the idea of planning them. I would also have to assume that you are female and you would not want to miss a second of this exciting time, as the planning seems to be the part everyone wants to do. It certainly isn’t the “be married” part. Now, also understand that an average guy (whom you are hopefully dating if you like this kind of movie and the weddings portrayed in it) wants no part in this boring planning shit that’s just going to cause an argument later.

In other words, this movie is so god-damned contrived that even the type of person this is written for has to see that the writers are so sure you don’t give a fuck about what you watch, that they can just say what the hell ever and you’ll buy it, as long as Matt takes his shirt off.

You know what? Buy a vibrator.

So now, Matt’s picking out flowers because I’m sure his fiancée’s okay with being left out of that. Suddenly, it’s night-time and J-Lo’s drunk enough to talk adorably. And I don’t think this is just me anymore: the film-makers might as well have signed this Smithee for all the care they took with it.

I see that this is indeed 104 minutes and we’re at an hour twelve. Since we’re not in New York around Christmas, I can’t say for sure that there will be a gala to dress up for. Somebody may take the mic. I can say that J-Lo will run out of somewhere, probably Matt’s wedding. At least they’ll have a speech-y confrontation at some point that will make only the stupidest audience members believe that they won’t ever be together.

Though Julia Roberts didn’t get the guy in her movie…

But she was acting like a fucking crazy person.

Currently, Sonja from Mortal Kombat has decided she can’t get married and J-Lo, always the professional, talks her back into it. Personally, I think she’s looking at the check she’s going to miss out on if this lavish waste of money doesn’t happen.

Montage of wedding being planned. Matt looks forlorn without J-Lo’s attentions. Everything else is just, you know, spending money.

Day of wedding. Because he’s an idiot, Matt asks Sonja from Mortal Kombat why she would want to marry him. She is understandably shaken. After a few words of sense, she realizes she doesn’t want to get married.

Here again, we see a wedding paid for and cancelled at the last minute, whereas if you were to so much as mention the fact that you might be stopping over tonight, I would turn down proffered concert tickets from someone else to meet up with you. These fucking people just cancelled a huge, lavish, expensive wedding.

Off Matt goes to City Hall to stop J-Lo’s wedding, which I forgot to tell you about because, you know, who fucking cares? We knew the outcome of this thing when we first laid eyes on the DVD cover and saw who the stars were.

End of Reel.

What I’ve Learned Here: Planning a wedding is important and it takes a person of great skill and natural instinct to pull one off properly. One could dump fuckloads of cash into the bottomless pit that is getting married in order to have something to worry about, argue about, and possibly, get divorced over.

By the way: no one’s job, unless they’re a medic or a vampire hunter, should require them to carry a little pouch of emergency supplies.

Instead of This Movie, I Would Suggest: If you like to watch people plan for an event so much, you may want to take a look at Meet the Feebles in which we get a backstage look at the preparation of a puppet variety show. Like The Muppet Show but different animal stars.

Who snort cocaine and rot away with venereal disease.

That’s the ten. I wrote as I watched, so some things aren’t as clear as I’d usually insist on but, god-damn, I can’t imagine anyone’s confused here. I’d love to state the obvious and say that I could have written these movies but, I mean, anyone could. We all know this.

Unfortunately, Hollywood’s got all the hack writers it needs, so none of us will get a job making the easy money. So don’t you think we should apply William S. Burroughs’s Algebra of Need here and stop the supply by refusing to create demand? Why should someone get paid to make this and I have to sit in Afghanistan?

They write it because there’s a market.

I really wanted, for my conclusion, to write a, you know, Rise Up Against this rotten storytelling that’s redefined the definition of entertainment. I simply am not optimistic enough to believe that although retarded beliefs of what constitutes romantic or comedy is already being defined for free on television, society will still venture out of the house on Special Nights to pay for it.

To compare, let’s explore what comes with a Special Movie Night Out With The Great American Couple: Dinner.

Commercial-Soaked Co-Workers convince us that deep fried breaded nuggets at Applebee’s is superior to the deep fried breaded strips at Fridays. The three layer fudge pie at Bennigan’s is worth choosing over the fudge filled triple brownie across the street at Olive Garden. Ruby Tuesday’s Blue Cheese New York Strip is not quite as good as the Roquefort Sirloin at Outback.

Now substitute Kate Hudson for Roquefort Sirloin and Mathew McConaughey for the deep fried breaded nuggets. Whatever we choose, it’s all the same but at least we know there’ll be a line of people just like us waiting patiently to get in to feed and be fed upon.

So thanks.

Thanks McConaughey and Hudson. Julia and Dermot. Tristan + Isolde. Thank you all for driving me out of my mind over the last ten days. I’m sure you’ll all sleep just fine.

Even though I now dream that I’m sixty pounds overweight, sitting in the movie theater with my bitchy, half-wit little Nag after stuffing myself on oily pasta and mayonnaise based dipping sauces. I turn toward her as she stares, glassily, at the silver screen and know, crushingly, that later, when we’re driving home, the smell of leftover grease from our take out containers of fried cheese wafting through our passive-aggressive relationship, that she is just a tiny bit less satisfied with me than she was before she saw Kate Winslet’s charming English home.

With Jude Law in it.

The Way We Were

In order to fully run the gamut of movies that do not contain what I believe so be the recommended allotment of shootings, dinosaurs, and/or the living dead, I’ve reached back in the vault for this one…

We’ve seen Romantic Comedies, Faux-Foreign Steamy Stories, Cute Adult Contemporaries, and Historical Love Tales. What we’re missing here is one of those romance movies from the 70s that made people cry. “Love Story” is one of those and so is “Days of Heaven”. These are the movies that people are watching on TV where the girl’s hot a hanky and the guy wants to leave.

So this is number nine. Again, excuse the writing as I watched/wrote real-time while sitting in the middle of Afghanistan…

 

The Way We Were

Cover Features:

Close-up of Barbara Streisand standing in front of Robert Redford.

Below them is an image of them on a beach.

This says that they‘re really close and they’ll be walking around,

talking a lot.

Tag Line:

Some memories last forever.

One of the reviews says:

No reviews. This is a classic; they don’t need to sell it to you…

Back in the 70s, there was a different approach to the movies geared towards a female market. While there were romantic comedies then and there are syrupy dramas now, the films that you’d hear most mentioned in popular media as the ones guys got stuck seeing as a favor to their dates, tended to be more along the lines of that captain and his mandolin movie that came out a while back: less with the cutesy stuff and more with the dialogue. In other words: B-O-R-I-N-G.

I predict Montage Mania in this one. Probably no running out of galas, though…

Look: Central Park. Are we in Manhattan? Is it Christmas?

It’s 1944 and the Commies Are Coming. Babs works at a radio station, proving that Cool Jobs in movies don’t just exist in newer releases. You can tell this is a either a classic for a reason or they just don’t make them like they used to: The camera work and acting are good enough to make me have to put this movie on pause in order to write my notes. As opposed to My Best Friend’s Wedding, which I could have just shut off and written a travelogue for what to do with your day in Chicago.

Babs just saw Bob, in his Navy uniform, napping at the bar in a restaurant. She does a couple of little sighs and begins to flashback…

As the credits roll, Bob is all athletic and Babs is all protesting shit. The credit/montage shows Bob jogging, throwing a javelin, team rowing: Athletic. Babs writes congressmen, prints out flyers, and hands them out: Protesting shit.

Oh! Babs, it seems, it the president of the Junior Communists. As she speaks in front of a crowd one day, she woos the audience and captures our hearts. As the movie progresses, no matter what scene she’s in, she finds a way to turn all conversations to politics. Whether she’s waiting tables or waiting for the bus, she’ll call you a fascist if you cross her.

By the way: Unseasoned, uncooked ramen noodles left to soak for a few minutes in a can of tomato soup = Spagettios. By Franco-American. Franco is one of Bab’s topics in this scene during which I eat the aforementioned ramen-in-tomato soup. I think it’s significant.

Later, Bob Buys Babs a Beer and we discover that, not only has he published a book, but he smiles as much as she’s pissed off. Read: a lot.

Then, in a move I’m sure resulted in an after-date argument in 1972, Bob ties her shoe for her. The way it was shot and the almost immediate cut to another scene tells me this is significant, either as the beginning of a beautiful friendship or as something to come up later at a crucial moment.

I can almost hear it: “You never bend down to tie my shoe, Harold.”

The most uncomfortable thing in movies is when some guy dances with another guy’s date for a minute, then when Date Guy comes back to dance, she keeps staring at Other Guy as he walks away, despite Date Guy being there. This happens here, then we go back to present day with Bob still napping on the barstool.

I have to say, she looks a hell of a lot better in the present tense than the flashback. I mean, like, it’s weird. For this reason, I guess, Bob rolls on up to her apartment. Isn’t it funny how movies always act like someone’s apartment is dumpy but you should be so lucky?

Listen to me, a half hour into the Streisand movie and I’m writing like a Long Island housewife.

I think I just saw a bit of Streisand’s breast just now. I’m not sure if that’s cool or if that’s, like, seeing my mom shirtless in ‘72. One thing’s for sure: those nails are all kinds of Fran Drecher. Speaking of nails, guess what’s going on now?

The next morning, she irons his uniform and makes breakfast. Some liberated woman she is. And she all but crawls after him when he walks out the door. Later, he calls looking for a place to stay for the week or something. She goes out, buys groceries, and makes a babbling idiot of herself when she explains the huge meal she’s planning. It sounds to me like she might be a potential stalker. As the evening progresses on, I am sure she’s already planning the old Love Knife.

The montage which follows shows their courtship, complete with candle-light, red roses, row boating, carriage rides, holding hands, table for two, and rough sex.

Two scenes involving their friends prove embarrassing when Babs decidedly puts her foot down about anybody not being serious all the damn time. She starts downing martinis and Bob tells her to take a walk. That evening, he tells her he doesn’t “think we’re going to make it”. To which she replies with foot stamping. He retorts by giving her key back. They still spend the night staring at their respective telephones.

Do you remember? Do you remember The Way They Were? I know it all went kind of quick and all. Seemed like everything was going fine in the montage, then they started hanging out with friends and all went to hell. Moral: Once you’re in a relationship, you can’t hang out with friends. You can’t be The Way You Were.

Once again, Babs, the independent girl she is, begs him to come back. When he comes to visit, she claims that they broke up because she’s not his style. He says this is probably true. She stands her ground and says she’ll change. I’m starting to think that maybe I had the plot wrong. Babs is so clingy and codependent, utterly without shame about her desperation, that she must soon descend into madness.

A montage shows them happily throwing books at each other as they move into their new house in Hollywood. I think he sold his soul to sell a screenplay or something. Babs is docile as she goes to meet directors and agents with Bob. Until, that is, the Great Hollywood Blacklist gets underway. Then she’s all Blah Blah Blah.

One evening, Babs gets pregnant.

The McCarthy hearings are all they listen to. A get together is ruined when the host discovers a microphone hidden in his living room. Paranoia is creeping through at work, at home, and in the car. Like a Lite FM station. Bob drinks like a fish and Babs gets her principles back and heads off to defend the suspected Communists. This should go well.

Bob wears a sweater tied around his shoulders a lot in this movie. I need to look up fashion in 1972 – 73 to see if people started doing that.

Our couple just isn’t The Way They Were anymore. I guess they’re breaking up but the problems just never seemed that serious; I think they’re just bored.

In a really quick epilogue, like in a three minute reunion with Bob, we find out after the baby was born, Babs moved back to New York and got married. They hug for a minute, then he takes one of her protest flyers as a souvenir of The Way They Were. Which, to me, was her following him around and him not asking her to go away.

End of Reel.

What I’ve Learned Here: Movies in the 70s had endings that wouldn’t sell today. Main characters die. The hero is the psycho. A relationship is based on neurosis. I don’t see many housewives getting the whole picture with this one but I can see an enterprising student writing a decent term paper for a sociology class.

Instead of This Movie, I Would Suggest: For a entertaining story about an introverted writer in a fucked up relationship, you can do no better than Naked Lunch where Peter Weller mainlines roach poison before shooting his wife in the head.

I can’t believe I actually went through with this. I’ve watched nine movies that men are usually forced to see, be they dates or critics. To be fair, I personally know a hell of a lot of women who would rather go see the Aqua Teen Hunger Force movie. Unfortunately, none of those women left their DVDs here for me.

I have to admit: I was only random at first, then the order just started to make sense. I mean, would my experiment really have made sense if I’d have started with Tristan + Isolde? No, it wouldn’t but I didn’t realize that until I saw my last five movies. And I couldn’t have put the established Streisand movie up there either. It all works out. Now, though, I have a real stunner for the tenth, and final, movie. It stars two individuals we’ve seen in previous pictures and it’s only fair that they give us a final Fuck You in…

(To be continued)

Tristan + Isolde

Being as how My Best Friend’s Wedding was the most painful movie thus far, I’m actually going to pick a movie this time. I can’t risk it. I’ll take…

Tristan + Isolde

Cover Features:

James Franco and Sophia Myles, neither of whom I’ve heard of, are looking off, stage right.

He looks like he sees something puzzling. Concerning.

She looks like she’s listening to a cool song.

Below them, there’s a Medieval Battle raging.

This says that during this time of raging, he’s intense.

But she’s okay with that.

Tag Line:

Before Romeo & Juliet, There Was

(Then, the title’s down here)

One of the reviews says:

“Great Action, Terrific Performances!”

Access Hollywood

I don’t know how to begin explaining this one. On one hand, you’d think I got off easy, being as how it looks like a King Arthur-esque adventure with swords and arrows. These English battle movies have always had an excellent reputation for brutal slaughter, after all…

Now you have to think about the movies it’s in company with.

This is a completely different category of girl-movie altogether. This is not marketed to young women, searching for a good man, nor is it intended for wives who wonder where all the cowboys have gone. I think this is intended for bored, suburban kids, ages 15 through Too Old To Be Living At Home, who have the luxury of creating a theatrical identity for themselves, as there’s presently not much else to be concerned about. This is my hypothesis based solely on judging this book by its cover.

And, you know what: Fuck You, I’m in Afghanistan. I win by any account.

The plus sign between the two names in the title echoes the 1996 version of Romeo and Juliet, which, as you can see by the tag line, they’re banking on selling to the same crowd, albeit ten years later. That movie affected a lot of the very crowd I believe this movie was intended for.

In other words, I am getting away with a little bit here with the promised action but remember Woman On Top promised “Plenty of Steamy Sex” and we didn’t get that at all. The melodrama should serve to be quite painful if not painfully funny. Let’s get to this…

Our story is written out for us in the beginning but it’s too wordy to put here verbatim, so I’ll just tell you: Britain, spelled Briton here, like magik or womyn, has fallen into tribal ruin because the Romans are done with. The Irish are still doing well because they have whiskey. The tribes must never unite.

One chap, during a rather primitive, but effective PowerPoint Presentation, says they need to unite. While the discuss this, the Drunkards across the sea come in and begin the slaughter. I see swords out but no ones cutting anybody with them. Little Tristan wants to go fight but, like most kids, he just gets in the way and gets his parents killed. We’re seven minutes in and I finally get some dismemberment. Pretty weak, though.

I’m not expecting Braveheart violence here, despite what it says on the back of the box. But if you can’t give me at least Lord of the Rings, you might as well have let Disney tell this story.

Our Isolde is, obviously, also a child and she watches a bunch of out-of-season Renaissance Faire workers, of which all our extras are made up, set her dead mother on fire.

Later, in the movie’s official “This Kid… He’s Good…” scene, little Tristan, whose name I’m really getting tired of hearing people say, lets two other kids have it with a wooden sword.

After an unexplained wrinkle in time, Tristan’s a dashing young man, getting his own pad while the alcoholics over yonder say they want to do two things today: enslave the Brit young and get some ass. Also, because nothing’s easy, Isolde’s free spirit is being tested when she’s told she has to marry some brute because her father, the king, says so.

During the pillage, one bad guy does this thing that I like melodramatic bad guys to do when they can: When he is challenged, he kills someone. That’s only half of it, though. You see, after the killings, our hero charges forward but is held back causing our Bad Man to look over at him and cock an eyebrow: Interesting. I love that.

In another instance of a wormhole in ancient Britain, Tristan has had time to set up hundreds of defenders to head off the Irish as they leave with their booty. A battle erupts and I see a lot of swords waving and arrows flying but no blood.

It seems as though Tristan has died from a poisoned blade but his men put him on a boat and shoot fiery arrows at him just in case. He washes up on the Shores of Alcohol, which must happen to funeral boats all the time because it only took about an hour, and Isolde finds him. In the most uncomfortable display of nudity, Isolde and her maidservant make a Tristan sandwich because they figure that brings people to life. That sounds right. If you’re a drunk. Which I’m not. For several fucking months now: I’m not…

Since the poison was created by her kin, Isolde helps him out by bringing him back to life. Her accent comes and goes as she tells him to stay put, but the Ocean’s right outside if he needs a bath. Hint, hint.

And bathe he does. She checks him out for a minute before putting some salve on the sexy cut above his bitchin’ abs. In no time flat, she’s sexually harassing him: That’s a yellow light, Isolde…

The next day, thirty-eight minutes in, she reads to him by the fire. If only if it weren’t for that drip maid, who’s always around. The cock-blocking goes to a new level when the jealous bitch mentions a fiancée in front of His Hotness.

Isolde is almost in tears when she tells Tristan he should go soon. Suddenly, before I know what the hell’s going on, they’re totally doing it. Much like the battle sequences, there’s little action on screen.

Our Irish pillagers finally limp home and when the king goes out to meet them, he finds Tristan’s death-boat. But no body! Isolde knows this is a problem, because bodies don’t wash away, and she heart-wrenchingly tells her cave-dwelling, hunky Brit to go.

The Irish all look like typical King Arthur stock players but the British look like a mixture between dumpy men and gangsters in a Guy Ritchie movie. They’re all in Ye Olde Mead Hall celebrating because Tristan rolls in, alive and well. They mutter to each other, as he moves moodily amongst them, that they can’t imagine what he’s been through. Getting’ a Little Somethin’-Somethin’, that’s what. Suckers.

Our Merry Old Chaps are gearing up for some kind of championship bout in The Land of Flowing Booze. The Brits are gonna fake fight because there’s a plan involved here. The prize is the princess and you know that’s a brother against brother battle for the end. Thom Yorke is in attendance.

It did not occur to me that if the Brits fake fight each other in an effort to thwart the Irish plan of pitting them against each other, that it gives this movie more excuses not to behead anyone. There’s more shots of concerned crowd reaction than of ass-whuppuns…

Oops! Tristan won the princess but he won her for the King. She’s all weepy and he’s all, “This will end a hundred years of bloodshed,” and she’s all upset and shit. You know who’s not upset? The King. Not only did he not have to fight but he got the prize. That’s why Kings are jolly.

Wedding happens. Isolde is still stealing looks and words to Tristan at the reception. A lot of money and time goes into making a movie. The actors and stuntmen had to rehearse a lot, I imagine. Lots of costumes and set had to be created. Look at all the work it takes to bore me.

The wedding night is a disaster. Isolde’s crying and the King looks like her feels really bad about everything as he has sex with her.

There’s kind of a montage of the King and Isolde, I guess I can call her the Queen now, kind of liking each other. Tristan chooses now to start giving a shit. She names the place: the Town Bridge. And the time? Any-time, baby.

The King names Tristan his Vice-President. Isolde gives a little speech about not living without love. Tristan says, “Okay, cool” and she’s all flustered. They do this a lot in this movie. I had girlfriends who did this a lot in high school. One person acts all I Don’t Care for so long that the other person finally shrugs. Suddenly, someone’s pissed.

Tristan + Isolde meet to fuck around. She asks how many girls he had before her, to which he says, “None”. She asks how many after, to which he also says, “None”.

Then he thinks about it for a minute and says, “Slut.”

Later, at a pan-flute music filled hall, our couple ducks into a janitor’s closet. We then kind of go back and forth, showing her with Tristan in one scene and the King in another. I’m telling you though, even missing a hand, that King would kick Tristan’s ass.

Which could be a problem now that people are seeing our idiot couple being all suspicious around the kingdom. This is a common problem with people who claim they’re trying to have a secret relationship: They can’t stay the hell away from each other in public.

This movie is much more, you know, Lancelot + Genevieve than Romeo + Juliet. One thing it’s not, however, is Original + Story.

Tristan gets the slow dance with the Queen. She essentially tells him she needs sex and they duck out about fifteen seconds apart. He tells her they gotta stop. She says she can’t. Then: Busted.

As you can imagine, the King is Right Pissed. So is the Irish King. When Kings get pissed, it’s time for a war. Though, in this movie, it should be pretty tame. Later, Isolde explains the story to the King, about finding Tristan on the beach and all. The King lets Tristan go and lets that bitch go with him. He pushes her boat off and says, “No way I’m getting blamed for this war.”

And so, the “war” begins. At an hour forty-five, I’d imagine I’ll get ten minutes of a grand finale, followed by five minutes of wrap-up. People pretend the swinging swords are anywhere near their bodies while others get hit with arrows and fall in the water very carefully. Tristan charges in and the King sees he’s all right after all. Well, not completely, he’s been stabbed a lot. I think I actually see blood.

Tristan staggers to his feet and finds someone else to blame, which everyone falls for. The Irish warriors, totally wasted, shoot their king in the back while he’s listening.

Isolde found a way to stumble right in the middle of the war, just in time to see Tristan die from his wounds. She thinks back to reading to him in the cave and all the times they got it on. The words at the end tell us that Britain did not fall to the Irish and become assimilated into their culture. Their culture of booze.

End of Reel.

What I’ve Learned Here: You can’t depend on movies anymore unless it’s spelled out in the title. If you stick to titles like Land of the Dead, you can be assured of what’s going to go on there. If you give a movie a chance because the poster shows a Medieval Battle raging, you might sit through two hours of ninth-grade level concepts and undeveloped storytelling.

Instead of This Movie, I Would Suggest: When it comes to English guys, a girl in peril, and a villain who drinks a lot, you can’t go wrong with Hammer Pictures’ The Horror of Dracula. There’s blood, style, and real accents in that one.