Got myself up early enough. Up in the canyon some white work-truck with toolboxes for a bed is putt-putting along. Turns out it's a “County Fire Department” vehicle. * Sigh * So I buckle down for a long, slow slog.
Upon mental boredom and a lack of stimulation my mind drifts to last night’s television and of one of my favorite childhood/pre-pubescent fantasy/documentary flicks, One Million Years B.C. which of course features the outrageous and outstand Rrraquel Welchhh! Woo-hooo!!
(Oh gawd, I love her, want her…) Yes, there she is (I can see her now) ‘Miss Fuzzy-britches’ (yet so clearly) to those of you ig-nor-ants too young or too senile to know or remember (respectively; in that order), the Miss fuzzy-britches of Shawshank Redemption-poster-fame, as Warden called her, that smoking-hot female clad in prehistoric animal-skin bikini, the poster that was covering Andy Dufrense’s own personal secret man-cave (woman cave?) in the wall of his cell.
After twenty-years of digging away somewhere behind (inside?) her bikini-bottom (and what a bottom; did I mention how scuuur-rumptious…?) he eventually escapes from prison by crawling up that(her?) love tunnel/birth-canal (or is it out? See, it’s all very psyco-logical/Fruedian..) Gawd, I love her- did I mention? Yes, Raquel, I’m coming my Sweet, I’m digging my way out through ten feet of concrete to get to you. I’d even gag my way through 2000 feet of the poop-chute, just like Andy, just for you, just like in the movie, spew out the end of the pipe into a ditch and freedom, Oh-Glorious Freedom, and Raquel waiting for me on the beach in Zee-wah-to-nay-ho! * pant-pant *
Now that was a movie.
But back to last night’s epic…
One Million Years B.C. , where men were filthy and unshaven, the women, too… Except for Raquel. I did notice that she was the only one showing her mid-section (and how magnificent it was…) and was that… eye makeup? Hadn't noticed that when I was a kid. I did also very much notice the cheesy dubbing ala Sergio Argonne, Steve Reeves instantly marking it as... and what was wrong with the Italians? Couldn’t afford proper equipment? Made it as odd sounding as a kabuki, through a tin can (strings and cans?)… Ah, well…
Meet Tumac, ass-scratching city-dweller, err, cave-dweller ( Brooklyn, Jersey?), part of the Total A-Holes Tribe, where everyone fights and is a bully., biting each other for scraps...
See Tumac driven from his tribe by his own father, a real Neanderthal of a man (yes, an actual Neanderthal), brutal, mean… merciless. Kind a guy who farts but never allows his kids to laugh, would smack you if you did...
Cast out, and wandering the wastelands, Tumac nearly dies of exposure, only to be rescued by the beautiful Lu-anna, Head Most-Bitchenist-Babe of the Malibus, a tribe of pacifist Swede transplants, their bottle-blonde, shag haircuts a stark contrast to the A-Holes’ dark, unkempt, wife-beating manes.
... stumbling out of the wasteland, nearly wasted, collapsing onto the edge of the beach, rolling down, his face covered in scabby-sand, he is quite the stinky sight. Naturally, the beautiful Lu-anna can’t take her hands off him (oh Raquel, yes… caress me…) even driving off the other babes… (Honey, how come you always complain when I stink? – Eye-roll in reply).
I get to the part where the two tribes finally square off, the Big Rumble. For a second it looks like Beach Blanket Bingo, Surfers vs. Eric von Zipper and the bikers… but then the women of the A-Holes, who are by then in full revolt against their grimy, white-tank-top (would be wearing) ape-of-a-man-men, start bashing their brute-of-a-man-mens’ heads in, with boulders no less, while these same men want nothing more than to drag them away by their hair to make (possibly make) sweet monkey-love (okay, not sweet) in their… well, I don’t know where they were taking them, because right in the middle of battle * KA-BLAMMO! * a whole friggin mountain blows up. That’s right: a friggin’ volcano, right then, right next to them, decides to blow up.
There goes all the dinosaurs and aaa-ll the extras; sets, everything… like a kid at the end of a day at the beach, smashing all his sandcastles because it’s time-to-go-home-now/Mom-says-so. How friggin convenient.
Geesus, who wrote that?! We were just getting to the good part and then it’s explosions!? That’s the same… goddamm, mother… thing that happened in Gangs of New York. * big breath *
Daniel Day Lewis and Leo DiCaprio, and all their gangs were just about to stab the shit out of each other, and then the-gahd-damn-U.S. Navy starts shelling the place. So much for that shit. Fucked it all up. Okay, okay… sorry. I'll try to control myself.
Yeah, I like Cameron Diaz, she’s cute, nice thin ass, but Raquel Welch is the real deal. Holy-smackeroos. The least they could gimmee a god-damn fight scene and finish it!
Anyway, we had to leave, go somewhere, and so my wife shuts off the t.v. , tells me to shut up and get into the cock-a-doody-car, cause we-gotta-go. ‘Now, buster!’ I start rubbing my knee, which is barely healed from the last time…
* another big sigh *
Tumac, look at that mothuh… I think, as I’m driving, daintily along, my car prancing its way behind some supposed fire truck (who ever heard of a white firetruck? Red, man, red…) If any of the scrawny hippies that lived here in Topanga were to crawl out Tumac would a kicked their asses sideways— taken all their women..
Well, would you look at that: the Fire Department has turned off, so now we can all drive… at a normal speed. Halleluiah. I know that guy in front of me is saying the same thing. Okay…
Shawshank… that was a Stephen King story…what was that other Stephen King movie?
Oh, yeah, Stand by Me. I liked that.
I don’t know why, but I always remember the part where Corey Feldman and Gerry… Gerry (what the fuck’s his name? I don’t know—something Irish) are arguing about whether Mighty Mouse could kick Super Man’s ass. It’s classic because the one kid tells Gerry he’s a dumb-ass ‘cause Mighty Mouse isn’t even real—he’s a cartoon. What a dumb-ass, huh?
You see… what I always wondered is if Dr. Smith (you know: Lost in Space) could take Charles Nelson Riley? I once had a dream once… okay, I didn’t have a dream, but I was just thinking that it would be cool, so…
So Dr. Smith, Charles Nelson Riley, and C3PO were going to fight. That’s right: a three-way bitch-slap.
Dr. Smith: “mm-t’I… am an actor.”
C. N. Riley: “hmah-hmnah-hnah, oh bullshit.”
Dr. Smith: “ Pahdon me, sir? How dare you, Sir…”
CNR: “Listen, I know you stole my fucking daiquiri while I was in the head just now—”
(… like they’re in a bar, only not actually, whatever...)
C3PO: “Gentlemen, please. I’m sure we can come to some accommodation. I happen to be fluent in over six million— ”
Dr. Smith: “I did not steal your drink, you slobbering little man.”
CNR: “You don’t fool me with that stupid, pseudo-thespian accent. I was in Drama, too. Now you will replace my drink, pronto, or else.”
Dr. Smith: “Un-hand me, sir, as you are guhrr-ravely mistaken. I would never stoop so low as to—Listen, Golden Boy, if you still desire to go home with me you’d better back me up now—”
C3PO: “Oh dear! Oh dear…”
Charles stops for a moment. He’s lips are quivering like he’s trying to say something, fighting to say something. I’m not sure if he’s about to have a conniption or start whomping…
CNR: “What is this?! (he sputters, angrily) No more… you over there—(oh shit: Me). You’re the one causing this. Yeah, you, Puppet-Man, the three of us should be able to take you easily. Come on girls, what do you say?”
Dr. Smith: “Why, as a matter of fact, yes… I believe we should. Come, Robot, we have business to attend to.”
C3PO: “Oh my—!”
Hey, hey, hey, easy there…
Dr. Smith: “No sir, we are tired of being the subject of your mockery.”
But you guys had a career of it!
CNR: “We were paid, you jack-ass.”
C3PO: “Well, I , for one was never the subject of mockery—”
( ‘audible snicker—oops—)
Dr. Smith: “And we are sooo tired of it. I was an ac-torrr…a serious actor. Oh, the degradation, the pain of it—“
CNR: “Oh, shut up and come on—“
Wait! I’m—I’m your fan!?
–but next thing you know, I’m in the middle, and the three of them are at me, flailing away, open hands, fingers wide apart, at the same time squinting and turning their heads as far away from the fray as possible.
Thank god they don’t know how to fight, or I’d be in serious—but-oh-shit— like in a dream—I can’t run or do anything properly. My every bodily move is hampered like I’m in water.
(we're outside by the way, but don't ask me how we got outside...)
They’re on me, like a three-gaggle of geese attacking a two-year-old. Hands whipping wildy, pinkies flying, it looks like a splash-fight only the water is invisible, and my body is stuck in it as if in something thicker, like gelatin. In these conditions, their forearm-flapping, dog-paddling/flailing is highly effective. I’m ducking and squirming, or wanting to, having trouble staying on my feet (it’s like I’m drunk or something; what the hell!! ) and I can barely move.
In real life, I could run. Hell, in real life I could probably take each one out with a good punch in the nose.
Except for Metal-Head. I fear him the most.
If a real C3PO ever hit me I’d probably die. If you think about it, how hard can a robot punch? And you can’t hit them back: they’re metal!
I was always bothered by the Six Million Dollar Man. He used to hit people with his bionic arm and they’d fly like fifty-feet. If that were real life, with the force generated… their friggin’ heads would come off. Every time he hit someone it would be like punching a piñata * pop! * his fist would go right through their skulls before they had a chance to fly. I used to think: they should show that in slow motion.
Can you imagine: Steve Austin- serial criminal-killer. Dood-dood-dood-dood—splat! It got to where I couldn’t stand it. I had to quit watching, my ten-year-old mind, disgusted.
Anyway… out of nowhere, a car comes roaring in, screeches to a halt, nearly plowing us, and throwing up a cloud of dust. The three of them stop, and I’m hoping it’s someone I know come to save me. The ar is vaguely familiar. Though the dust I see it’s a Camaro or a Trans Am (I could never tell them apart). I can’t think of anyone I’d know who’d drive one of those. It’s black, and there’s a red light going back and forth sideways from behind the grill (Cylon?).
Oh shit, I recognize it.
The door pops open and I’m hoping for the Hoff. Even a drunken one. See, if he’s already drunk then he can’t be drunk in a dream, so the effects won’t hinder him.
On the other hand, he’s an actor… maybe he’ll be on their side!
It’s the passenger door that has opened, which is confusing (where's the driver? ) In the confusion, the others ignore me. This might be my chance to regain mental control—
C3PO: “Jonathan, is that you?”
KITT Car: “ No dumbass, I keep telling you I’m Kit. Now get in, you golden hunk of shiney–hiney. ”
Dr. Smith: “Oh please, my ears…. that, sir, (turning toward me) is some of the worst dialog, I, in all my many years of acting, and believe you me…oh yes (dramatic sigh) believe you me, I have participated in some of the worst-scripted, most asinine, ridiculous, under-funded, poorly written television programs in the history of—“
“ I... I …” I stammer.
Apparently there will be no Hoff, and I don’t know what to say…
CNR: “Hnah-nhah hna-h—oh-hh. No. I don’t think so. (…wiping the spittle away) He’s right. This is some of the hackiest, stupidest—“
Dr. Smith: “ I know what this is. I recognize this: Celebrity Death Matches, and we’re like his character-‘puppets’”.
CNR: “You mean that moronic clay-mation—?“
Dr. Smith: “J’yessss… the very-one. They once asked me to do a voice-over. Luckily, I had died, first.”
I can see this is not going well… so I use my deus-card. ( sorry folks, but I’m suddenly sick of this entire story), deus to extricate myself, ex-machina, back to my car, Writer’s crappy-ass prerogative. Yes, I’ve copped out…
And Ladies and Gentlemen, at this point the heavens have opened up as we descend toward P.C.H. , making the traffic light, and turning… Ah, and there’s a slower moving C.H.P. to escort us all safely for the remainder our commute. Hope you’ve all enjoyed your flight, and thank you flying Kevin Airways… hyew-have-a-good-day, now.
... so I’ll turn on the radio, turn it up actually…
…unhurried pace down P.C.H., Sunset Beach on the right, slightly breaking, peeling to the south… a row of parked vehicles, racks, longboards in the water…
College Radio, and they’re playing some Surf-rock, separate evolution, a parallel- psychedelia before actual Psychedelia; echo-riffs, mellow chants… as surfers we never listened to it, our era much after(twenty-years) punk-rock version of Pipeline about as close… too cerebral. Apparently others—musicians, youngsters—are making this music again. I like it. It is great driving-music. Thank you, children…
I allow myself (a decompression before the oppression; the Daily Grind). Another sigh and exhale, semi-trance; tune it in, and tune out the rest; windows up. Take your pleasures as they present.