Cannibal Girls!

Just wanted to give a quick shout-out to my good buddy, Jonny, who invited me to The Bloor Cinema last Thursday here in Toronto for a screening of the digitally remastered horror classic Cannibal Girls, starring Eugene Levy, Andrea Martin and...his dad, Allan Price!

Ok, chances are you've never heard of it. That's not too surprising, considering it a thirty-eight year old movie, (I think - my math's a bit rusty), and never got beyond a few theatres in its initial run. It's great claim to fame, you could say, is that it launched a shitload of prominent Hollywood careers, namely the aforementioned Levy and Martin in their first starring roles, (this is before SCTV, people).
Perhaps the biggest name though would be Ivan Reitman, father of Jason, but more importantly, Meatballs, Ghostbusters, Stripes and many more. Another big name, who I did not know about prior, is Earl Pomerantz, who proved he's a much better writer than actor. Earl, for those of you who don't know, went on to huge success as a TV writer in Hollywood. The man created the frickin' Cosby Show! How's that for your resume?

Anyway, the first, and only time I saw this movie was way back in the early 80s when I was a wee lad and my brother and I caught it on CityTV. The first scene has full-frontal nudity so, for two prepubescents such as ourselves, it was like finding the holy grail. Unfortunately, the idea of cannabilism didn't sit too well with me back then, (I'm all for it now), and a few, shall we say, graphic scenes scared me off after about twenty minutes.

Good thing I have friends in high places, though, cuz this little gem deserves an audience, not so much for the scares, (of which there are one or two - sort of), but the laughs, which are plentiful - and I dare say, much better than most of the shit released today for this often-maligned audience.

The gala was followed by a short Q&A with Allan Price and Alan Gordon, (another unfortunate victim). All in all a very enjoyable evening. Thanks, Jonny.

The film is soon to be released on DVD. If you're a fan of b-horror, independent film, or just any of the names on the bill and want to check out some of their earliest work, I urge you to fire up the bong and give it a go. I can guarantee it'll be better than at least the last four or five SAWs or Final Destinations.

D.A.

Simpsons Round-up!

Another week, another round-up.

I gotta admit, I was a bit preoccupied last Sunday due to an unexpected fender-bender mere minutes before the opening credits. I was forced to miss it completely for the first time in...lets just say many moons. Sure, I've missed episodes before but not without a contingency plan. This particular incedent caught me with my (figurative) pants down. Not to worry, though, all is well. There was minor damage to my car, but nothing serious where it counts, and repairs are swiftly underway. As for The Simpsons...

Thank heavens for time-shifting.

"Postcards From The Wedge"
03/14/10
When Bart fails to turn in his homework, Mrs. Krabappel sends a letter home about Bart's behavior. Despite Bart's best efforts to intercept it, Homer reads the letter, and he and Marge visit Principal Skinner for a parent-teacher conference. Furious, Homer punishes him, but Marge takes a more sympathetic approach. When Bart realizes he can pit Homer and Marge against each other to his benefit, his scheming reaches new height.

Flyby: Crow, complete with call/Short open.
Couch Gag: The couch is a piñata broken open by Ralph Wiggum, and OFF spill out when he whacks it.

Here are a few noted highlights:

* House M.D.
The name of the Itchy & Scratchy cartoon Bart is watching is "Mouse M.D." and parodies the TV series House M.D. starring Hugh Laurie.
* The Jetsons
The "educational" film the children watch at the beginning of the episode has several hints of The Jetsons style conveniences and technologies.
* Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
Marge suggests that the family eat lunch at a restaurant called Crouching Tiger, Hidden Eggroll, a play on the title of the 2000 Ang Lee action movie Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.


and some choice dialogue:

Homer: I say this boy needs more homework. I don't have to do it with him, do I?
Principal Skinner: No.
Homer: Pile it on. I want him to be Korean by the time he's done.

Lisa: You would mess up mom and dad's marriage just to get out of doing some homework?
Bart: I would end all life this planet to get out of doing fractions.

Homer: I want to eat at Moe's express.
Marge: The last time you ate there, you spent three nights at the mall jail.
Homer: That was last week and you're still bringing it up!

Marge: I don't mind if you pee in the shower, but only if you're taking a shower.

Homer: We can't let Bart drive us apart, he's the reason we had to get married.

Homer: If you're out of my sight, you must constantly twitter me what you're up to, even though I don't know what twitter is and I have no desire to find out.


I enjoyed it. Okay, I know we've covered a lot of this territory before. Homer and Marge fighting, Bart not doing his homework and trying to manipulate, well...everyone, but the story took a turn when Homer and Marge discovered they liked being neglective parents. Homer, I can see, but Marge? The Springfield Subway system was interesting as well. Why not? The town's infrastructure is set up for damn near everything else. It was also nice to see Bart in school, doing homework for a change. All in all, a relatively grounded story with some solid Simpsons humour sprinkled throughout. I expect to get more and more out of repeat viewings, as is typically the case, (for me, anyway)

Feel free to disagree.

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Thirteen (Part 2)

This is it.
The middle portion, or 'Empire Strikes Back' section of Chapter Thirteen.
Hope you enjoy.


–––––––––––––––
For the first time in weeks, Patrick McAllister felt like being awake. He did not feel well exactly. His stomach still churned. His head still pounded. And every last part of him ached, leaving him empty; no––more like…drained…
His mother expressed a desire to expose him to some fresh air and sunlight. But even he had his doubts he could stand it. What prompted him out of bed this fine morning was not one, but rather a string of disturbing symptoms. His nightmares were worsening. He could scarcely dream at all anymore without that cold, hateful voice reaching out from beyond the silvery depths of…somewhere.
Might wanna save your strength, little guy…
And he believed it. To whomever it belonged, this voice meant the ugly things it said, and could most certainly carry them out with sadistic brutality.
He had no concept, of course. And no context. Not of the words––nor the voice––which he’d long stopped speaking of to others. As young as he was, and frightened, he knew it would come to no good.
An image, so clear and compelling, was the real culprit. A dream within a dream; so vivid, it would not leave his mind. In school he would draw all the time. He was not the most social child. Friends came easily enough. At seven, one just needed to be there, ready to play. Still, Patrick was always most comfortable alone.
From the toychest, he retrieved what supplies he needed and then, as though guided by some higher power, began rather innocently, to draw. The shapes flowed effortless. First he drew a neckline, then shoulders, moving the blue pencil to complete the shape of a head; a face, eyes bulged in fear; they too were blue. No––brown; and submerged in horrified tears. Her mouth was red. But not from lipstick. This red came from within, staining her teeth and tongue, which hung partially over her puffy lips in a helpless scream.
The image was clearer, growing moreso by the stroke. In no time, he finished the shape of her torso, and was touching up some finer detail. Who was this girl? Had he seen her before? No. Except in his dream–– She’s sitting next to a man; the bad man, he’s almost certain. Though he wears a disguise. She’s frightened of him. Screaming. Crying. He’s hurting her. Not only does he see it, he can almost…feel her pain…
When finished, it looks rough. Even at his best, he can only approximate, (most of his practice devoted to spaceships and fire trucks); sometimes, they’re nothing at all; the collective spew of subconscious. With age, he’ll begin to call it art…but for now…
“Patrick? Patrick, honey, what are you doing?” He was so wrapped up, he didn’t notice her soft, subtle approach; his mother, looking exhausted and ecstatic, all in a single dumbfounded expression. “You’re coloring!” she marveled, startling him half to death. “Does this mean you’re feeling better?” Again he did not reply. He simply lacked the words.
“The fever hasn’t broken,” she muttered. “How bout your tummy…?” At last he moved his tiny head from side to side. “No it doesn’t feel better, or no, it doesn’t hurt?” He mumbled, incoherent. “Did you draw this?” she asked, giving up. “It’s very good.” She pulled up a chair to examine more closely. “She doesn’t look very happy, though. Is she sick too?” Patrick nodded a lazy ‘yes’ this time; as good an explanation as any.
“Oap––think you forgot something, sweetie. What happened to her ear?”
“It’s gone…” he whimpered. Perhaps he should tell her, he thought; force her into understanding...but how? He hadn’t the words, let alone the stamina to withstand an interrogation. “He took it,” he finally decided. “Now she’s sad. And afraid...”
*
Mary listened, staring into the drawing with alarming understanding. Much of her face was submerged in red. Blood? She hadn’t wished to see it before; hadn’t even considered it before. For the first time, she began to see how little she actually knew of what went on inside his impressionable little head. A voice of authority ran suddenly through her own. ‘It’s always the quiet ones. They’re the ones you gotta watch out for.’ “Who?” she barely managed, still reeling from the frightful premonition.
“The bad man…” he whispered, coming to tears. “He hurt her real bad. And…others…” He jumped as she took a step back. “Make him go away, Mommy. Please.” The woman said nothing, a single tear struggling not to run down her cheek…
“I will, sweetheart. I promise…” His pain overwhelmed and she swept him up, rocking him back and forth. Together they cried.
*
Down the hallway, only two doors from his brother, Nicky heard weeping; a sound to which he’d grown quite accustomed. His mother did so often. He barely even saw his brother anymore, but suspected more than his share of wasted tears. For what? Their father? A tummy ache? The cancellation of Yu-gi-oh? Who knew? Who cared?
As usual, nobody noticed when old Nick was in pain. Who had time when cute little Patrick had a nightmare or two? Certainly not his mother; the past few weeks had made that abundantly clear. His father wouldn’t have put in the time either, even if he weren’t the source of all his raw hurt; and confusion. Dear God, please make this feeling go away...
Perhaps he wasn’t giving them enough credit. Adults seemed so sure of themselves. He’d never known a problem they could not solve. Never had a feeling, which did not, in time, fade away––pleasant or otherwise. But this was different. He knew it with a budding maturity the others were all too blind or self-absorbed to pick up on. Everything was different now. And none of it would ever be the same again.
He was almost ready. Just a few more essentials. Some shirts, socks, underwear; plus the new iPod for the bus. A cell phone sure would’ve been nice too, he thought bitterly. The gym bag was three-quarters full. Not long now. He was genuinely excited. Despite his youth––and so-called innocence––it was not a feeling that came easily to him, (especially these days), and if not for the––shit––someone was at the goddamned door–– “Nick? Nick, can I come in…?” The sound of her voice, all loving and chipper, made him angry. Why now, he thought, sliding the bag under his bed. “Please, Nicky. I want to talk to you.” Forget it, lady. You had your chance. Now do me a favor and run along. “I’m coming in,” she announced, and he adjusted himself––
“What’s the matter with you? I was calling your name, didn’t you hear me?”
“I was busy,” he shrugged. His mother rolled her eyes.
“That’s not what I asked you. The next time I call your name, Nicholas, I expect you to answer me.” He smiled to himself. That could be a problem, he thought.
“Nicky, did you hear what I said?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The next time you call me, I’ll be sure to answer. Is that why you came in here?” The woman sighed and moved toward him, body language painfully awkward…
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. The boy did not answer. “Is it me? School?” Part of him; a part he was unconscious of, wanted desperately for her to throw her arms around him; to rock him as she had when he was a small boy around Patrick’s age. He wished he was Patrick. “Is it…your Dad…?”
“I told you, it’s nothing. Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
*
For a second, she nearly did. With Patrick, words came easily, but Nick had a way of making it so very damned hard. “I’m going to take Patrick for some ice cream,” she said. Not the smoothest transition, but to the point. “He’s feeling better, isn’t that…?” Her voice trailed off. More awkward silence. She wondered if he cared. “We want you to come with us. It’s been so long since we spent any time together, just the three of us. That’s important to me, you know.” The boy busied himself with his computer, one ear open to her and the rest on some shoot-em-up online bloodbath he knew full well she disapproved of. “Well, what do you say…?”
“Do I have to?” The trap of all traps; how to answer...
“No, you don’t have to, but I’d feel much better if––”
“I think I’ll stay here then.”
What could she say? She had in fact opened the door. “By yourself?”
“You just said––”
“I know, I know.” To her astonishment, Mary found herself missing buxom young Cynthia more and more. At least she seemed to have some sort of rapport with the boy; similar to that with her husband, (which was the problem)… “Fine. You can stay.”
*
“Really?” A hint of surprise crept into his indifference. If not for his hurry, he might have marked the occasion. Extending his bedtime? Perhaps. A raise in allowance? No picnic, but doable, nonetheless. But all that was childsplay next to the brass ring––the whole house to himself. He almost wished he weren’t leaving.
“On one condition...” Of course. How could he not have known? “You and I are going to have a good old fashioned sit-down when I get back. Get some things strait.” The boy wore a look any parent should have easily recognized as irrational excitement. “You’re growing up now, Nick.” She went on anyway. “Now that your father is…well, you’re the man of the house. And with that comes added responsibility. It means our relationship will have to change some. Does that sound like something you can handle?” He was careful not to let his true feelings show.
It was too perfect. He knew it his best chance for success; far better than to simply sneak out the front door while she slept. Man of the house. How little she respected him, to think him foolish enough; naïve enough to jump for joy at her shallow praise. The man of the house was gone. Nicky could not replace him, nor would he ever wish to try. How disloyal she must believe him. How forgetful.
Ten minutes later, they were gone; and five minutes after that, young Nicholas McAllister stood in the atrium with gym bag in hand, staring at that mammoth oak door. A curious sensation engulfed his unstable spirit. It could have been fear. Or nerves. It could have been a piece of undigested food acting up––but it was none of these things. The sensation, he secretly knew, though dreaded with a fiery passion––doubt––had begun to take selfish hold–– Goddammit, don’t think. Thinking equals standing still. Just go. Take a swift, deep breath, grab the bag and one last look, then do what you promised...
The phone was ringing. If only he’d been more in tune with this new attitude, he might have just walked out that door and never looked back. But the phone was ringing. His next course of action seemed clear. “Hello...”
“Nicky?” That voice. Friendly. Sarcastic. Familiar.
“Cynthia?”
“Hey, least you haven’t forgotten…” He wanted to laugh––for several reasons. In spite of his feelings, it was good to hear her voice. “Is your mother around?”
“Are you ever coming back?” The words escaped without warning. He had not meant to come off so juvenile; so childlike and unsophisticated––with her especially. “Direct and to the point. That’s my Nicky. As a matter of fact I am, you silver-tongued devil. I was actually calling to find out a good time to drop over. Mind if I speak to your mother?”
“She’s not here,” he blurted. The concept itself just sounded so damn good.
“Oh. Oh, that’s too bad. I was hoping to talk to her. So, um…who is there? Did you get a new…? Did, um, your Mom hire someone new?”
“No.” He hesitated, worried she’d drop everything to save him from himself.
“Well I hate to sound petty, kid, but that’s comforting to hear. So what’s the situation? You’re not…? I mean there is someone…right?” Nicky cleared his throat.
“Nope. Just me. And in case you’re wondering, I’m doing just fine.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Not yet. “Still, maybe I could come over…” The boy after all, was only ten; and his obvious reluctance must have made him sound guilty of something; as though he had something to hide. He did, of course, but that was a separate issue altogether.
“That’s okay. I’ll just tell her to call you.”
“Are you sure? It’s no problem, Nick. Really. In fact, I’d fell a little better if––”
“I said no,” he snapped. And there it was again––more likely, it had been there all along. In Nick’s short experience, it always was. On some days, his nerves were a fortress of stability. On others––like today––little more than a thin layer of smoke and mirrors. “I’m not as helpless as you think I am. I’m old enough to be left alone for a couple of hours.”
“I know that, I just meant…I mean I thought it might be…never mind…” Her condescending tone only fueled his lulled fire. For an instant, he foolishly thought it might be different. The girl was back, after all. Perhaps he’d misjudged her. But why now? And for how long? He could stick around to find out; the option was not lost on him. But his desire for a new beginning burned hotter than ever.
“Whatever. I’ll tell her you called.”
No matter. Soon he would be gone. They could ignore him all they wanted. He knew full well they would not. His only regret was that he would not be there to hear them crying. In a way, it was better now that Cynthia was back in the picture. His mother would need a shoulder to cry on. Let them regret together. If misery did indeed love company, as he’d so often heard them all say, the match would be made in Heaven.
–––––––––––––––



One more part to this mondo-final chapter, (of Volume One), coming soon. In the meantime, I'll be posting some other, unrelated goodies between now and then. Stay tuned...

D.A.

Simpsons Round-up!

This one's a little long in the making, I realize, but hey, sometimes I try to have a life. In all seriousness, I've been busy plotting a children's novel for a writing course I'm enrolled in. It's for middle-grade readers, 9-12, and my (working) title is Flotsam. Eh? Eh?

Moving on.

Two Sunday's ago, The Simpsons celebrated black history month, (a long-overdue first for the family), with a flashback episode. Here's the synopsis, plus a few noted highlights.

"The Color Yellow"
02/21/10
When Miss Hoover asks her students to research their family history, Lisa is horrified to discover that most of her ancestors were a motley crew of horse thieves and deadbeats. But while rummaging through the attic, Lisa happens upon a diary kept by her ancestor, Eliza Simpson. As Eliza's story unfolds, Lisa learns that her family was part of The Underground Railroad, a group that helped slaves escape to freedom. Eliza recounts liberating a slave named Virgil, (guest voice Brown), but when Lisa presents her findings at school, some of her classmates refute it, leaving Lisa determined to exonerate her family's name.



A bit of a departure from recent fare, which is good as far as I'm concerned. This show has been around for 20 years, I expect them to be taking huge risks at this point. Why not? What have they to lose? Their legacy? That is firmly cemented, even though many believe they're way past their prime, (which they may very well be), in time, all that will matter is their influence on both TV and popular culture as a whole and noone can deny that with a straight face.

That being said, the episode, while fairly high on story, was a little low on jokes. Again that's ok. There was a time when this show could weave a thoroughly satisfying yarn. I particularly enjoyed seeing our characters in the civil-war South. Here's some other stuff I liked:

- Colonel Burns demanding they switch the waltz's tempo to 4/4 cause he didn't like these kids and their modern dances. Pure Simpsons.

- All the kids at Springfield Elementary preparing thier Obama speeches.

- The scene in the attic with all sorts of Simpsons memorobelia, including Homer's space suit and Mr. Plow jacket, Extopolopikettle (or whatever), funzo, and...shit, I need to see it again...

- The Canadian flag, (again!) Even though that particular flag did not exist until 1963, (0r maybe 4) Worst continuity ever! (ok, not even close). I'm positively tickled yellow the show went to Canada two episodes in a row! Why not just move Sprinfield over the border, baby? Maybe next year.

- The fairly big revelation about the Simpson family delivered, of course, by Grandpa. Yes, folks, the Simpsons have African-American blood. Why the heck not?

Here's a good quote to illustrate it, for those of you who missed it.

Lisa: We're 1/64 black!
Bart: So that's why I'm so cool.
Lisa: And that's why my jazz is so smooth.
Homer: And that's why I earn less than my white co-workers.

And here's a few others of note:

Homer: If i were you I wouldn't take it to the past. I lived in part of that past, and I got out for a reason.

Ralph: Mr. Luther King had a dream. Dreams are where Elmo and Toy Story had a party, and I went there. Yay, my turn is over.
Principal Skinner: One of your best Ralph.


Next week it's the oscars so no round-up. However, I may just have a few other things in store... mwoo-ha-ha-ha-ha!

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Thirteen (Part I)

Kay, kids, think you've waited long enough. Here's part one of the last Chapter in Volume One of my masterpiece horror-epic, An Axis Oblique. (Everybody got that?) Hope you enjoy.
For those of you just tuning in, (where the hell have you been?), Chapter's One through Twelve can be found within the index of this very blog. And it's all free, free FREE! I'm just that insane!!!

Sorry you had to see me like that.



–– Thirteen ––
January 28, 8:03

“Over here.” A voice called over the hill. At first he was startled. There wasn’t much difference between a female scream of enthusiasm and one of holy terror. In four years with the Maplewood Police Department, Pete Estes had heard both.
“What is it?” he asked, coming up on her kneeling form. Fiorentine didn’t look up, engrossed in the tiny focal point already inside the small, transparent evidence bag.
“I’m not sure,” she replied, examining it through plastic with her thumb and forefinger. Estes continued to approach, stopping just a few steps behind her.
It was a long shot to begin with. Eighteen year old Susan Laterna had been missing for more than two weeks and just about every other stone had been turned and re-turned. Any other time, they’d have pegged her a runaway. But these times were far stranger than most.
For several weeks, people had been…disappearing all over this once-sleepy town with no apparent rhyme or reason. Not all turned out the same, of course, but an alarming number were as yet unresolved. At least Richard Pollack had a clear enough preference, which in time, led to a pattern. These days, everyone was apparently fair game.
For a split second, she seemed to be grasping at thin air. Estes moved closer, but as she turned to face him, the rounded shape of a single eyeglass lens caught a piece of stray sunlight and its smooth, reflective surface revealed itself like a hidden image in one of those 3-D art posters.
“This could be just the break we’ve been looking for…” she said, apparently serious. Indeed, if it were, he’d eat his hat. Still in the plastic, he gave it a once-over. Items such as this could be found almost anywhere around Newbury Park. People traipsed up and down these vast acres all the time. He’d done so himself on occasion, back in his carefree youth.
“Now all we gotta do is find someone walking around with one lens in his frames,” he remarked dryly. The woman did not react as intended, with a smile or a submissive chuckle. Instead, she reached up and snatched her clue back from him. Estes wasn’t much for sarcasm. This was why.
“You make it sound like a dead end,” she said. “A needle in a haystack, maybe, but one half-decent print and we’re back in business. Anyway, I’m sure Keith will appreciate it on merit.” There was something about her voice when she invoked that man’s name, which made him want to throw up. He might well have done so, too…if not for the ringing cell phone...
“Fiorentine,” she answered, adjusting to her feet––then looked him right in the eye as if to rub something in his nose. “Detective Merrimac, it’s good of you to call, sir.”
“Speak of the devil…” he muttered before turning off…
It wasn’t as though Estes disliked his gruff, charismatic superior; not like some he could name––but wouldn’t. He and the crass lead detective had just barely crossed paths, in fact; not since Mitch Barrett’s tearful funeral. Now there was a real role model.
At the service, he’d tried to engage him on the ice-cold investigation; some faint traces of ash in the lieutenant’s carpet. Both men knew full well Barrett didn’t smoke; (as did everyone, the way he went on about that Nicotine gum).
“Could be a relapse,” the detective dismissed him off-hand––which took care of that.
It wasn’t so much Merrimac, in any case, as her. The way she always looked at him; fawned over him; catered to every whim…but mostly, it was the way she threw herself in his face every time he felt like swaggering onto the scene. ‘Oh, Keith, thank God you’re here. Whatever would we do without you? Touch me, Keith. Fuck me. Do whatever you like with me, Keith. Keith, Keith!’
He stopped himself. Jealously was unbecoming.
“Estes?” He heard her perky voice call his name. “Estes, where did you…?” There it was again. He looked up from the crude shoe print he’d uncovered. “Pete!”
“I’m here!”
Within seconds, she was coming up the incline.
“Why’d you walk away like that?”
“Did I?” He feigned ignorance. “Guess I was eager to get back to the sweep. One good gust of wind, after all, and a perfectly good lead can get buried for all eternity.” Fiorentine looked over his shoulder.
“Guess so.” She did not sound the least bit certain but was clearly anxious to relay some other juicy tidbit. “Merrimac’s en route,” she said, almost giddy. “Who knows? Maybe there’s some kinda connection between my lens and, um…this…”
“Finally decides to grace us, does he?” he snarled, then looked up at her round, saucer eyes. That’s it, he thought angrily. No more snide remarks. Not even to myself…
“What was that?” she asked, still lost in her girlish euphoria.
“Nothing,” he said. And that’s just what he meant.
–––––––––––––––
“How the hell can it be nothing? My son is sick, Dr. Pierce; from a so-called ‘viral infection’ that you diagnosed. And now you’re saying…just what are you saying?”
“Please, Madame, if you’ll just––”
“Goddammit, just tell me what the hell is wrong with my son!”
Randal Pierce took a step back. These were the moments he dreaded. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned; unless she was a mother––then all bets were off.
The woman eyed him menacingly.
“As I said, Mrs. McAllister, I’ve found nothing wrong; not physically, at any rate…”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve run every test I know, and all indications say your son is in perfect health.” Again, she seemed ready to pounce; to protect her young at any cost, like any good mother––as he’d expected. “Now it’s possible; very much so in fact, this…whatever it is, will indeed run its course, as predicted.” He swallowed, uncomfortable. Here goes nothing… “There is, however, another possibility.”
*
“There’s a private wing at Tempest Medical...” the smug, Doogie Howser reject started in. Mary was about ready to button that goddamn second button on his trendy Polo dress-shirt. “…equipped with the latest MRI technology; the finest physicians and most current research conducted on the pre-adolescent cortex in…well, probably the world. I could arrange for a consultation with Dr. Lucien, the administrator. Perhaps––”
“Wait a minute…are you saying my Patrick needs a shrink?”
“Not at all,” he replied. “I’m simply offering an alternative, which, until now, had not been considered.” Mary stood from her uncomfortable chair and began pacing back and forth. She was troubled by the direction this conversation had taken. “Your son is withdrawn.” He pressed on. “You’ve said so yourself. He sleeps all day, has no appetite, no…social interaction…” The woman remained silent. Facts were facts. “On top of all that, recent family events would be fully expected to…impede the progress of any treatment, be it biological or psychosomatic.” Mary looked up. He had to go hitting her where she lived. “Listen, Mrs. McAllister, I wouldn’t presume to advise you on a matter I frankly know little about. Nor am I qualified to make any kind of psychological diagnosis. I am however, qualified to recommend an evaluation. Not because I think he’s unstable. Just to cover all bases. Doesn’t that sound reasonable?”
*
The woman continued to glare as though he’d just told her he had a room full of bunnies in back he was about to give cancer. “Reasonable…” she repeated. “The word seems to have lost all meaning…” The doctor remained silent. He could almost see the rusty wheels working inside her heavy head, struggling to turn. He waited a minute––then two. His silence would be far more convincing…
“This, um…consultation… How soon do you think you could––?”
“Within the week, I’m sure of it,” he interrupted; perhaps overeager. “Suffice it to say, the sooner we get the ball rolling…”
“That soon?” Her judgment again appeared to waiver. The good doctor braced himself. “I’ll need time to explain it to him, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. There’s nothing at all to be ashamed or embarrassed about. I think it’s crucial he understand that. If you like, I’d be happy to talk with him. However, I should stress, if we don’t seize the closest opportunity, if for no other reason than to rule this all out, we could have a long wait on our hands…”
“What about money? Things are a little tight right now, I’m not sure––”
“I’m confident we can work something out. There are circumstances whereby consultations such as these, and even subsequent treatment if that becomes necessary, are fully covered by insurance. I’d be happy to look into it.” Now there was nowhere to go.
“He might still improve. You said so yourself, this could all be for nothing.”
Dr. Pierce nodded. “It’s only a precaution. A wise one, at that.”
“Very well.” She conceded. “Make the preliminary arrangements. I’ll, ah, have a talk with him tonight. He’s awfully young to comprehend something like this. I’m having a little trouble myself…” she muttered, underbreath.
“My door is always open. And if you don’t mind my saying, he strikes me as keenly perceptive. I wouldn’t be surprised if he understands a lot more than you think.”
It was several hours before he allowed himself the sweet privilege of self-adulation. What a profound turn of events, indeed. But then, there were no coincidences. He knew he saw something in the boy off the bat; something his loud-mouthed mother could never perceive, let alone comprehend. Yes. From the moment he looked into the glossy, textured eyes of this boy, Patrick McAllister, he knew, intervention had descended.
“Dr. Pierce?” McGrady’s plump receptionist opened the door in mid-knock–– “There’s a Dr. Lucien on line three. Returning your call?”
“Yes, Gretchen, thank you. Would you mind…?” and she graciously took the hint. As soon as he confirmed total privacy, he cleared his parched throat––and hit the flashing button––
“Maurice!” he beamed cautiously. “I’ve got some exciting news.”
–––––––––––––––
“There’s been another murder––” Keith Merrimac sat on the edge of his unmade bed, trying to feel surprised. It seemed as though the words, or others to that effect, had replaced ‘hello’ in the local vernacular.
“What in God’s name is going on?” he wondered aloud. There could be no denying now, if ever there could, that a copycat of some sort was about, out there on the loose.
“That’s supposed to be your job, Detective,” replied Captain Thornhill in his gruff, no-nonsense delivery. “I’ll give this to Davies, seeing as how full a plate you’ve got already. You can hit Newbury Park. Fiorentine’s there with Estes and a team, sweeping for the Laterna girl. A witness just came forward; saw someone matching her description wandering the road side...”
A disturbing flash rattled his sleep-deprived mind. He could picture the image almost perfectly. “Merrimac? Merrimac, are you there?”
Penny for your thoughts…
“Sorry, Captain, I…didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Try warm milk. Or better yet, lay off the late nights with strange bedfellows. I can’t afford to have you sleep-walking through another shift, you hear?”
“Loud n’ clear,” Keith replied, but was lying. He heard the words, alright; received the order, disguised as ‘advice’––but they were neither loud nor clear.
“Good,” the captain went on, oblivious; (either that or he didn’t care). “Do me a favor and call Fiorentine, give her a heads up.” Oh I’m sure that can be arranged...
“What?”
“I said give her a call. Something wrong with your hearing?”
“Sorry. I thought I heard…nothing. Never mind. Consider me en route.”
* * *
Another beautiful day. Keith found it funny how they seemed to coincide with one of the worst strings of viciousness in recent memory––at least since the last. He wasn’t sure how, but somewhere along the line, he seemed to have stumbled into some sort of blissful groove. He perceived the whole world now on a much deeper level. He reveled in its energy; drank it in at every opportunity. He was still a part of it. At one with it; but at the same time, felt strangely detached; almost…above…
“How’s it going, Sergeant?” The events of the past several weeks had brought on, among other things, one of the most earth-shattering, life altering shifts in his altogether predictable lifestyle...a cell phone. He swore he’d never have one; never even get near one unless absolutely necessary. The times, they were a’changin.
“Detective Merrimac, it’s good of you to call, sir.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ve been eager to try this thing out anyway. How’s everything?”
“Slow, but we may’ve just caught a break. Are you on your way over?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Thornhill mentioned something about an eye-witness?”
“In a manner of speaking, sir. A motorist just reported seeing someone who matched the girl’s description hitching a ride around Newbury Park.” An image of her, this pretty young thing strolling the roadside in skin tight blue jeans ripped through his mind. It confused him, feeling more like a memory than a conjured-up representation.
“Didn’t know people were still that stupid…” he mumbled.
“It’s more than we’ve gotten anywhere else…seems to be paying off, at any rate. I’ll fill you in when you get here.” Someone ought’a fill you in, you little cock-tease…
The car swerved out of control and Keith slammed on the break. A symphony of horns followed the unexpected maneuver. His car sat idle, halfway over the shoulder–– “Detective Merrimac? Keith, are you alright…?” Keith breathed deeply; in; then out. Who the Hell said that? “Sir, is everything––?”
“I’m fine, Sergeant.” He grabbed the phone and pulled himself swiftly together. “Just a bump in the road. Everything’s…just fine. See you in a few,” and hung up.





There is another part to this chapter but it's so frickin' big, I decided to split it in two for the purposes of this forum. Stay tuned for part two! Plus, got another Simpsons Round-up coming soon! Haza!

D.A.

Simpsons Round-up!

Hey y'all!

I'm almost a week late with my Simpsons Round-up, but that's cuz I'm a lazy bastard, plus I've been working like mad to send out a submission package for my horror-epic, An Axis Oblique. Maybe I've mentioned it once or twice. The first twelve chapters can be read here on this blog! Lucky number thirteen is scheduled to be posted soon.

Kay, on with the show!

I won't lie, last week's was near and dear to my heart. Here's the officical synopsis:

"Boy Meets Curl"
02/14/10
"Homer takes Marge out for a romantic evening of ice skating and hand-holding, but upon entering the rink, they encounter a curling team practicing. Marge and Homer take to the ice and discover their love for the sport, and soon after, join the curling team and compete with them in the Olympic trials. Team Springfield claims the win and moves on to the 2010 Vancouver Games, where Bob Costas, (guest voicing as himself), covers the action. Meanwhile, sleazy vendors inroduce Lisa to the world of collecting Olympic pins, and before long, Lisa is hopelessly addicted."

Show Title: The Simpson family clad in old-style clothing flying over in a car similarly designed like the one from the 1968 movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
Billboard Gag: None.
Chalkboard Gag: None.
Couch Gag: The scene switches to the inside of a gypsy wagon where a fortune teller passes out tarot cards with each of the five Simpsons pictured. She deals Grampa the Death card with Maggie pictured, but he quickly deals it back to her and she collapses on her chair. [edit]

Aside from The Simpsons heading North of the border for the--count'em---third time. (The first was my hometown Toronto for a movie shoot, then onto Winnipeg for some free perscription drugs, woo-hoo!), the episode itself was pretty solid. Yes, it was littered with the usual absurdities common to most episodes over the last ten-plus years, but it also had a pretty straight-forward narrative, which I strongly apreciate.

Anyway, here are my highlights:

- Homer and Marge missing date night so they catch the movie, "Love Formulaic," starring Ben Affleck.

- Agnes Skinner's priceless flashback to the Oslo Olympics in 1952, where a pre-natal Seymour ruins her life for the first time, kicking from inside her belly to cost her the gold medal for pole-vaulting. Of course, I might mention the obvious continuity contradiction, if I weren't sworn never to mention it again under penalty of torture... (cough--Armin Tamzarian--caugh!)

- Marge enjoying another classic episode of "The Real Housewives of Shelbyville," where everyone speaks with a thick New York accent for some reason.

- Bart's new Canadian friend, Millhoose and possibly a Canadian Nelson, who laughs: 'Hoo-Hoo' when he punches Millhoose in the goot!

- A surprise appearance of the mysterious 'Boob Lady' last seen guiding Homer's spiritual epiphany in The Simpsons Movie. She was from Alaska. I guess that's close enough. Must be a snowboarding fan.


All in all, a fun romp with lots of rewatchability. The b-story with Lisa was a bit underwhelming but somewhat consistent with her addictive personality. (Anyone remember the Cory Hotline?) The writers might have been commenting on the reasonably severe street-kid problem cursing the streets of Vancouver twelve months out of a non-Olympic year. At one point, Lisa, looking pretty strung-out, was on the corner playing her sax for change, (wearing nothing but lots of strategically-placed Olympic pins). Riske perhaps, if Southpark, Family Guy and the rest of them hadn't already pissed all over that line a long time ago.

Next week, I'm pretty sure we've got another new one coming. If so, you know where to find the round-up.

Later, and Go Canada!

Dollhouse

Hi there,

I just wanted to take this (brief) opportunity to say goodbye to Joss Whedon's Dollhouse. We hardly knew ye.

I can't say Dollhouse was my favorite show, by any means, though it is, (was), one of the few I watched regularly, (again, due to my respect for Joss Whedon), and when all was said and done, (last Friday, for those of you keeping track), it turned out to be a neat little show.

Little, I say, because it went barely two seasons. One very uneven and the other a slow-ish, but steady climb to potential greatness. Yes, there was some great stuff there in the last eight or nine episodes. The arc moved swiftly and with many surprising twists and turns. And, while the end might not have been totally organic, (me thinks Joss poured much of seasons three and four into the latter half of season two), it was pretty damn good TV.

I'm a big Joss Whedon fan. Buffy The Vampire Slayer remains one of my favorite shows, (and one of TV's best of all-time). It helped redefine serial shows in the 21st century and many of todays great ones, (Lost, I'm looking at you; 24, Heroes, if you like, and many, many more), are a product of Joss Whedon's game-changing sensibility and style, blending stand-alone metaphorical allegories with season-long story arc and series-long character-arcs. He seemed to single-handedly usher in the TV on DVD/DVR phenomenon, which now dominates most of our viewing habits.

That said, Dollhouse never totally found its footing. It works fairly well, though, as a two-season mini-series, complete with great science-fiction-style concepts and questions that blur the lines between 'right' and 'wrong', 'good' and 'bad', etc. It explores, (for my money), facinating philosphical terrain, mostly around issues of identity and the role of technology in our blisteringly-fast moving society. What makes you you? Is it your body? Is it your mind? Your memories? Your environment? What if we one day had the ability to free ourselves totally from such limitations and live forever as 'ourselves', going from body to body, human identity to human identity...it's all pretty heady, but timely and largely unexplored in such a popular and potentially large-reaching medium. Questions worth asking, I'd say.

I think shows like Dollhouse, it's predecessor, Firefly, (which did so well on DVD they made a follow-up movie), and even Lost, which has benefited tremendously from a fixed end-point, are the way of the future for American TV. Short two-four season lifespans that play out a lot more like their Brittish counterparts. Excellent for the short attention spans of the modern media-savy.

So farewell Dollhouse. Thanks for the (short-term) memories.
If you're a fan of Joss Whedon, challenging sci-fi, or just unconventional TV, I urge you all to check out the complete series when it comes to DVD.

D.A.