I Wrote This on Bastille Day

INTRO
Most novels don’t need an introduction. You open the book, BAM, CHAPTER ONE: It was a dark and stormy night and there you go, your sexy super spy is learning important life lessons at her grandmother’s funeral. The Super Abridged Marie Antoinette Saga is not most novels. It’s an attempt to resuscitate one of the most thrilling series of novels by one of the form’s most gifted geniuses. See, Alexandre Dumas was a very good writer, very prolific, almost TOO prolific. He ruled over an era of story-telling like some kind of mad Stephen King monster and would usually be busy writing two or three novels at once- thanks to the help of “collaborators” (read: office bitches). At the same time, Dumas churned out plays (that thing they had before movies!) and ran newspapers (that thing they had before blogs!). The man’s stake in literary history is unassailable: if you haven’t read “The Three Musketeers” and “The Count of Montecristo” I don’t know whether to pity you or to envy you- what adventures to discover! Those books are alive and well and still vital, and if you haven’t yet, I recommend you run and pay tribute to a great master by reading them. It seems like there’s a NEW edition of them every other week.
But what about the OTHER hundred or so novels Dumas wrote?
You may scavenge for old editions here and there in old leprous libraries, but all you’ll get for your efforts is a mean stare from a librarian and the bubonic plague from pages that have clotted together. Although great hits in their time, even fans admit most of Dumas’ books could use pruning, refining, and SUPER-ABRIDGING. That’s where I stumbled in drunkenly, as I usually do. I fell in love with Dumas’ fantastic series of Marie Antoinette novels, chronicling the French Revolution, and I was so drawn to it: “There’s GREAT STUFF HERE, why isn’t this a perennial best-seller?!?” The answer was fairly obvious: because it’s hard to find, musty, and a million pages long. I couldn’t get a sensible person to download it into their Kindle. I tried to push the book on my friends, and they all were like: “OMG, will these long carriage rides ever END?”
And then the ghost of Dumas, (he insists I call him Alex), came to visit by the Miami shore.
He looked portly and quite content with his afterlife, but a little disappointed that only two out of his many many best-sellers were still being milked for what they were worth all over the world. (There was an anime version of “The Count of Montecristo” not too long ago, and the Academy Award winning “Slumdog Millionaire” centers on a reference to “The Three Musketeers”.) He said to me: “What about my other babies? My AWESOME series of novels about the French revolution, for instance? History hasn't changed. The poor are still repressed and waiting to lash out, the stars still dazzle in their fancy carriages, everyone's still gossiping about pretty girl doing naughty things, and there's still a conclave of powers that direct the world in ways you don't ever suspect.”
I said: “I know, believe me, I know a great series of books when I read them! But truth is, some of it kind of sounds like you were pumping up the word count, and cribbing from encyclopedia articles, and not caring too much about editing. I don't blame you! You didn't have TV and the Internet to compete with. You could write a whole chapter about how Louis XV used bear fat on his mustache and people would be enthalled because they didn't have to Twitter halfway through thr chapter!
Dumas got flustered, (you don’t want to see a French ghost flustered): “It's true, people can't read anymore, too many shiny lights around, but Hans, you have to help me out, get these stories out there again! For the people! I have to believe that when it's all nitty and gritty people still like to sink deep into huge immersive worlds of power and sex and love and betrayal and justice and history and shocking plot twists, don't they?"
I was like: "Mostly they want vampires, wizards and hot, ass-kicking babes, sorry."
Dumas: "WELL, but here's Joseph Balsamo! He's dashing and immortal and hypnotic and practically a vampire! And Althotas is a bearded Dumbledorish wizard who intends to reveal the secrets of life and death! Also, why would anyone want hot, ass-kicking "babes" when instead they can have smart seductive women who can make entire kingdoms fall with devastating commentary?"

Dumas' ghost was very un-hip and he knew it and was all mopey about it, and I felt BAD for him, I said: "Hey, I feel you, Alex. I'm going to keep on telling the stories to my friends, in their language, and in an abridged manner, and in my own way. And instead of having a dusty old historical migraine, together we can shine a new bright neon light on this amazing world you've chronicled, a world of powerful passions and mysterious magic and big-ass 18th century swords. Yes, it's history, and you're living its effects today, and the fate of the world is on the balance."

And then Alex and I just started to really enjoy ourselves in the process of re-telling one of the greatest stories ever told, that of the BIRTH OF THE MODERN WORLD, and we played with the language a little (and sometimes a lot). But I think something new, improved, a little quirky, but all full of heart came about.
I hope you will enjoy this ride.

Hansel Castro, July 14 20009

I Have Always Been a Veronica Man

Dear Imaginary Reader:
An old lady stumbled into the library with a fuckton of old Archie comics she meant to "donate". They were dumpster food for sure, so I asked if I could keep them, and the lady gave them to me.

My lawyer reminds me to state that the above, badly calibrated reference to "dumpster food" is entirely false, and also note that the great Miami-Dade Library system treats all donated items, (even the James Clavell paperbacks from the '60s that are infected with the bubonic plague), with respect and tries to incorporate them into their growing collection whenever possible. Also, I have to make clear that I in no way rescued this Archie collection from its certain doom. That would be against library policy and something I would never EVER EVER do. What hapenned was entirely different: I intercepted the donator, and arranged for the items to be gifted to me, an individual, as part of a transaction entirely between the original owner and me, which turned the above-mentioned books into my private property. Furthermore, my lawyer makes me note that there is no way to prove I haven't accumulated all this crap by myself through years and years of nerd-hood. In fact, this is all fiction and disclosed within the domain of a humorour blog and any attempt to use it against me in court will be laughable and a violation of my privacy.

So anyway: I now have so many bags of Archie comics in my room that it looks like I'm dating a supermarket checkout girl.

Will Eisner's "The Spirit Archives Volume 15"

It would be sensible to expect decay fifteen volumes deep into the Spirit Archives, but The Spirit will knock that sense and sensibility out of you. It's 1947, and Will Eisner is back from the army and busy rescuing his beloved character from the hands of the merely talented assistants. Eisner isn't a talent, he's a genius. He's still blowing you away with inventive layouts, expressive dialogue balloons and the charming acrobatics of his drawings, but now he wants a little more, and begins to play with the idea of story arcs and contrasting moods- the Spirit was a weekly, but Eisner was thinking monthly, like in the story arc that finds The Spirit blinded by a muzzle flash- and being touchingly helped through his darkness by the devoted Ebony White, who, in tears but silently, clears items from the Spirit's path just to spare his friend the pain of feeling impotent. Robin never did shit like that for Batman!
(Please make no jokes about Robin helping Batman with his impotence.)

Eisner knew how to balance those dark noir episodes with inventive moments of comedy. Take the "Mad Magazine"-style parody that implicates the creators of "Lil' Abner", "Dick Tracy" and "Little Orphan Annie" in a murder mystery, (well before Mad existed); or his quick response to the Roswell crash with a story in which an ego-mongous actor/director named "Awsome Bells" decides to save Earth from invading Martians- all by himself. Instead of delivering repetitious mobster-of-the-week stories, Eisner side-lines into "fairy stories for juveline delinquents", like a "Hansel Und Gretel" in which the adorable siblings are more demonic than anyone else they encounter, or a great revised "Cinderella" story: Cinderella may have been covered in soot before, but she never was this DIRTY.
And also there's Satin and P'Gell and... Frank Miller got the "femme fatales" part right in the movie version. Too bad he got everything else wrong.

(I was also surprisingly moved by a one shot in which Sawbuck, a sweet boy from the streets, slowly sinks into homelessness, criminality, and, eventually, attempted murder, all because of tough-guy-talk and failed government policies. It's a Dickensian tear-jerker. If only the Spirit was around to save every poor kid like Sawbuck!)

Ask And Ye Shall be Answered By The Dalai Lama

Dear Imaginary Reader:
I left Hallucina's house band to take care of you while I waded through the yak-swarms of Tibet in a dangerous spiritual quest. I lost two fingers to gangrene under the icy glare of a mountain, and two other fingers on a silly bet I made about a lighter with my guide, Tik-buhl The Slick. Never make bets with people nickamed "The Slick". At the end of my quest I learned a lot about my ability to make all sorts of insulting gestures using only my pinky finger, but since I was otherwise disappointed with Tibet (Why do the Chinese even bother?) I decided to kidnap the Dalai Lama and have him contribute to an advice post in Hallucina. He's chained in my basement and I can smack his big bald, important head to produce all sorts of fascinating answers and dating advice. Ask away! Any question you fancy, and I'll hit away and he'll provide some magical enlightened answer that will blow the socks right off your feet. But offer good for a limited time only- the helicopters are already hovering outside and SWAT teams are bound to come in all locked and loaded any second.
I hope they go for the brown man first, as they usually do.

3-EP: FAKES

1-FAKE IT ALIVE



You're so strange
Your leash is loose for a girl
You're the change
You wish to see in the world
But at the end of the day, you ain't got change for a five
You'll never fake it alive

You're suck a kook
Your lips as thin as a supermodel
You read everyone's BOOK
Can't find the time to read my novel
And while the hour is witching, you're in the kitchen with a knife
You'll never fake it alive

I really do have a soft spot
Or not
It's so hard when it's not hot
You bummed out
You came out
So worn out

You've got no man
Your dress is a mess of wine
You've got no tan
But whatever, your skin looks a lot like mine
But at the end of your life, you were your best as someone's wife
You'll never fake it alive

And where's your friend?
Oh, sorry, no one around
To see you spend
Every last penny you found
But when it's dollars you find, you wind up back at the dive
You'll never fake it alive

2- LISTENING



We would go and there would be so much
And the two of us felt out of touch
'Til I found a track that meant the world to us
It made us feel so damned virtuous

Listening, listening
You said that band was a whore
Listening, listening
They didn't sound like before

And your mouth was like a song in mine
And our headphones, they would intertwine
We would try all that, and felt all-knowing
And the manager said, "Buy something
Or get going!"

Your headphones
My headphones,
And it's by-gones
And it's by-gones

Listening, listening
You said that song was a bore
Listening, listening
But they brought down the store

They said no more
At the old record store

Listening, listening
With our eyes on the door
Listening, listening
But it ain't there no more
That old record store

3- THEY SHOOT PONIES, DON'T THEY? (THANK YOU JACK WHITE!)



You're kneeling in money
That's how you converted her
(Not much longer, not much longer)
You're kneeling in money,
That's how you converted her
She broke her leg and needed shooting
It hurt you more than it hurted her

Not much, not such,
Not much longer

I spend long evenings trying to figure out Miss Y
Such endless evenings, trying to figure out Miss Y
She talks away just like an onion
Every last word just makes me wanna cry

Well, I've been riding
This pony took me 'round the park
Went too far riding
This pony took me round the park
But when it fin'lly needed hiding
I met in Alabama with the Hammer-shark

It's almost midnight
I hear the trotting of the dead
So close to midnight
I hear the trotting of the dead
Was this much pain that necessary?
I wore my lucky horshesoe right around my head

Your body is built like magic
Every single curve can break my nerve
Your back is built like magic
Every single curve can break my nerve
Everyone said it's time to hate 'er
Sooner or later
You'll get what you deserve

They shoot down ponies,
They shoot down ponies, yes they do
(Not much longer, not much longer)
They shoot down ponies,
And there's not much that I can do
Well, I've just fallen at your feet, girl
Whatever happens next is all up to you!

LINER NOTES:
Alvis Rockett (lead singer, guitar): This is a mix-bag of racuousness. I'm sorry, can you spell that ROCK-ousness? Did you catch my second guitar solo on "Fake it Alive"? That's the vibe you want to ride on.

Matthew Porfirio (main lyricist, bass, Hammond Organ): I recently heard Jack White's cover of Bob Dylan's "New Pony", and I think it exploded my idea of what a cover was. I decided to continue riding that topic to the natural conclusion. I bought my ex, Betty, a pony for her 22nd birthday. She should have been grateful, right? Her childhood fantasies fulfilled and all? But, nooo, it turns out ponies smell too strongly for her highness! I'm sorry, Betty, the universe isn't a Bed Bath and Beyond store just waiting to please you with its lovely scents!

Helen Sandborg (drummer, club promotions): I actually like our song "Listening", even though the tune it's clearly stolen from... Oh, I can't say what band we stole it from, according to some legal papers Matt made me sign. But believe me, it's pretty stolen. Except that the original song goes ta-da-da, ta-da-da, and WE go ta-da-DA, ta-da-DA. Ooooh, it's like a whole 'nother universe of sound!

CHAPTER 71: BROTHER AND SISTER

Andree is languishing on a reclining chair, her face lit by a tiny lamp that keeps her in Hollywood soft-focus, (and keeps Gilbert "oohing" to himself as he peeps through the slightly ajar door into the convalescent's room). Philip, his back to Gilbert, sits at the foot of the chair, his arm still in a sling from all the recent crowd-surfing; we would see his handsome, concerned features, if only he wasn't so conveniently positioned.
PHILIP: "You're breathing better, sis. Feeling stronger, too?"
ANDREE: "Oh yes! Why, I was quite able to read a book today without fainting! And I traveled as far as the window, to sniff at the flowers in the garden. How can someone die, as long as there are flowers?"
P: "It would be most unconscionable, and a slight on your patriotic duties, because I hear the Dauphiness expects a visit from you within the week."
An attention-seeking shiver runs through the girl, and Philip leans forward, "with outstretched arms." I guess that sling is useless.
A: "Oh, fret not, dear brother. It is but the weakness of the shock, the failures of the flesh, the mounting of the blood upon my temples."
P: "That book you were reading was by Dumas too, wasn't it?"
A: "However did you guess?"
P: "Talking about that shock, Andree... We haven't really TALKED about it."
Andree blushes, the suddenly inquisitorial Philip pretends not to notice. That tiny lamp IS kind of ineffective.
A: "What's there to talk about? I understand the... person... who saved me gave all explanations necessary."
P: "Yes, he did, and yet some parts of the affair seem somewhat mysterious."
A: "Stop it! I didn't have sex with him!!!"
P: "Huh? What was that?"
A: "Er, I mean... I didn't have sex... at the GYM."
P: "Wait, what? Gym?"
A: "Ugh, what I said was: Isn't that lamp over there DIM?"
P: "Indeed, as I was saying, as dim as the circumstances of your saving. Can you describe exactly how this man saved you?"
A: "Oh, you sure do tax a recovering sister! But very well. We were separated by that horrible human wave. I can still see your "outstretched arms." Ever notice how much you outstretch your arms? Well, I did the same, towards you, but an unpleasant-smelling whirlwind of peasants carried me against a large brick wall, with the apparent intention of dashing me to cute, feminine atoms. If I strain myself, I think there was briefly some weird little boy trying to carry me aloft and muttering some nonsense speech... Does the name 'Dilbert' ring any bells with you? But back to the important people: there I was, struggling against this Dullbert and commending my soul to Heaven, (for Philbert seemed a most inefficient savior), when I lifted my eyes to meet the burning gaze of a man who, standing on a wall, seemed to direct the crowd at his feet, and the crowd seemed to obey worshipfully. I knew then my prayer was answered."
P: "Joseph Balsamo." He's not as enamoured of that burning gaze as Andree.
A: "The same, who's inspired me with dread from the moment I met him, and yet fascinates me and can make my whole being tremble just by whispering in my ear."
P: "Eeewww, Jesus, sis, I don't wanna know!!! Stick to the bloody stampede descriptions!"
A: "Right, well, this man towered over all that catastrophe, as if human suffering were to him a curiosity for bookworms. I saw in his face he was more than capable of saving me. Then, I felt pulled, as if by miracle, towards him; bruised and powerless as I was, I was lifted from that ocean of mangled flesh around... I felt myself fly towards Balsamo's hands!" She reflects. "Of course, it MIGHT be that it was Elbert lifting me in his arms. But I think I'll stick with the magical, magnetic flight."

Gilbert's head is three times bigger than usual, pumping with blood, he's trying to sawllow his tongue: "My name is GILBERT!!! GILBERT!!! I was dying at your feet saving you!!! AAAARRRGGGHHHH!!!"

A: "Wait, dear brother...Did you hear a suspicious sound coming from behind that muslin curtain outside the door? Something like an angry, strangled shout?"
P: "Nope. But you know how a broken arm can affect your hearing."
A: "Oh, stop it, your arm is just a little bruised. In any case, there is nothing else to say. There was Balsamo, ordering my salvation. I, at the limit of my exertions, fainted. C'est tout."
P: "Fine, but see, that happened around midnight. How come you didn't return to us until the next morning?" He stands up and does some overly-protective pacing. "What I want to know is, did this man carry you away in his... arms?"
A: "Which arms? His powerfully muscled yet caring arms that make a girl feel like she's blissfully at home? Those arms? Oh, I do not well recall. That would be quite scandalous, though! If you had asked a few days ago, I would say the rest vanished as in a trance. But tonight, I am willing to say that my memories stir. I awoke in a splendidly furnished salon, to the benevolent smiles of a lady and her chambermaid. Both WOMEN, Philip. Ease up, soldier."
P: "And this hapenned when?"
A: "About a half an hour after midnight."
Philip exhales happily and falls back down at the foot of Andree's chair: "That's wonderful! So Balsamo had no time to..."
A: "To do what?"
P: "Er, steal your precious purse! I'm really concerned about our Taverney family heirlooms these days, you know."
A: "Oh, don't worry about that, I lost THAT purse waaaaay back in Taverney!"
Philip narrows his eyes. "Anyway! What kept you all night long with these ladies?"
A: "Their hospitality. I knew you would be uneasy, but they were quite adamant I rest there until I was sufficiently recovered. Also, they said that Balsamo would procure a carriage as soon as he returned from the scene. He'd gone back to the scene to cure the wounded! Wasn't that splendid of him, Philip?"
P: "He's a freaking dreamboat!" He presses Andree's hands: "But I am re-assured. I will thank the Marchioness de Sevigny, your benefactor, as soon as feasible. There is one tiny part of your story I need to comment on. Are you sure you didn't see our little Gilbert among the crowd that night?"
A: "Gilbert? Oh, our young philosopher from Taverney! No, definitely not. Wait, did you hear that angry cry of desperation again? Outside the door Nicole accidentally left ajar?"
P: "I'm bringing all this up because I was quite sure that Gilbert was bound to take care of you, and I remember him carrying you away."
A: "Oh, Gil-BERT! You know, now that you mention it, I think I might have seen him after all. But one does meet so many people at stampedes!"

Gilbert (joyful): "She did see me! She does remember!"

P: "Well, the thing is, later that night, while searching for you, I discovered the poor lad in a heap of people."
A: "Oh, dead so young! Poor thing! Should we make him a little dirt mound at Taverney? Next to my dead canary?"

Gilbert (ecstatic): "She cares! She called me 'poor thing'!"

P: "Actually, he's alive, and I'm sure, on the way to a quick recovery. Why, he could be spying on us this very minute! Oh, I only kid you, dear sister. I did think you might know more about him, because when I found him, he was holding almost fanatically to a piece of your white dress. And it IS from your dress, I even had Nicole examine it."
A: "Huh? I noticed there was a strip missing at the hem, I just thought moths were getting more vicious than usual."

ABOVE: The white dress, before being defiled by Gilbert's grubby peasant hands.

Gilbert (pleading): "Come on, woman! Put two and two together! It makes FOUR!"

A: "Why, I know exactly what hapenned now, dear Philip! How could we have been so blind? It's quite obvious! I should have guessed, knowing Gilborg as well as I do!"

Gilbert (arms raised): "YES!!!"

A: "He surely was near me in the crowd that day, and noticing that the wonderful Joseph Balsamo was rescuing me, that little nerd must have grabbed on to my skirt in order to either selfishly take advantage of my escape, or else drag me down to share his doom. I don't blame him much, though. The help can't be expected to have your kind of noble feelings, Philip, and Gildork was never much HELP, anyway. Ok, now I DEFINITELY know I heard a wild scream of anguish and frustration coming from outside the door!"
P: "Yes, even I heard it." The Chevalier of Maison-Rouge-Taverney turns towards the door, but at that moment it bursts open to allow access to a frantic Baron of Taverney, who has pretty much stepped right over a frightened Gilbert's huddled form without being in the least slowed down. Taking advantage of the rushing noise, Gilbert runs into the room and ides behind ANOTHER helpful muslin curtain.
BARON OF TAVERNEY: "Where the heck is that Nicole?"
Andree quickly feigns illness and puts a hand over her eyes: "Not here. Probably having a love rendezvous in the garden. Have a good night, Daddy, I feel sick, go away!"
BOT: "Go away? When I bear news from Court and from the Dauphiness herself that she personally has selected rooms for you at the Petit-Trianon Palace and waits only for your recovery to move you on up?"
A: "I feel better already, actually. So I will be at court? Did you hear that, Philip?"
BOT: "It won't be quite as spectacular as the REAL court. It appears that this Marie Antoinette girl is of humble, retiring tastes, and wants nothing more than to live with the Dauphin at Trianon in peace, away from the exhausting public eye, in a monastic poverty, really."

The three of them wait for a beat, then start lauging their asses off.

A: "That was pretty funny, Daddy, you had me going for a moment there! But how will I fit among all those rich, educated ladies? I'm but a simple country girl at heart. Not DISGUSTINGLY country like, what was his name, Gilbone, but I can't compare too dazzlingly to those great court beauties!" Absently, she retouches her hair which has been perfectly styled by Nicole in spite of "illness."
P: "Oh, sister, you need only hold on to your pride and goodness, and soon those petty stars at Versailles and the Petit-Trianon shall bow before before the sun of your purity, no matter how obscure our family may be!"

ABOVE: The Petit-Trianon. Slightly less huge than the Grand-Trianon.
The Baron of Taverney spits out the door, (it lands on Gilbert): "You two make me sick! Are you pissing on our great family name of Taverney-Maison-Rouge-Chateau-Vert-Jaune-Singe? Also... PURITY? What's THAT good for, can it be eaten? And if not, how can we get rid of it as quickly as possible? The idea is to find a nice regiment for you, Philip, a nice dowry for you, Andree, and if the King should see fit to drop a nice pension on me, who's to argue? Nothing's holding us back! You say you're not beautiful enough, Nicole? Well, pretty up a little, damn you! Ever heard of CLEAVAGE? It's not a vegetable! The King's a hornball, as is the Marechal Richelieu, and the Count D'Artois, and the Count of Provence... Plenty of suckers to choose from. And what's that about education? Those court ladies are rouged-up cows. You just need to find a little angle in. They say Marie Antoinette likes paintings with sheep. Well, draw her a little sheep so she can put on the fridge at the palace! Seriously, I can't hand-hold the two of you forever! Go out and make me money!"
Andree, who does have some vestige of morals, (although God knows who she inherited that from), looks down in embarrassment. Philip consoles her:
"I'm not exactly sure I agree with our Father's phrasing, but I can assure you that there is no one more capable of shining at Versailles than you, sis. And if that means we don't see each other as often..."
A: "Oh, brother, I can't be set in there without you! I'm really going to miss you!"
BOT: "Oh, save those tears for moonlit nights! Philip will visit you there. He'll visit ME there, too. Because there IS a room at Trianon for me too, RIGHT? So I can be very close to you?"
A: "Hmmm, right.... Well, you know, Daddy, I'm not sure how the logistics of that might play out. I'm going to try and ask my people, but, what with the darned economy, and the palace overcrowding, it's a real bitch these days, can't make any promises there."
BOT: "You cunning little... I'm so PROUD of you right now! Philip, you. How are you doing, moneywise?"
Philip stiffens: "If you're asking for money, I don't have it. If you're offering money, I don't need it."
BOT: "That's the classical pride of the Maison-Rouge line. Too bad for you! For once I have a little dough to benevolently give my offspring, courtesy of the King, but if you're going to be all stuffy, fine. It all goes to Andree's wardrobe."
A: "Yipeee! 27 pretty dresses!"
BOT: "Anything for my sweet little princess. Just remember the magic word!"
A: "Please?"
BOT: "No! Cleavage! The family bounty! That's all Taverney stuff!"
Andree sighs: "I'm feeling sick again. I do need some rest."
Philip: "Dad, you heard. Out. Sis, shall I call on Nicole to take off your clothes?"
Andree stands up from the reclining chair, resolutely:
"No, I think for once I'll take my OWN clothes off. Adieu."

And Philip and the Baron of Taverney exit, neither of them noticing that they've left Andree alone with the shadow that has crept in during the conversation. I say shadow because it's not quite the Gilbert we know. This is a feverish Gilbert, a Gilbert whose name has been forgotten too many times by the woman he loves. His fists are clenched, his heart is racing, his breath is held. He slowly emerges from behind the curtain. He's a blotch of darkness now, hidden from vision outside the halo of light that the room's tiny lamp emits, a halo of light sufficient only to light Andree's figure. She doesn't know Gilbert is there. She never did notice him much.
He creeps closer, close enough to be burnt by the heat of her body.
Andree takes her clothes off.

Gus Van Sant's "Milk"

Dear Imaginary Reader:
After wiping my tears at the end of "Milk", I realized I have been silent for far too long, and I can no longer tolerate my polite lies whenever the topic comes up. I'm just going to come out and say it:
I've hated pretty much ever Gus Van Sant movie ever.
Yeah, go, sneer at me and despise me and pelt me with your mockery, but I never cared for "Drugstore Cowboy" or "My Own Private Idaho", I was bored by "To Die For", I rolled my eyes through the twin saporamas of "Good Will Hunting" and "Finding Forrester", I was knocked out into a stupor by the pretentiousness of "Elephant" and "Last Days" and "Paranoid Park", and I particularly hated, HATED, his shot-by-shot "Psycho" remake. HAAAATED.
I almost got a book devoted to the psychology of masochism to explain why I've persisted- I suppose I credit the moments of intelligence he does intersperse with auteuristic wankiness.

Well, you kept churning them out, Gussy, so I was bound to like something. And I LOVED "Milk."
Here, Van Sant is restrained by the importance of his material- he's not doodling fantasmagorically about Kurt Cobain's death or teenage brutality. His biopic of San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk, the first openly gay man elected to public office in the U.S., is classical, reverent without kissing ass, constructed so elegantly around a character so likable and so emblematic of everyting that's great about the American struggle for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, that only the most allergic of homophobes would deny the tragic nature of his murder.

Now when someone like me, who despises Sean Penn's penchant for Hollywood's brain-lite politics, tells you that this is the best performance I've seen anywhere in a very long time, you know it's for real. I care about my actor's politics, like I care about my doctor's bowling. What matters is how the actor ACTS, and how the doctor, er, DOCTS. And Sean Penn doesn't play Milk, he IS Milk. But he's not left to absorb the movie in some extended impersonation: the cast is uniformly great.

Yes, Josh Brolin, obviously, as the disgruntled killer whose feelings for Harvey we see slowly morph from dislike to reluctant admiration to comraderie to envy and finally, hatred.

And yes, James Franco is tender as Milk's long-time boyfriend. But every single member of his staff takes on a life of their own, particularly Alison Pill in a role that may have five lines but turns her into one of my 'new actresses to watch'.

Who's NOT so good? Diego Luna as Jack Lira, the needy, ignorant, anti-social, difficult and skeevy-looking rock hanging around Milk's neck. It's hard to understand how someone as smart as Milk would have tolerated a social embarrassment like this neurotic queen, (whatever good looks Luna has disappear under his '70s s 'fro.)


Go watch now, because "Milk" is a vital, important movie, with a lot more to say than "gays are people too." It's about hope for the silenced, an exhortation to keep on fighting against injustice, intolerance and prejudice. It's too easy to build colorful little bubbles of indolence around you and forget that there will never be a scarcity of people who think it's fair to deprive you of your rights, livelihood- and your life- because of your race, gender, creed, politics, nationality, music taste... or whatever flimsy excuse they need to unleash their hatred.

God, I hate myself in "preaching to the choir" mode! Makes me feel like Margaret Cho at the end of her routines.

Glenn Beck's "Common Sense"

I love, love, LOOOOVE how Glenn Beck co-opted Thomas Paine as a Republican hero. You mean the Christopher Hitchens of his time, the French-ass-kissing revolutionary bum, THAT Thomas Paine? Beck, Beck, you gotta crack up the encyclopedia before you do these things. Yeah, you crib from "Common Sense", (we all hate the King of England and his taxes on stamps, believe me), but did you check out "Age of Reason"? Oh, you know, Paine's masterwork deriding the absurdities and overt fabrications of Christianity, exposing the Bible as a dusty mishmash of badly written Jewish propaganda, and attacking organized religion as the brainwashing tool of theocratical tyranny. You know, the ideals of America's Founding Fathers?
I totally recommend reading it, dude- some interesting thoughts in there. Sounds familiar, "thought"? Not just repeating cliches and attaching someone else's historical pamphlet to your slim rant?
And before I'm out, I bear you no ill will, Beck. Although I cannot stand your mugging, I appreciate your ability to poke fun at your televised fakeness. Still, you have to explain this to me. How come it's patriotic to hate the BIG EVIL GOVERNMENT that tries to give health care to old ladies; when just now it was patriotic to love the HUGE EVIL GOVERNMENT that tried to stamp out people's civil rights? And, sure, I just watched that "Milk" movie, but I'm curious about this anyway, it's been puzzling me for a while. What's the rationale? And please, let it go a little deeper than "I'm a hypocrite."


]



Paine's classic creed:

I believe in one God, and no more; and I hope for happiness beyond this life.
I believe in the equality of man; and I believe that religious duties consist in doing justice, loving mercy, and endeavouring to make our fellow-creatures happy.
But, lest it should be supposed that I believe many other things in addition to these, I shall, in the progress of this work, declare the things I do not believe, and my reasons for not believing them.
I do not believe in the creed professed by the Jewish Church, by the Roman Church, by the Greek Church, by the Turkish Church, by the Protestant Church, nor by any church that I know of. My own mind is my own church.
All national institutions of churches, whether Jewish, Christian or Turkish, are no other than human inventions, set up to terrify and enslave mankind, and monopolize power and profit.
I do not mean by this declaration to condemn those who believe otherwise; they have the same right to their belief as I have to mine. But it is necessary to the happiness of man that he be mentally faithful to himself. Infidelity does not consist in believing, or in disbelieving; it consists in professing to believe what he does not believe.

Amen.

The Uninformed Pundit #425

The Uninformed Pundit is a coward.

Someone recently asked him where he stood, "politically."

UP: "WELL, let's see... I'm not a bigot. I'm not afraid of women, black people, gay people, foreigners, the disabled, the poor, or just about anyone different than me. I'm not terrified by philosophy, science, history, the arts, REALITY, or anything else that might make me question my slogan-heavy, static, ignorant world view. So where do you THINK I stand, politically? TRICK QUESTION!"

Things he did NOT say.

What DID he say? "Oh, I think all sides of the political spectrum have a lot to contribute to the conversation as part of our collective growth and continued relevance as a progressive world power glob glob glob I'm sinking in my own politeness."

Why do people do these things? Hide their honest views in an attempt to pacify the rabid sociopaths eating the brains around them like they're so many George A. Romeor extras? Is this the Obama effect? It's hard to believe the Leader of the Free World has to apologize to some dumb cop for hurting his wee little cop feelings. A cop named Jim Crowley, for galoshes' sake! When the hell did a Republican president apologize about ANYTHING to ANYONE?!? Last time around we didn't even get an: "Oooops, started fake war! Sorry, thousands upon thousands of dead people and their families!" The best we could hope for was: "Mistakes were made" which is ten country miles away from: "*I* made a LOT of retarded, deadly mistakes!" Oh, and what constipated bull crap is Obama expelling about "there's an ongoing dialogue in America about race that needs to be addressed..."

"ONGOING DIALOGUE"? FUCK THAT! "IT'S WRONG TO BE A RACIST ASSHOLE!" THERE! DIALOGUE OVER, AMERICA! MOVING ON!

Obama is turned into a polite, worthless wimp.
Like the Uninformed Pundit, who might just be a Democrat after all.

UGH, MY EXISTENCE IS A CARTOON CLICHE!!!

'Tis true, 'tis true!!! *cries*

Yes, "Yes"- The Band. Not the Affirmative Statement.

No Rick Wakeman yet, (Tony Kaye does the keyboard honors) but the first homonymous Yes album from 1969 is no embryo. Already we have the beautiful distillation of classical, avant-garde jazz, heavy rock and psychedelic expansion that makes Yes my favorite prog-rock group, (and obviously one whose catalogue I'm revisiting). Chris Squire's bass, Bill Bruford's explorations in drum, even Jon Anderson's wispy vocals work. Mashing together early Pink Floyd's moments of instrumental madness with the unashamed loveliness of the Beatles, "Yes" was no hit, but it's a perfect intro to a band that would have more cast changes than "ER"- and last even longer. At least at this point, they were humble enough to limit themselves to the 5 minute mark. Considering it's Yes, this is DISCIPLINE. Let yourself in via the two central covers- The Byrd's "I See You" and the Fab Four's "Every Little Thing"- and watch how they stretch a song from the inside out and produce something daring and nearly unrecognizable.

Awww, I can't hate on Clint Eastwood for too long...

The dude is 78 and kicking ass still! How is it that he we haven't ever nominated him for President? North Korea would be shitting missile bricks right about now if Clint was on the case!

CHAPTER 70: ACROBATICS

So Gilbert is ready to do the Spider-Man and swing himself down into the Taverney's property- after having left an explanatory note for Rousseau in the garret, a note which goes: "My Dear Guardian: Don't take it personal if you should find me missing from the confinements to which you have reduced me. I just needed to stretch my legs for about two hours. Worry not. Also, if I don't return in two hours, it's because I'm dead."
With the abyss below, his hands gone white with the effort of climbing down the rope, our young philosopher is descending towards the garden, the perfumed prelude to Andree's boudoir. He's about two feet down in his trip when a BIG STONE swooshes right past his face, threatening to lope off is nose.
"HOLY..." screams Gilbert and nearly falls to his doom, but youthful reflexes keep him hanging on. A stone? It has clearly been lobed from the street outside the garden, and Gilbert follows the stone's trajectory as it strikes against the house noisily and then drops, like a big dead rocky dove, to the garden below.
After a second, the ground floor opens timidly, and Gilbert arrests his descent to observe directly below him the seemingly lack-a-daisical figure of Nicole Legay, ambling towards the stone as casually as possible.
Gilbert has a nice view straight on down to the girl. Hey, love made him retarded, not blind.
Nicole approaches the stone, whistles a popular tune, spies for traffic both left and right, kicks the stone a little ways, picks up a handkerchief, pretends to blow her nose, pretends to let go of her handkerchief directly over the stone, then quickly picks up the handkerchief and her concealed treasure. Gilbert didn't go to high school, but he can recognize a love note tied to a rock as the ancestor of modern texting.
A little jealous sting makes him forget his current mission: "Well, I suppose Nicole has moved on!"
He continues to spy on Nicole from his high vantage point, and sees the girl read the note and, in an excited fluster, drop a key at a spot near the garden wall that's accessible from the wordly street. Easy access! Gilbert snorts: "WELL! Do I care she's got a new man? No! if anything I'm worried for the safety of the Taverneys! To think that some lecherous scoundrel could just grab that key and introduce himself in the house...."
HMMMMM...
He continues to descend the rope, incensed by his purpose. Along the way he hangs outside the windows of Rousseau's living room, where Therese and her neighbors- or rather their silouhettes- discuss the greatness of the great philosopher.
Neighbors: "Therese, your husband is so brilliant we didn't understand a single sentence of 'La Nouvelle Heloise'."
Therese: "That's because you got the clap."
A few feet lower, Gilbert is detained again, this time by the opening of the garden's door that's closest to the street- clearly Nicole's date has arrived. "Aha!" Gilbert recognizes the man as Monsieur Beausire, the Dauphiness' attachee who, some centuries back, escorted the Taverneys out of Taverney chateau while making eyes at the pretty waiting maid. Obviously, some indecent meetings have since taken place, and Monsieur Beausire's shadow hastens to a nearby gazebo, and inmediately after so does Nicole's shadow, carelessly leaving all doors open behind her.
"Yes!" Gilbert makes a "pump the air" gesture that makes him fall some ten feet more down his feeble ladder.
And this is it: our young philosopher is there on the ground, looking at the Taverney hotel directly, with all its doors agape like it's Open House Friday on an Amsterdam bordello. In he goes: there's an empty antechamber, and two doors: one, closed, goes to unimportant places in the house that don't contain pretty girls. One, open, clearly marks Nicole's path of departure. Gilbert enters its darkness, hands out like it's blindman's bluff, hoping to touch something soft, and he does, the muslin curtains which hide a second door, made of glass, beyond which a modest light flickers.
It's the bedroom of convalescent Andree- remember, she's undergone some strenuous fits of faintings- and her angelic voice answers that of a concerned male. Gilbert recognizes Philip, checking out little sister's blood pressure.
Happy, fearful, Gilbert presses himself against a little marble column with a bust, and, like the good KGB agent he would have been two centuries later, he spies.

What he hears Andree relate, whether momentuous or mundane, we'll discover next chapter.

Clint Eastwood's "Gran Torino"

He's John Wayne, he's Archie Bunker, he is, undeniably, Clint Eastwood: his hands may be liver-spotted, but he can still make a young punk taste some knuckle soup. In "Gran Torino", Clint plays Walt Kowalski, a Korean War vet who lovingly guards his shiny 1972 Ford Grand Torino even as the Ford factory that once employed him has gone to hell because pansy-ass white-collar wiggers started buying Nip cars. And then, just so that the movie can have its cake and eat its dim-sum too, Kowalski learns to rein in his racial slurs when he strikes an unlikely friendship with two young members of the Hmong family next door, gang-bait Thao (Bee Vang) and smart-nice-Asian-girl Sue (Ahney Her). Well, actually, Kowalski DOESN'T rein in his slurs, he still calls them gooks and chinks, but now when does it he smiles instead of spitting in their faces. Oh, yes, Kowalski is a bigot with a heart of gold. Is there any other kind? ONLY IN REALITY.

Clint Eastwood's higest grosser to date, "Gran Torino" is populist entertainment with all the good and bad that entails, and it does have enough humor and nuance of character to throw you off its deeply repulsive, melodramatic core. In a way, "Gran Torino", (like "Million Dollar Baby") makes me feel like latter-day Lars Von Trier movies make me feel: I get caught up, I cry at the martyrdom of their heroes, and then when it's over I realize it was all a bunch of manipulative, foul crap.
Not that analysis is the only thing weakening "Gran Torino": when Clint Eastwood's is the funniest, most wide-ranged character in a movie, there's a lot to fear. The Hmong kids are alright, although Thao looks as terrified of the camera as he is of Walt Kowalski and the gangs that alternatively vie for his soul. It's the WHITE actors who fare badly, particularly Christopher Carley as Father Janovich in one of the most pathetic roles ever seen outside of Made-For-TV movies, delivering clunky lines about "the sweetness of Jesus and life and death" when he looks unable to cook a lamb steak, let alone tend to "his flock". Only Eastwood is supported by the script- everyone else here is a one-sided plot device who either "talks urban", "talks too fancy" or "talks like a real manly American man."
That last bit involves the movie's funniest scene (I laughed), which is also at the core of Gran Torino's moral bullshit: Walt takes Thao to a barbershop to teach him how to stop being such a "pussy-cake" and behave like MEN do. What does that involve? Asking Thao to "man up", treating women like shit, and waving a gun on Thao's faggy face.
Can someone explain to me how this is any different from the "abhorrent" behavior of the Hmong gangs, who ALSO want Thao to "man up", also treat women like shit, and also wave a gun on Thao's faggy face?
Well, like it says in the NRA manual: "Guns don't kill people, DARKIES kill people." (I'm buying an automatic on E-Bay as we speak in case I see anyone darker than egg-shell around my house- the best substitute for having the fucking Man with No Name watch my back.)

(Ironic note: the barber who helps teach Thao how to talk like a man? John Carroll Lynch. You know him better as Drew Carey's transvestite brother.)


"Gran Torino" does have enough classical ambivalence built in that one can't call it an NRA manifesto. But what's one to honestly make of a movie in which we learn that the krauts, dagos and micks are just finally "acceptable", while the spicks, spooks and gooks are shitting on decent white people and have a long way before they can darken your lawn without you rightfully breaking out the Winchester? And what about the "heart-warming" moral, which is that "some" gooks are allright- at cooking for you and mowing your lawn and doing the shitty jobs in railroad building they're best suited for? Because this is what's really at stake here: Kowalski keeping the dirty foreigners from vandalising his Gran Torino American Dream. Well, I apologize in the name of all dirty foreigners, Mr. KOWALSKI.

Still, a movie this well made can't help but work. Also, I dare you not to cheer when Eastwood jams his gun on some thug rapper's mouth or finally stomps his boots down on the face of an ugly, fat Hmong gang-banger. But was I the only one who noticed that the Hmong gang-banger has EXACTLY the same macho-bullshit mentality that Mr. Kowalski is peddling, that he probably grew up admiring Dirty Harry? He's just coming from a different continent.

SPOILERS

Oh, and what was that hacky bit about Kowalski's death, presaged by enough coughing of blood that Eastwood might as well be auditioning for the Nicole Kidman role in a road production of "Moulin Rouge"? And how exactly did his ridiculous martyrdom make any sense when clearly half of the gooks will be out on the street in one week- THANK YOU VERY MUCH, LIBERAL REVOLVING DOORS- and looking to rape Thao and re-rape his sister? And, FINALLY, what the fuck, Kowalski? Don't give the Thao kid your Gran Torino in your will! You want to help? GIVE HIM THAT MOTHERFUCKING COLLEGE SCHOLARSHIP HE'S BEEN WANTING, so he doesn't have to pluck weeds out of gardens for the rest of his miserable existence.
You dumb polack!

CHAPTER 69: LOVE MAKES YOU LIVE

I'm sitting here looking at Gilbert in his sick bed, and I don't like what I see. Yes, he's getting better, no longer hurling blood all over the room. But what propels him is not his own welfare but the thought of Andree. He's living for her- and she just does not care. A heart scarred too often becomes as a little rock, good for nothing but bashing heads in with. I've been there, Gilbert, and I tell you: turn from this delusion. It can only end badly. Yes, you have saved her life, but do we know she even NOTICED? At this point, you're better off going back to Nicole Legay. Although it looks like that ship has sailed. And then it was boarded by pillaging pirates. Who then sank it to the bottom of the sea. And then fish ate the remains of the ship.
You get the point.
Rousseau has noticed that Gilbert is itching to get back out to the street, every muscle in the boy strains towards Andree. He's like a magnetized needle vibrating and pointing to the frigid North. The old philosopher padlocks the door to the garret to rest his conscience.
If only he'd barred the window that looks into Andree's life!
Gilbert's convalescence consists of pushing his nose to the window and seeing Nicole in the opposite building- Nicole bearing tea and towels in and out of rooms. These are signs that Andree is alive, but the girl herself remains hidden from sight by curtains that persist in their prudery. Gilbert stares so fixedly the curtains should have evaporated hours ago. "I love her, she's there, I love her, she's there." He pushes the window opens and leans forward as far as he can.

"NO, GILBERT, DON'T JUMP, LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL!" Screams Chon from the OTHER adjacent building where she has been spying on both Andree and our boy.

"Huh? Who said that?" Gilbert nearly breaks his neck looking around.
"Nobody! Nobody is spying on you!" Says Chon and quickly snaps her window shut.

The whole of the Taverney's apartment is detailed in Gilbert's mind: like a conscientious burglar, he knows where the kitchen is, where Philip's apartments lie; there's Nicole's cabinet, there's the library of the Baron of Taverney, where the sole book is an illuminated copy of "Mein Royal Kampf". And there's Andree's bedroom, the shrine before which Gilbert wants to ruin the knees of his pants in prayer.
The bedroom was guarded by an antechamber on which there is a cabinet destined for Nicole Legay's bedtime machinations. "How happy Nicole must be," thinks Gilbert. "She gets to hear Andree's sighs." And snores.
Then- and this is where things go wrong- Gilbert starts thinking: "DAMN, you know, plenty of entirely normal people visit the Taverney's household daily. They're no better than me! They're allowed to see Andree! Why not me? I saved her life! I want to be there!"
See, we've been coming along the "crazy love" progression: first there were shy looks, then obsessive thoughts, then "accidental meetings", then stalking, then voyeurism.
His wounds from the stampede are all but forgotten: love makes you live.
But it also makes you RETARDED.
Like when Gilbert decides, quite logically: "I must get to Andree somehow. If I can only see her for one second, all will be solved. But I am locked in here. Breaking the padlock would be tres easy, but Rousseau might get mad at me. Besides, I've already escaped from Taverney, I escaped from Chon and Jean at Luciennes. I can't keep on doing that. What I must do is SNEAK out and come back without anyone noticing. Therefore, the window is the only sensible way out."
Of course, there's a 48 foot drop down to the pavement.
"I can creep along the tiles," reflects Gilbert, "hang on to the spout, I can go the length along these rooftops, and then arrive at Andree's window, and then I'll knock shyly at the pane, and then she'll push it open in curiosity, and then I'LL PLUNGE TO MY DEATH on that bed of roses below! OH, HOW SWEET THAT WOULD BE! To make her know that I'd died just to catch a glimpse of her beauty."

Gilbert, you're embarrassing me! Snap out of it! This morantic thing is doomed!

The young philosopher goes on: "Let's try out one of the scenarios where I actually get to live. I could creep along the edge all the way, jump down to the next balcony, only a fifteen foot drop, but if I fail on THAT jump, then I'll bring down with me a piece of the plaster, and then I won't die poetically. Instead I'll sprain an ankle and look like a spaz and the Baron of Taverney will have La Brie sweep me out to the street and Andree will get the giggles over my ridiculous pratfall."

Back out of this nonsense while you still can!

Gilbert gathers pack-threads that Madame Therese has left lying around and makes a decent long rope- he only spits out blood once during the making of, which is a good sign. "There, I'll tie the rope to the spout and slide myself down to the garden pavilion, and then I'll go into her room!"
Well, now we've gone full psycho. No longer content with being a peeping Gilbert, he's leveled up to BREAKING AND ENTERING! Pretty soon he's going to be throwing acid on Andree's face so that no one else can love her like he does.

Gilbert, please, mate, come back to your senses, she's not worth it!
Never mind.
Young Gilbert, as usual, is throwing himself out of the window for love.

Mike Leigh's "Happy-Go-Lucky"

A very close friend once described me as "happy-go-lucky" in all apparent sincerity. I was like: "Huh? This from YOU? Who has to talk me off the ledge every other weekend?!?" After seeing Mike Leigh's movie, I get it: Happy-Go-Luckiness is not exactly about being happy or particularly lucky, but about trusting in the possibilities of happiness and luck against all worldy evidence.

Poppy, the character magnificently played by Sally Hawkins, always has a twinkle in her eye and a joke dangling from her lips as she flippers through life. What she doesn't have is savings, a stable relationship, a mortgage, or an awareness of the effect she has on people who don't quite get her "things will work out" take on life. She's funny, and therefore she's not an adult. Adulthood isn't funny.
Well, I love Poppy, and I may not be Virgil, but if my Latin serves me right, the word mortgage comes from "Mort"- DEATH- and "Gage"- TRAP! DEATHTRAP!
I get Poppy all too well. I'm also on that happy-go-lucky trip that's bound to crash against people like her fist-hearted driving instructor Scott ( Eddie Marsan ) who spits out conspiracy theories as an affirmation of his contempt for the world. ( Did you know the Washington Monument is 555 feet above ground and 111 below?!? That's 666!!! What's one to conclude? Enraha rules all!!! )

Scott mistakes Poppy's giddiness for flirtation, and even as he piles abuse upon her, he allows that fist of a heart to open- only to find that Poppy has fallen for a co-worker who is capable of giving jokes as well as taking. In a Hollywood movie, Scott would have been a kind, adorable geek that finally dares to show his true love for Poppy with a touching "you complete me" speech. He might win her from the arms of a generically handsome rival who's blatantly a jerk. But (SPOILER?)
Mike Leigh has never turned from the consequential flow of his works, which are often semi-improvised, always real. Scott's display of humanity, when it comes, is all too human: he crazily starts stalking Poppy, throws an angry, spittle-laced tantrum at her perceived betrayal, and nearly beats her. What was once a comic foil leaves our heroine in tears and wondering if she should call the cops. But she has too much heart not to understand how Scott feels, how his world view is simply at odds with hers. Scott is no different from Poppy's pregnant sister, who goes about adultood like it's a painful crusade against laughter, and barks at Poppy for not facing responsibility, and brow-beats her passive husband who wants nothing more than to escape from this treatment into a good classic game of "Sonic the Hedgehog".
How to be happy in a world of unhappy people?

At the moments of my highest, ecstatic adoration of life, I tried to share that joy, only to be met with a lot of "get back to reality, life is hard work and then death" speeches. It's like when people commit injustices and then defend themselves by saying: "Life isn't fair." Well, SURE IT'S NOT, thanks to assholes like YOU!
Like Poppy, I just giggled; I didn't get what the big serious deal was. Why do people meet happiness with hostility? Well, God bless Mike Leigh and his "comedy of humours", I get it now. It's because most of us work hard at becoming bitter asshole adults. God forgive us.

If Jesus ever got something right, (and I think Jesus got quite a few things right) it was this: You must be as a child to attain the Kingdom. No bitter asshole adults allowed.


ABOVE: Damn! Now my blog looks like it's run by a contributor to "The Watchtower". When we all know DEATH METAL RULES!!! AAAAGGGHHH ALL GLORY BE TO ENRAHA!!!!

Ben Jonson's "Every Man in his Humour"

By Pharaoh's foot! The British get this much right: most words can be improved with the addition of an U, such as "humour", "colour", "colounialism".
William Shakespeare is reputed to have played the part of the grumpy old man, Knowell, in the original 1598 production of Ben Jonson's "Every Man in His Humour", a comedy of "characters" in which differing personalities are left to jangle against each other like rocks in a rugsack. Is it FUNNY, after all these years? Some parts, too few to modern my sense of... (well, you know). Considering Shakespeare was such a competitor at the time, this is too "classical", too tied to Roman theater: Plautus and Terrence could have sued Jonson if the Barbarians hadn't pummeled them centuries earlier. Still, better than the sequel, "Every Man Out of His Humour", which we were unwisely forced to read in college simply because of its many allusions to Shakespeare.
(Adding to the play's status as an undeserved canonical fixture: Dickens also played a character in his time- that's his portrait above as Captain Bobadill.)

Stephen R. Donaldson's "The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever: The Power that Preserves."

Outcast.
Unclean.
Unbeliever.
I skipped a whole middle book in Thomas Covenant's chronicles- the recap tells me that in that installment he returned to the Tolkienesque "Land" mostly to romance the grown-up result of his rape! That's right, that's what you do when you're an inveterate anti-hero: you rape a woman, get her with child, retreat to your reality, then wait until a generation has passed in fantasy land and return to tame your ill-begotten daughter's nookie. And then apparently he leads his rape-child to her death!
You would think there's pretty much nothing that Thomas can do in the third book to out-foul his previous actions- and, unfortunately you're right. Other than causing the death of his aging, madenned rape-victim Lena (who still clings to him), and his trusting Giant friend, Thomas' self-pitying cries of: "Leper! Leper! Unclean!" don't descend to new horrible depths of selfishness. Instead, he finds courage within his forsaken soul to fight Lord Foul's advances.
Oh, that dolorous malignance!
Once more, the "real world" scenes feel dramatically more important than anything that goes on while being attacked by ranks and ranks of ur-viles. But there's no end to the leprosy. Dead nerves don't regenerate. Well, we'll see what happens in the next six books.

Jonathan Littell's "The Kindly Ones"

Thanks be to Neil Gaiman, I had no trouble realizing that "The Kindly Ones" in Jonathan Littell's tumor-sized novel are the very ironic FATES. This book, a sickening, misunderstood, magnificent ode to the banality of evil, came in a flood of hype from Europe, and was reviled in the States, allegedly for its indulgences, but frankly because Americans consistently like to caricaturize World War II, and felt morally repulsed by the complicity the novel pulls you into. Also, the author has loudly condemned Israel's policies in the territories for being slightly fascist, (which chops off your audience when writing a Holocaust book.) Words like "excess" and "graphic" and "immoral" abound in reviews of "The Kindly Ones" but that's a horrible lack of insight. That's right, war IS excessively graphic and immoral! How cowardly to pretend otherwise. The character of Maximilien Aue, a refined, homosexual, well educated war criminal who is most definitely NOT a monster despite what you like to believe and the monstrous things he does, is symptomatic of all we fear and refuse to acknowledge in the World War II narrative and our collective brainwashing. We all claim to know that history repeats itself and is written by the winners, but when it comes to dealing with what that means we fade into convenient platitudes. "Hitler killed 6 million Jews", my friend robotically said the other day, and she was SURPRISED at the vehemence with which I pointed out that Hitler did NOT kill 6 million Jews, THOUSANDS OF NICE GERMAN PEOPLE killed six million Jews, just like THOUSANDS OF NICE AMERICANS killed THOUSANDS OF NICE IRAQIES. She was further horrified when I reminded her that Hitler was generally thought to be a charming, nice guy (well, until he went shit-bonkers at the end). Why is it so hard to admit that it's people who kill people, continuously, out of dirty words like patriotism and racism and REALISM and worst of all, complacent OBEDIENCE to authority. So much easier to single out Anti-Christs. When the time is ripe, we can all be drafted and be given uniforms and we will go and kill each other at the whims of our commanders, and all we will complain about is the quality of our meal rations. As long as there are armies this will be a fact. The only thing people like Hitler and Stalin did was add a gleaning efficiency to the murder mill.
The backlash on this book was unjust.
It IS very fucking long, though.

David Yates' "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince"

AKA "Harry Potter and the Half Good Movie."

Yes, this is the one in which Gandalf says: "THOU SHALT NOT PASS!"

At this point in the Harry Potter progression few things could throw a wrench in the machinery. The special effects will be fantastic, (the LoTR-type attack by the Inferi is genuinely scary). The world of Hogwarts will be comfortably lived in, and Diagon Alley offers new marketable surprises. Some great British actor will liven things up (this time it's Jim Broadbent as Horace Slughorn). The chemistry between the three leads (Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson and Rupert Grint) will be provided by the good will of the audience when the actors themselves fail to manifest it. We will oooh and awww over Hermione's ridiculous hissy fits, and over Ron's oblivious dopey grin, and wonder who'll ask whom to the dance. This stuff would shame the writers of your average Gossip Girl episode but in this uber-PG context any chaste admission of interest between the leads is seen as a HORMONAL EXPLOSION.

And yes, a certain important figure will go poof. I felt that what was truly a compelling plot twist in the book was treated too mundanely in the movie. J.K. Rowling's great trick in the novel is that we KNOW A will kill B, and B says: "No, A will NOT kill me." And you BELIEVE A knows something that we don't, and we trust A and B against every evidence. And so you feel genuine horror and betrayal when there IS no plot twist. A does indeed kill B, as he's said he would. It was the non-plot twist as plot twist- because life is horrible and no one can be trusted- and it was galvanizing.
The movie screws up a potentially great moment and replaces it with something else. Adequate, perhaps. But no more than that.
What few people comment on when talking about the Harry Potter books is that J.K. Rowling's ancestry is threefold: C.S. Lewis, Enid Blyton and Agatha Christie. From the first she drew the magical symbols; from the second the school atmosphere and the vacations and the reunions and the obsession with what kids eat and play at when they're not involved in the main plot; but her REAL strength, what separates the Potter books from any another fantasy series, is that she took Agatha Christie's truly ingenious mystery plots and created books that honestly kept you guessing.
And you don't really get that from this good-enough movie.
When the titular "Half Blood Prince" is revealed in the flick is almost as an after thought: the movie is too busy thinking about moving on to the FINALE.
Good, but transitional.

Lee Child's "Gone Tomorrow"

Jack Reacher does not believe in tears. Kind of like Moscow. "Gone Tomorrow", the 13th novel in Lee Child's series of obsessive Vet bad-assness, starts with an apparent suicide bombing situation on a New York subway and, through tangled clues and cover-ups, ends up involving Washington politicians and Ukrainian femme fatales and the Russians in Afghanistan and everything else you can imagine. Ratcheting up tension is Child's business and one of these days Reacher is going to go so far up in the scale of pissing people off he's going to end up punching St. Peter in the solar plexus.
Reacher's character is uniquely unbelievable. He's unable to do sensible things like look the other way and let things go. If someone smudges his boots in passing and laughs at him, Reacher will knock the man unconscious, and then obsessively track down the man's wife to another state just so he can apologize in person. And then he'll investigate every detail of the wife's life and dig out that she's an Iranian spy. He's nosier than Jack Nicholson in "Chinatown", and telling him to back off and go on with his life is pointless. He HAS no life to go on with. He starts shit and follows shit through to the bloody end.
So why is he so compelling? Because he is less of a human being than the embodiment of uncompromising, stony justice. A younger, fatter Clint Eastwood might play him in a movie.

CHAPTER 68: MONSIEUR JUSSIEU- ANOTHER OLD PHILOSOPHER

The French fuzz commanded by Sartines heavily guards the house in the Rue Plastriere where philosophers old (Rousseau) and young (Gilbert) have retreated to after the stampede that left Gilbert coughing up pieces of his liver.
Rousseau's wife, Therese (Rhea Pearlman) is tending to Gilbert's prostrate form by poking at him with her broom and scowling: "He's going to bloody up my goose-down pillow!"
Rousseau leans by the side of the bed and squeezes Gilbert's hand- a loving touch that produces a tiny, drooling fountain of blood from the boy's mouth.
"He's saved!" Squeals the great thinker with delight.
"I'm saved?" Says Gilbert, his eyes circumventing the ecstatic face of Rousseau, the crunched up face of Therese, and the nosy faces of, like, twenty neighbors trying to squeeze in through the doorway and splintering the frame. "Who saved me?"
Rousseau points to the sky. "The Almighty Being who, alone, can save. Also, me and a certain Chevalier of Maison-Rouge."
Therese starts hitting Gilbert with the broom: "You had it coming! Who told you go there? You're too old for fireworks anyway! Look how you made my husband worry!" Gilbert spurts more blood with each hit, and eventually faints.
One of the neighbors mutters politely: "Madame Therese, we do believe your tender ministrations may have accelerated the denouement of the boy's life."
"Speak French!" Says Therese. "All of you, get out of my house. The boy is ok, right?"
Gilbert opens one eye: "Yes... I... Still... Alive. But please. If I am to die. I beg this. Let me die up in my room."
Rousseau: "You want to rest up in the loft?"
Therese: "It's not a loft, you idiot, it's a GARRET!"
And in the garret Gilbert is accomodated, his blood-gauzed eyes constantly drawn to the skylight which provided him once with such illuminating views of Andree's bedroom, while Rousseau sits on a chair by his side and neglects to talk about the piece of Andree's dress that Gilbert was holding onto at the time of his rescue. Among Gilbert's other treasured items: a little doll made of Andree's hair, a lewd drawing of Andree's ankle, and a little vial with Andree's bed-time sweat in it.
The recovery of our young philosopher is interrupted by Therese loudly heralding the arrival of a Monsieur Jussieu, ANOTHER old philosopher in the weed-collecting business, just like Rousseau. As soon as Rousseau closes the garret's door behind him, Gilbert drags himself out of bed, falls down with a thump, digs his nails in the wooden floor, and painstakingly inches towards the skylight like an icky, sicky plant stretching towards the sunlight. "Must... see... Andree's bedroom...before the end..." Mercifully, he passes out halfway across the expanse of the garret.
At that moment, Rousseau returns to the garret with his buddy Jussieu: "Up this way, my dear philosopher, my learned botanist, my fellow communer with nature."
"I'm also an excellent juggler," Jussieu expands his chest proudly. "But say, Rousseau, is that a bloody dead boy lying in the middle of your dark attic? Not that I'm jumping to panicked conclusions here."
"Oh the poor fool!" Says Rousseau. "Always obsessed with that window!"
"I just wanted... air," mouths Gilbert.
"Air!" exclaims Jussieu. "Indeed, that great carrier of life is much lacking in our crowded urbus. I am also a passing physician, Rousseau, may I inspect the young man?" With all the bone-cutting skills of the age, Jussieu pokes and prods at Gilbert, concludes, naturally, that the boy simply has "too much" blood in him and must be leeched, but since Gilbert quickly spits out a little red lake, Jussie relinquishes: "As long as he's getting all that nasty red stuff out of him, it means he's recovering. But say, young man, who was it that crushed you so badly?"
"Death. Love. Who knows?" Gilbert says grimly. "I must get back to work. Making copies, making copies."
Rousseau is alarmed at the boy's fierce determination- it's a new kind of darkness: "Work can surely wait. I will pay for everything."
Gilbert turns his face away: "I don't take charity from anyone." His eyes suddenly widen, and he makes a motion towards Rousseau: "Forgive me! I just... feel so wrong now."
Jussieu intercedes for Gilbert: "Surely the boy has not heard of the splash this event has caused at court. Right now, he is of the highest concern to the Dauphin and the Dauphiness! Yes, you, young man. Louis Auguste and Marie Antoinette were supposed to be off to Marly and instead rest at the palace of Trianon, to better hear the people's cries. The Dauphin just wrote a most touching letter to M. de Sartines, giving him two thousand crowns to dedicate to reparations."
Rousseau narrows his eyes: "So, you have just seen M. de Sartines? The cop?"
Jussieu: "Did I say that?"
Rousseau: "Sorta yes you did."
Jussieu: "He's my contact. Just picking up some, you know, "seeds". To plant. Purely for private consumption." He coughs. "I am an illustrious horticulturist, remember. ANYWAY, the point is, Marie Antoinette is tending to the sick among the noble- this time, even the rich paid greatly for the entertainment."
Gilbert mumbles: "Andree... Do you know anything about Andree?"
"Never heard of her," Jussieu decides to retire before he's babbled too much. "So I say, young man, rest, air, lots of liquids. But not blood. Blood must go OUT. Got it? Oh, by the way, Rousseau, what are you doing this Sunday? Monsieur de Sartines suggested you and I go to the Forest of Marly on a botanical excursion."
"What was that?"
Jussieu: (smacking himself in the face) "I mean, I had an idea entirely of my own volition that you and I should go to the Forest of Marly on a botanical excursion. Also, it is important that your invalid comes along. He will help us to... pick up... mosses. You know how I so enjoy moss."
"I suppose," Rousseau is a little suspicious.
Juisseu sweetens the herb-pot: "And of course, I'll lend you some of my... seeds... primo stuff! For medicinal purposes, naturally."
"Golly! We'll be there!" says Rousseau.



And somewhere in an undercover patrol carriage, M. De Sartines smiles as his plan for a philosopher's trap kicks into high gear.

Now You Simmy, Now You Don't.

What hapenned, my Simmy 3? Was it something I did- a command I inadvertently pressed? Just now you looked like me, in your 20s, a lovable homunculus sporting my own visage and laughing at life, full of dreams that I happily made your reality. And oh, the things we envisioned together! You were on your way to becoming a celebrated writer, to get out of that part-time job at Divisadero Books and maybe get a girlfriend you could marry; although there was plenty of time, after all you barely had enough money to buy a TV or upgrade the stove. And so I decided you should have a party to celebrate your 28th birthday, and I bought you an Inferno Cake at the Supermarket, and invited that hottie police officer that reacted so well to the cadences of your inimitable Sim-language. And then you blew the candles and made a wish-

AND THE NIGHTMARE BEGAN.



For suddenly the universe morphed around you, and you had become AN ELDER SIM, your back bent, your hair so white you might have shared polar bear genes. How? I pushed the computer away, my inability to save you from your plight no doubt similar to that of a horrified God watching humanity's trespasses and deciding, "Let's flush them down with a flood, eat them with an earthquake, flatten them with asteroids." I now understand it was God's act of mercy. I couldn't bear to see you die within a few hours. I was aware of the possibility, of course, but supposed it would come after hundreds of hours of gameplay if ever, after your life had taken on a semblance of fulfillment. I expected a hypothetical slow decay and not the surprise of that wrinkled face staring accusingly at me from the control panel, as though I was somehow responsible for the tumultuous betrayal of your cells. Aren't I? Did I spend too much time brushing your teeth and showering you and teaching you how prepare Mac and Cheese instead of tending to the things that really mattered? Did you waste so much time taking out the trash and recycling the newspaper that you failed to encounter a single trusted friend to succor you while you lay crippled and incontinent in your Sim bed?

I am sorry, Simmy. I couldn't face what must have been in part my failure. I had to delete your life- or its Sim anagram: your file.
I know your ghost in the town's graveyard understands.

DAMNED PO'POS!

Dear Imaginary Reader: Just yesterday I was reading a vanilla article about the 10 most popular prison names. Right away I said: "TYRONE!" (I was wrong- the most popular prison name is TYRELL.) Other obvious high-rankers? Kareem and Malcolm. And yet the article failed to mention the obvious: being black is a sure way to get arrested outside a club by the bacon trying to meet quotas. Instead it went on about how some of the other names, like Alex, could be considered girly. (?) Skirting the issue taken to new, re-assuring heights. I mentioned the article to a friend, and she said I was MEAN.
Mean, realistic, tomato, tomahto.
Well, today the nation's foremost black scholar, Henry Louis Gates Jr., was arrested for- this is a good one- being in his own too-fancy house near Harvard University. There was a break in Gates' house, and when the police arrived to investigate, who did they go for? The little old black man. The VICTIM. WHO LIVES IN THE HOUSE. Who's a HARVARD PROFESSOR. Who shows them the I.D. saying he LIVES IN THE HOUSE.

Now, now, I'm not going to give you some sort of eulogy for the civil rights movement either: the police HAD to investigate after all, and the man was quickly released, probably after someone googled his name and realized Al Sharpton would be all over that shit within two hours. Also, he was not arrested for breaking and entering, but because he was not co-operating with the police. Gates failed to go like: "Gentlemen, there's been a mistake. See all those pictures of ME on the wall? I'm not breaking into my OWN house." Instead, no matter what he'll inevitably claim, I picture him howling about Rodney King and suing the cops and racial profiling and how Obama would come save him, etc etc...

Still, messed up. F**K THA POLICE! For galoshes' sake, look at a PICTURE of the man:

ABOVE: A dangerous Negro, possibly armed.

Suddenly his book "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Black Man" seems more pertinent. Highly recommended, though: "The Signifying Monkey."

The Work of Spike Jonze on the Director's Label

With their "100%" video starring a very young Jason Lee, Sonic Youth gave Spike Jonze a launchpad to a career that would end up with critically acclaimed successes like "Banging Michelle Williams." For that alone, this unassuming freak is in my pantheon. Jonze's videos are not as whimsical as Gondry's, you don't sense the same underlying child-like sweetness. Jonze is a hipster and a nerd and embraces spastic dancing, and that's what most of his music videos do: film the human body being joyfully set on fire by music.
Christopher Walken cutting rugs in the air on Fatboy Slim's "Weapon of Choice", Bjork swinging a town alive in "It's Oh So Quiet", and the genius community dance choreography on Fatboy Slim's "Praise You" all stem from the same proposition: to truly embrace fun you have to be willing to dork out.

Bjork - It's Oh So Quiet
Uploaded by scopitones. - See the latest featured music videos.

"Weeds" Season 1

Two stoned middle-aged men are sitting on both sides of a coffee-table, arguing over whether the stretch of skin between a male's genitals and anal entrance is called a "taint" or a "runway." They turn to the Mexican maid and ask her: "Hey, Lupita, what do you people call that thing between the dick and the asshole?" Lupita: "A coffee-table!"

That bit might seem pulled out from Playboy's Party Jokes, but it perfectly exemplifies the sense of humor of "Weeds". Not for the naughtiness, but because it sets the vacuousness of the wealthy suburban against the very real contempt of the not-so-rich they rely on to mow their lawns, tend to their children, and sell them the drugs they need to remain anesthetized.
Mary Louise Parker is one of those rare actresses whose face compels you to laugh or cry along with them, gifts she puts to full effect as Nancy Botwin in "Weeds". It's a very funny show, (as you probably already knew, I'm late to this pot-party), but grounded on nearly melodramatic sadness. Nancy is forced to become a drug dealer in order to keep up the lifestyle once provided by a sainted dead husband, (Jeffrey Dean Morgan), who's so annoyingly perfect I can't help for season two or three to reveal putrid piles of skeletons in closets all over the Agrestic community. "Weeds" had me years ago, (it pretty much opened with Kevin Nealon getting high to Nellie McKay's "David", so I was a fan!). But the vagaries of my viewing habits kept me from getting into the rest of the season until now. It's a little TOO scripted, a little too agenda-heavy in its "American Beauty"-like skewering of neatly arranged houses and the doped-up white folks in them, but charming and hilarious.
Elizabeth Perkins as the the queen-tessence of surburbia and Justin Kirk as the world's least convincing straight man are also to watch out for.
But, yeah, GOD, thank you for Mary Louise Parker. The best actress ever, and I'm not just saying that because she's not overly protective of her pretty brown nipples.

ABOVE: The safest pic from her recent Esquire shoot. I don't peddle no smut here, I just suggest where you can find it.

One more stoned exchange from "Weeds" for the road:
"I hear Deaf Meghan sucks like a Dirt Devil."
"Daredevil? He's not deaf, he's blind! And he wouldn't suck cock. Superheroes don't suck cock."

"Lost" Season 4

Michael Giacchino's work on Pixar's "Up" was outstanding, but on "Lost" his descending brass scales are practically another cast mate, pulping suspense out of every moment that didn't necessarily advance the story. (And there were many of those.) Still, Season 4 of "Lost" is re-invigorating if only by its use of the flash-forward technique- when the past had squeezed most of its vital secrets out, the show simple flew past its logical conclusion and created NEW mysteries.

Stephen R. Donaldson's "The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever": Lord Foul's Bane

The first two chapters of Stephen R. Donaldson's "Lord Foul's Bane" are among the most startling- and perhaps the best- in the history of epic fantasy. They have nothing to do with swords, dragons, dwarves, elves, or prophecies. They're all about a best-selling writer's accidental contraction of leprosy, the subsequent dissolution of his marriage, and the re-adjustment of his sanity as he learns how to be a leper, always aware that the most innocent of cuts is prelude to the deadliest deformation.
And then he gets transported into a magical alternate universe where he must stand against an evil overlord and it's just another day on Middle Earth- Ooops, "THE LAND."
But those two chapters tinge everything, and this most routine of Tolkien rip-offs is transformed by a leprous, deliberate anti-hero, who distrusts his own quest, and whose first exertion upon entering a sweet new fantasy world is to rape his innocent guide.

Sonic Youth's "The Eternal"

Kim Gordon entered the cougar cage long ago, and Thurston Moore and Lee Ranaldo are eligible for AARP benefits, so there's a creeping irony about the "Youth" part, but the "Sonic" remains solid in "The Eternal." Here's why: without seeming to appeal to nostalgia, the band has stuck to its base sound, and hearing a 2009 Sonic Youth album is not too different an experience from hearing a 1989 Sonic Youth album. Like it or not, (you probably do) every Sonic Youth song sounds the same, typically built around the same dum-dum-dum-dum- DUM-DUM-DUM-DUM-dum-dum-dum-dum-DUM-DUM-DUM-DUM core that identifies a beginner's experiments with sound. Then there will be simple but affecting lyrics, either straight-sung from Moore or shrieked out sarcastically from Gordon; then they'll start piling on the dazing, transporting guitar drones; and at some point 3 to 10 minutes later, it will all conclude with frenzied drum-banging. It's that internal (eternal?) consistency, that makes you feel welcome to a new Sonic Youth album: no matter how weird the distortions get, this is warm and familiar. "The Eternal" finds Pavement's Marc Ibold joining the fold, and the band accelerating things and harshing those nice melodies that made recent SY albums more likely to hypnotize you than rock you out. "Poison Arrow", "Anti-Orgasm", and the proggy "Massage the History" are stand-outs, as is the first, sharp and short single, "Sacred Trickster".

Still, when Kim Gordon sings:
"'What's it like to be a girl in a band?'
I don't quite understand
That's so quaint to hear
I feel so faint, my dear"
I can't help but groan. REALLY, Kim? They're still asking you that after all these years? REALLY?
To quote an older Sonic Youth song:
"I don't think so."

David Hine's "Distric X" and "Mutopia X"

It was by no means a bad idea: "The Shield" with superpowers! What could go wrong? "Distric X" is Alphabet City's mutant ghetto, and X-man Bishop and his new partner Izzy Ortega get to dirty their consciences by bumping shoulders with the usual petty thieves, strippers and dealers- except these ones are likely to sprout wings or ugly growths or have prophetic powers or emit psychedelic drugs from their pores. This is a grittier collection than the usual X title, but the stories are still too fantastical to elicit real urban dread. Still, the BIG issue is with its two leads. Bishop, if you don't know, is a big stoic black guy, (Ving Rhames or someone like that might play him at the movies), so don't expect his character to be too transformed by the on-going stuff. Israel "Izzy" Ortega is the entire opposite- TOO affected, and it feels like writer David Hine (from "Daredevil: Redemption")- never has a clear hold on him. Is Izzy nice, an asshole, a psychopath, a dedicated cop? Depends on the panel. It's a failed attempt to create a cop as complex as Michael Chiklis' Vic Mackey in the above mentioned "Shield". Izzy just comes across as having a mutant problem of his own: unclear personality disorder.

CHAPTER 67: PARENTING TIPS FROM THE BARON OF TAVERNEY, or ANDREE'S RETURN

There are great fathers, good fathers, mediocre fathers, bad fathers; and then there's the Baron of Taverney (Gene Hackman).
His carriage has rolled its way to safety quite smoothly over plebeian backs, and to the credit of this great man, he's actually sent warning shouts to the people he runs over, although some uncharitable witnesses said the shouts were more like whoops of excitement. And as he flees from the bad scene at the Plaza Louis XV and anticipates a comfy bed and perhaps a furtive peek at Nicole Legay's butt, the great man even finds time to dedicate a few thoughts to the twin offspring he's left behind.
These are the top three parenting tips from the Baron of Taverney.

# 1- NEVER GIVE YOUR CHILDREN CAUSE FOR PAIN OR ALARM. And what's more traumatic to children than the bereavement that follows the loss of a parent? Therefore, in the interest of not upsetting Philip or Andree, it is of primary interest that the Baron get himself to safety pronto.
# 2- DO NOT OVERPROTECT YOUR DAUGHTER. It is natural for fathers to want to keep their daughters from the bestial touch of men, but one must learn to let go, and, difficult as it may be, allow one's daughter to be raped by a frenzied crowd. It is a natural part of growing up, and sheltering her from those experiences could lead to an abnormally prudish behavior, which might in turn stunt your girl's courtly career.
# 3- SHOW YOUR SON YOU TRUST HIS SKILLS AND RESPECT HIS INDEPENDENCE. There's no need to baby your boy by trying to bail him out of a stampede. He's already grown up and quite capable of saving himself how he best sees fit. Infringing upon your son's life struggles only makes him question his decision-making abilities. You must allow him to unfold his potential to the fullest, and to save his sister too.

And so this pinnacle of parenthood arrives quite satisfied to the little hotel with which we've become familiar from spying at its back windows, heads for his four poster bed, and notices with some distaste that his pillows are not as fluffy as his new station in Paris should guarantee. He has some dreams about fireworks that shower gold coins, and in the morning descends to breakfast all psyched by the thought that his servants LaBrie and Nicole must have prepared some kick-ass eggs and bacon.
LaBrie and Nicole just stare at ium with wide-eyed alarm, their faces unkempt with lack of sleep. Finally Nicole moans:
"THEY HAVEN'T COME HOME!"
TAVERNEY: "What's that, pretty waiting maid who looks slightly like Marie Antoinette?"
NICOLE: "Philip and Andree, they haven't come home!"
T: "Oh, you know kids these days, probably at a rave sucking lollipops well into the morning."
N: "All of Paris is talking about the stampede! Monsieur, did you just LEAVE them there?"
T: "Oh, right. There WAS a bit of a massacre at the fireworks, yesterday. Cheap foreign manufacturers! The moment they said "Mr. Ruggieri" I knew we had a WOP in our hands."
LaBrie holds the back of a chair so as not to faint, Nicole covers her face: "They're dead."
T: "Now, now, no need to be dramatic. Just because a few hundred people were crushed by my wheels last night doesn't mean the Taverney-Maison-Rouge line is COMPLETELY extinguished. Philip probably spent the night looking for me- that boy is a fine example of filial duty."
Nicole has stopped listening, a shadow has interrupted the tremulous morning rays right on the window. She runs to open the door, and with a sigh of relief she greets Philip, who looks like something the cat drug in and them defecated on.
"I think my arm is broken," Philip says shyly. "I'm not a doctor, but it really shouldn't look this twisted, should it?" He's olding it on a sling made from his vest. "Is Andree back? I hope she made it here."
The Baron of Taverney jumps towards his offspring and starts a hands on demonstration of his number 4 tip: Always encourage your children to persevere in their efforts!
"Are you saying you couldn't save Andree? And yet you came back here? For shame, you worthless coward! In my days the army would have taught you better! I am so dissapointed! You march yourself right back on the street and look and look until you rescue your sister!" A very authentic tear plops down his cheek: "Without her, it's back to that crumbling chateau of Taverney!"
"I will, father," says the heroic knight, stung by the comments. "I won't return here without finding Andree, living or dead. And if I can't fulfill my promise, we'll never be embarrassed by each other's presence again."
Nicole makes a motion as if to arrest the dramatic exit of Philip, but the whole domestic mess is interrupted: As Philip prepares to slam the door of the hotel behind him, with the well-known relief of the pissed off young male, a hackney coach materializes at the end of the street. The Baron, LaBrie and Nicole crowd behind Philip to watch the car roll up to them funereally. A girl's familiar blonde head can be guessed at, leaning against the door, as if the woman was asleep. Except that Andree's eyes are wide open and stare blankly at nothing.
"Dead." Philip's words escape his mouth and they taste like nothing to him. "They're bringing us her corpse."
The Baron howls: "My Andree, my sweet Andree!!! Oh God!!! She's dead!!! I'm ruined!!!"

The coach door opens, and Andree's prostrate form is lifted by the strong arms of a certain titular character, who descends to the street with his charge and says:
"Dead? Not by a long shot. The young lady has simply had a long night, and will recover soon."
"It's the sorcerer, the Baron Joseph Balsamo!" The Baron of Taverney explodes into relieved laughter: "He saved her last night, and has taken her to... and ah... and oh, and. She has been brought here in the morning." He lowers his voice and coughs next to Joseph: "She's not damaged goods now, is she?"
JOSEPH: "Sir?"
TAVERNEY: "I mean, Andree's disappeared for quite a while, you see, and as a father I can't help but ponder whether her womanly dignity might have been endangered last night..."
J: "Sir!"
T: "...In which case I would have asked for some monetary retribution, but haha, kidding, I can see nothing happened last night. But why let last night dictate tonight? Maybe I can hook it up for you."
J: "SIR!!! Absolutely not. Can I talk to someone here who's not complete filfth?"
Philip pushes his father aside: "Baron Balsamo, I cannot begin to express my gratitude."
J: "Do not thank me, I have indeed kept your sister overnight at the house of my friend, the Marchioness of Sevigny. Realize, she was in a faint when I found her in last night's melee, and I didn't know her address at all. If it hadn't been for this worthy fellow who was at Madame Sevigny's," he points to a man inside the coach who wears royal livery, the uniform of the king's stables. "His name is Courtuois. As I was saying, if not for him, who recognized her as one of Marie Antoinette's beautiful new friends, we would have been at a loss for an address until the lady recovered her senses. But here we are and here she is. I think you'll find she's a little out of it but safe."
P: "Be assured I will repay you anytime you want, now you know where we live."
J: "No no NO, not in the least, it is ME who's repaying YOU for your hospitality at Taverney," Joseph smiles. "Here's a little social hint, though: the Marchioness of Sevigny lives in the rue St. Honore, near the Fueillants. I'm sure it would probably be nice if Mademoiselle de Taverney would pay her a visit."
P: "My sister owes her live and safety to you."
J: "This is literally true, but I consider it an honor. I have done something quite wonderful. I am happy to have saved such a beautiful young lady, and I am happy to leave her in the hands of such a good brother, and I'm happy to..." He turns to the Baron of Taverney: "Yeah, I have nothing nice to say about you. Good crowd-crushing skills? Vamonos, Courtuois!"
Balsamo gets back on the carriage and Courtuois refuses to take the tip that Philip proffers with his broken arm. You know what's bothering me? I've had a broken arm, it hurts something nightmarish, I do believe that Philip's courtesies to Rousseau and Balsamo would have greatly decreased if he truly had a broken arm. I think Philip's arm isn't broken, just dislocated. The Baron of Taverney agrees with me, he sneaks behind Philip and says: "Son, I want you to think of a pretty sunset." Philip is like: "What do you mean?" "Pretty sunset, Philip!" CRACK. "MOTHERFUCKER!" Philip SCREAMS.
The Baron of Taverney has snapped Philip's arm back into place and now it looks normal and not twisted. Yup, father knows best. The Baron of Taverney walks over to Andree, who's been meanwhiling herself there like a dazed retard mannequin back from horror camp.
The Baron of Taverney snaps his fingers twice before Andree's eyes:
Andree: "Where- who...what...why...?"
The Baron exhales: "This one's looking a little burnt out."
Nicole says: "Maybe she was touched in a bad place?"
Andree: "I don't recall...things...daze...Joseph...Balsamo... His eyes. Where was I?"
The Baron of Taverney claps his hands: "Well, I never needed her to be all that smart anyway. And Philip can probably still fight off my debtors. Gotta work his arm back to punch-mode, though. Oh, all is well that ends well. Damn, I'm a good dad. it just comes natural!"