CAUTION: My girl, Carol, speaks her mind in a strong,
brassy and vibrant fashion. If you are offended by straight talking,
adult oriented language (sometimes, there's a "very" in there), please be
aware that you may well find it here. Carol shoots from the hip and
tells it like it is, pulling no punches and taking no prisoners.
That's why I love her & why I hired her. If it's not your bag, let's
part still friends and salute our differences in tastes (I'm sort of a
strong strawberry flavor...) ~*~Katrina~*~
THE BITCH IS BACK!
NOT YOUR GRANDMOTHER’S DAYTIME
I don’t mind
swearing – hell, I do a lot of it myself. I also don’t mind the occasional
boobs and butts, but in the daytime? It’s a little too much. Surely the
writers can think of more creative ways to use their 40 minutes per
episode than following the crowd for attention-getting shock value.
Before I had a child of my own, I used to hate the Christian right-wing
activist prudes lobbying Congress for stricter federal legislation
regulating smut on the airwaves.
wanted to put warning stickers on CDs for adult content, keep actors from
cussin’, gettin’ naked and simulating sex on TV and add more educational
programs for the PBS set. I wanted to throw them on a deserted island with
a copy of Mister
the greatest hits of Pat Boone.
now that I’m approaching 40, a stay-at-home mom, with an impressionable
toddler, I’m thinking different, that those do-gooders may not have been
so wrong. I still believe in the open market democracy of a place for
every person’s interest, pure or prurient, but there should also be a
certain amount of responsibility and restraint when it comes to what
networks air during the daytime.
of this comes from my own history as a child growing up with several
different babysitters and caretakers. Both my parents had to work, so I
often spent my days – starting at around five or six years old – with a
grandmother or the 20-year-old down the street, sometimes my mother on her
day off. They all had one thing in common: soap operas. Instead of sitting
on the floor stacking blocks with me, reading me children’s books, or
running around playing hide-and-seek, they sat their fat asses on the
couch and watched game shows and daytime serials on TV, eating bonbons,
sipping glasses of Tab, sometimes with a box of Kleenex on their laps.
weren’t completely out to lunch. In the back of their minds, from
conditioning, they knew they could watch this stuff without scarring me
for life, in the safe, sound reassurance that sexual and violent themes
would not subtly or overtly rear their ugly heads... back in the day when
standards were standards. Besides, it was either that, or turn the TV set
off—by getting up off their fat asses and hitting the off button
the TV, no child-proof censor control on any remote. And why would they do
that when soaps were a habit they thoroughly enjoyed, one that took them
out of their humdrum lives and into another world, quite like reading a
habit became mine. I got hooked on AMC first, then Y&R and DOOL, then GH
and OLTL on my own in high school. I loved these familiar characters; they
became a second family to me, and helped forge my own ideas of love, life,
career and family, including gender roles and social issues. I admired the
independent diva-bitch of fictional women like Erica Kane, Karen Wolek,
Marlena Evans, Jill Abbott, Anna Devane. I dreamed of falling in love with
Prince Charmings like Cliff Warner, Greg Nelson, Scott Baldwin, Neil
Winters, Doug Williams, Don Craig. I felt hope for people who looked
different (read: non-white), like me, making marks in this world (maybe I
could be up on stage too), when I saw Jesse Hubbard’s Darnell Williams,
Angie Baxter’s Debbi Morgan, Mia Korf’s Blair Cramer up there on the big
screen doing anything but another Bruce Lee kung fu move.
now, I can’t let go. With all the new and enticing, sexy cable programs
surfacing everywhere, 50,000 channels on the dial-up, pay-per-view, the
major networks—CBS, ABC, NBC, Fox, UPN, WB—coming up with sexier options,
I wouldn’t be hurting to try. But despite what they tell you at MTV,
nostalgia is tougher competition.
be like asking me to give up writing, reading crime stories and Stephen
King novels on the can, lip syching to Karen Carpenter hits with my remote
control mic on my coffee table stage, crocheting afghans for my friends,
going off in the woods hiking to clear my mind, enjoying a three-course
Italian feast in the heart of Brooklyn. Soaps are a part of me.
continue tuning in, with my little boy James running around nearby, racing
his toy trucks, taking a running leap and jumping on me, doing what little
boys do. Granted, I usually watch my soaps while doing the laundry, the
dishes, making dinner, taking breaks – thank God for
replay’s pause and rewind buttons – to chase my buddy for some
tickles, but I still watch.
I can’t watch the way my mom, grandmother and babysitters did before
me—without a care in the world, content in the knowledge that despite the
constant angst displayed, nothing on that little screen would shock,
horrify or titillate such a young mind as mine. I have to watch carefully,
and quite often, alone. More than once I’ve had to quickly change the
channel to Noggin’ or Disney for some innocent G-rated cartoons, because
the scenes quickly changed into adults-only (I can’t do much about the
constantly running daytime commercials hawking Victoria’s Secret sex
clothes, sex patches and sex lubes).
other night, I couldn’t believe my eyes when GH’s Faith and Skye
practically reenacted one of the most tried and true lesbian porno themes
right before my eyes. Faith called Skye her “bitch,” and planted a big fat
wet one right on the smacker. I’m surprised, Faith didn’t try to rip
Skye’s prison outfit off and wrestle on the ground half naked. Actually,
Faith did try. Skip to Courtney and her sex fantasies played out with Jax
in a convent, both of them dressed inappropriately, and later, Courtney
standing there moaning and groaning with more fantasies of near coital
on OLTL, Antonio and Sonia are about to sex it up. And who could forget
John and Evangeline doing a good impression of Skin-a-flex’s R-rated B
movies, up on the sink and against the wall, bosom heaving, pants bulging?
Profanity and cleavage are regular co-stars there, too.
Daytime’s soaps, especially, teach us how to disrespect (threaten,
assault, humiliate) our elders (OLTL’s Asa, AMC’s Adam), even posthumously
(GH’s Lila), embrace white-collar crime and a little thuggery if the thug
in question is as ruggedly handsome with sexy blue eyes as Jason Morgan on
GH, commit adultery with justification (they committed adultery before,
but always with remorse and punishment), celebrate promiscuity like they
would an unplanned pregnancy, and the list goes on.
soap characters kill each other, there’s plenty of bloody evidence to show
for it. There’s also plenty of gory, macabre detailed torture, screaming,
sound effects replicating stab wounds and punches, leading up to the
murders. Anybody catch Marlena having an orgasm while stabbing one of her
victims, blood spattering all over her body and face? Too much.
slightly comparative note, CBS tends to tone down the racy content more
and more consistently. I just read of two examples on its top-rated Y&R
and B&B, where Proctor & Gamble’s people slammed down on building stories
that would’ve tapped into the incestuous LeTourneau newsreel, with Y&R’s
Mackenzie, 21, and an underaged Daniel, and B&B’s Amber to Thomas. On Y&R,
writers simply dropped the attraction. And on B&B, they’re planning to age
Thomas to legal. Apparently ABC Daytime, owned by the corporation
supposedly all about children and child welfare, Disney, isn’t hampered by
such considerations, as it let Faith seduce underaged Dillon on GH, going
so far as to show her about to go down on his underaged little private
parts. I’m not surprised by CBS’s admirable handling of such touchy
material; this network, above all others, has tried to keep up with the
times, yet still maintain standards (okay, Deacon giving Brooke an orgasm
on B&B last year notwithstanding).
difference between the past and the present on soaps is, now, they show
almost everything the primetime shows and the movies do. Soap execs feel
to, in order to compete, to attract some of the same
attention as their primetime/movie cohorts. More than a few soap actors
readily subscribe to this new and improved keeping up with the mainstream
trends, including GH’s Ted King (Lorenzo), Tony Geary (Luke), Maurice
wasn’t as if the soaps of the past were above reproach either, but they
always tried to drive story, inform characters and aim toward the best in
humankind. They weren’t trying for gratuitous, sensationalistic plot
devices and shock value outside character-centered stories.
always been a firm believer of freedom of speech and expression, and I
will teach my son as much. But I will also show him an appreciation for
quality in the arts, appropriate to the content and his age, prove to him
it’s possible to exercise restraint, be creative without always having to
resort to the lowest common denominator, conversely, that only a few
equally creative souls can pull off cursing as an art (comedians Chris
Rock and Richard Pryor come to mind), practice consideration for others,
and still be a free-thinking individual.
know it’s easy to curse and be crass. I’ve done it myself, in person and
in my commentaries. But it’s much harder to stop, think, and present the
same sentiment and subject matter with the same impact, without the
cursing and the crassness. It’s why I’ve tried it myself in this and the
Eye on Soaps
for several months now. Not better, just two different sides of me,
equally valid, equally true.
sure the soap writers can come up with better too on a more consistent
basis. They don’t have to be like everybody else and copy the in-your-face
mannerisms on a high toward gritty realism – without the depth of meaning
or follow-through of purpose. There can be gritty realism in daytime
without the extraneous show-offy quotient of fourth graders flouting
sometimes, it’s more effective in the long run to hint at attraction or
malevolence. I know I’m more turned on when two people are yearning for
each other across a crowded room without even touching (witness AMC’s Zach
and Maria), or more scared when a shadow crosses over a damsel’s face, cut
to black. Airing it all out there like a Jerry Springer show 24/7 tends to
dilute such effectiveness, and leave most of us numb to genuine touching
reaction. Or worse, leave us lazier than we already have been trained to
be, letting what passes for entertainment nowadays lead us by the hand and
tell us, step by step, what we’re supposed to feel and think, and doing
all of the work for us.
not saying it’s wrong to reflect current society, it’s actually natural
and has been happening with soaps (and other media) throughout the ages.
Hookers came on the scene around the late ‘70s and ‘80s, married couples
were allowed to lay in bed together, fully clothed, just chatting and
smooching chastely (whereas before, never or with one foot on the floor),
the love scenes got more risqué, with more tongue, more candles and more
skin. The problem happens when that’s all I see, an increasing amount of
risqué without substantive story true to the characters to back the
increase, and not enough of the opposite in subtle, hesitant tension
played with intensity, intelligence, emotion and the x-rated fantasy left
up to viewers’ own individual imagination.
than a few soap fans simply go along with the flow, reciting the common
refrain: It’s not up to the TV and movie industry to babysit your kids.
Parents should.” Obviously, these people have never been parents, or if
they are, enjoy the luxury of a battalion of nannies, practice what they
don’t preach by keeping
off daytime-viewing, or don’t care one way or another.
average, everyday set of American parents are hard-working, over-stressed
middle-class citizens who barely have time to shop for groceries, much
less schedule playdates and dates with each other. Their children, if they
have more than one, are off at break-neck speed, getting into everything
and anything. Supervising them is a full-time job, and let’s face it,
nobody can do it with the constancy society – and child experts – demand.
According to these experts, we’re supposed to keep our eye on our children
24/7, preventing them from intentionally or accidentally experiencing and
witnessing something that’ll damage their psyche. Definitions of such
damage vary, depending on the neuroses of the expert and the parents.
know of parents who won’t let their children go outside if there’s even a
hint of a cloud in the sky, or get dirty playing in the garden, or even
play with more than one toy at a time (cleaning each one with disinfectant
right after). Neighbors down my street refuse to allow their children
outside their yard perimeter; don’t even talk to them about visiting
friends’ homes. There’s one OC-D-afflicted mother of a friend of an
acquaintance of my husband’s who never allowed her infant daughter to put
anything in her mouth, not even a clean toy, and furthermore, to this day,
two years and counting, will never let the tyke interact with anybody
outside the home and outside her own mom and dad.
all fine and well to talk of setting up limits, parental controls, but
try outwitting a teenager from accessing smut on the Internet
at 4 in the morning, talking out of turn on their text-messaging, AIMing
cells between classes, or sneaking a McDonalds quarter pounder with
friends afterschool. How about keeping a toddler from jumping into a mud
puddle while you’re trying to open the car door for a grocery run?
Anything short of the same solitary confinement suffered by GH’s Faith
case, I’ve chosen to watch my soaps after everybody’s gone to bed... my
husband because he can no longer stomach the boring, repetitious shows
with characters he no longer recognizes (he used to love Sonny to death),
our son, because daytime on a major network is, unfortunately,
ridiculously not kid-friendly.
a shame, because despite the cornball aspect of long-lost twins and
back-from-the-dead villains, soaps have taught me much more about how to
be a decent, caring human being and how to respect and honor my heritage,
my gender and the people who helped raise me in a loving, supportive
community – an education in itself, education our son James will,
unfortunately miss out on... because soap executives, actors and many of
their fans truly believe joining ‘em beats staying the same.
As Easy As ABC by Katrina Rasbold, 9/23)
THEY ALWAYS COME BACK
Shemar Moore returns to Y&R in November as Malcolm Winters, after having
departed only two years ago vowing he never would. I waited, knowing this
would happen. It always does.
2002, Shemar Moore went public with plans to leave his successful 13-year
run as Neil’s younger brother Malcom on Y&R, sounding very much the
confident primetime player, almost convincing me he’d make good on never
then I remember Finola Hughes (ex-Anna, GH/AMC), Tyler Christopher
(Nikolas, GH), Sarah Brown (ex-Carly, GH; Julia, ATWT) Cameron Mathison
(Ryan, AMC), just to name a few, who also sounded just as convincing. And
within years, some a decade or so, came crawling back, as if nothing
happened (nothing did, to their primetime/film aspirations), as if fans
like me would forget their final farewell in the first place.
forget my car keys and to turn off the bathroom light a lot, but I’m not
that far gone.
Moore pronounced his departure with much
fanfare, spouting the usual parting actor line as if he were the first to
invent earnest but dogged ambition, I sat there laughing my fucking ass
off and made a little pronouncement of my own: “Dude’ll be back in two
years, maybe less.”
halfheartedly noted his name mentioned as a host of
and some nothing of a new show
called Celebrity throughout the years, but
otherwise, same shit, different actor.
other day I finished reading the
Soap Opera Digest
version of Sarah Brown’s big, surprising soap comeback – as recurring,
short-term Julia on ATWT – which might as well have been the same
goddamned interview Cameron Mathison (Ryan, AMC) gave, or Kamar de los
Reyes (Antonio, OLTL), and oh, yeah David Fumero, who tried to leave three
times and did on the third try, is coming back to OLTL too.
tried acting like returning was all her idea, for nobler reasons having
nothing to do with needing the publicity soaps gave her. She wanted to
work in New York City, be near her daughter’s biological father for her
daughter’s sake, in the heart of the action, but not locked down in a
two-year contract, certainly not something ABC Daytime president Brian
Frons allegedly wanted from her. This would give her extra time to pursue
acting outside soaps and maybe think about some practice with directing.
yeah, she had planned to enter directing school, conducted a big fucking
deal contest with fans to see if she could use one of their winning
stories with which to put together a short film as an entry (I submitted
something, that’s how much of a gullible ass I was), but as soon as she
“left” GH of her own accord, of course her big director’s dream went out
the window. She
says it’s because she couldn’t afford to commit herself full
throttle, and keep a roof over her house. Acting paid the bills, acting
kept her name in the casting calls. Directing would have to wait.
also interesting to note that only after two-three years had passed and
the sting of “leaving” GH wore away, she felt safe enough to come clean
about a major reason she did not stick around. It wasn’t
just to pursue her hallowed directing. It wasn’t just to seek fame in
primetime and movies. It wasn’t just time. It was also because she
disagreed passionately with the direction her bosses – around the time
Jill Farren Phelps moved from executive producing OLTL to GH – decided to
take her character, as a woman who would rat Sonny out to the Feds, who
would even think it okay to rely on law and order to handle her personal
business, she being a Spencer through and through.
at the time, the rumors were strong that she and Phelps engaged in a
heated altercation of that very disagreement, and that she didn’t get
along well with the previous EP, either. Co-stars came out after Brown
left, stating that she could be a little overwhelming in scenes :: cough
tend to believe that in the end, Sarah Brown left of her own accord,
mostly because the thought of doing her own thing with more independence
and creative control was too enticing to pass up. I believe most of the
departing soap stars feel that way. But I also think she would’ve stayed
if TPTB hadn’t forced an unpalatable storyline on her, given her more room
to do outside projects and a say in the development of her own character.
I daresay, had she stayed, she might’ve saved Sonny and Carly, and this
entire mob-centered debacle. The last thing Brown would’ve wanted, is a
show centered around glorifying the mob in couple isolation; this chick
was all about family, and the last time I ever saw Carly give a fuck about
anyone outside her Sonny and Jason vortex was when Brown inhabited the
role and railed in outrage at what Lucky was going through with his
parents and the Cassadines. That’s the last time Carly interacted in any
manner whatsoever with Luke and Laura, too.
it’s okay if these actors and actresses leave for better opportunities.
Who among us wouldn’t? It’s just that they should stop trying to convince
us that this time
are for real. They remind me of the message board regulars in the online
soap opera community, who announce that they’re through posting for good,
they mean it!,
and write this grand farewell to all their buds, as well as a
grand fuck-you to all their enemies, hoping for an avalanche of
Oh, please don’t go!
We’ll miss you so!<<HUGS!!!>> tribute... usually right after a board war that got too
heated. Only, they come creeping back, expecting the same emotional
fanfare, as if countless others before them hadn’t also pulled this
bullshit, in almost the very same way,
I couldn’t stay away, I
missed all of you so much, and besides, I have so much to say!
this behavior does – for both posters and departing actors – is lessen the
impact, validity, believability of the departure itself, always done so
grandly, so earnestly. If these people would just leave out the back door
quietly, leaving that door ajar slightly, they wouldn’t keep looking like
bombastic, self-important fools.
Additionally, I’m just finding it very predictable and very hilarious that
not a damned one of them will cop to their complete and total
biz types like to see themselves as originals. But in many ways,
especially the hello-good-bye-er, I’m back ... they’re all pathetically
SOMETIMES, THEY LIE
mentioned earlier, I used to watch DOOL, more religiously than I do GH
today. That NBC soap was all about family ties and grounded romance. The
most far-fetched it ever got for me was when Julie and Doug discovered a
grown-up, half-Asian-looking young woman as his long-lost daughter (not
Julie’s I don’t think, then it would’ve been really fucked up). Otherwise,
the men and women in Salem did what the men and women in any small town
America did, they worked, they talked over coffee, they prepared for
holidays, they sometimes rallied around someone afflicted with a disease,
they fought over and dealt with the occasional love triangle (Marlena
comes to mind).
bailed when the show started turning to the teens in the audience, writing
the stories more fantastically and aimed mostly at their fickle crowd,
less vets, more supernatural horror, less realism. After the flack the
show received in going
Marlena, I knew I’d made the right decision. (Who knew I’d wind up with
the same shit on two of the three ABC soaps to some extent?)
most of my high school and college years, I basically ignored DOOL. Unlike
Y&R, I refused to tune in now and then to check up on the familiar faces,
I didn’t even read any related articles in soap magazines. That is, until
executive producer Ken Corday made a stink about then-“Critical Condition”
columnist Marlena Delacroix of
Soap Opera Weekly
and her critical column about his show, pretty much detailing the same
problems I had. Instead of taking it like a man – say what you will about
GH’s EPs, at least they don’t have a cow over freedom of speech – he
whined lke a crybaby to the magazine’s higher-ups, his published letter
bitching about how Delacroix is paid to kiss DOOL’s ass, cheerlead for
DOOL, only praise DOOL’s best points and shut up about the rest, that her
critical column did much to set back the genre itself in the eyes of
magazine’s higher-ups seemed to support Delacroix, as did fans like me,
but not soon after, SPW underwent a major renovation, with the
editor-in-chief Mimi Torchin kicked off, Delacroix departing and the mag
transformed into a tabloid rag, covering primetime’s latest obsession,
reality-TV. That always struck me suspiciously. Ever since, SPW has never
been the same. It reads haphazardly, regular columns a mishmash of
thrown-together-at-the-last minute crap, trying to copy
with mostly pictures and trashy innuendo veering into the way-too personal
about the actors, dead or alive. I no longer subscribed. Why bother, my
favorite columnist was gone, and in my eyes, the publisher succumbed to
demands of censorship by an industry executive who can’t take the heat.
wasn’t until the
Salem murders that I started paying
attention again, if only to mock Corday and his double-speak. The man is a
born salesman, IMHO, of a circus freak show, and the hilarious game for me
is to watch him excitedly hawk the latest IT WILL BLOW YOU AWAY! with
earnest sincerity, while noting the broken, rusty, secondhand details
first, Marlena turned out to be the serial killer, laying waste to as many
of the show’s beloved staples as she could with gleeful abandon, part Xena,
Warrior Princess, part Freddy Kruger. They even showed her wet dream, as
she repeatedly stabbed her lover John with a knife, blood spurting on her
clothes, her face, looking as if she were in fact, having an orgasm. It
was revolting stuff, the stuff of B-movie horror videos, and quite
unnecessary to daytime.
at the time, I distinctly remember reading in the soap magazines Ken
Corday promising, swearing up and down that Marlena would not turn out to
be crazy, or to have been programmed by a nefarious moustache-twirler into
to a year later, it’s
Island, Marlena’s victims are alive and stuck there, Marlena
herself—having been shot down, then risen from the coffin—is among them,
trying to escape. Turns out Marlena never killed these people, she was ::
get ready ::
Thaao Penghlis’ Tony to believe she did, while he later revived and stored
them on the island.
also seem to recall the executive producer or the writer promising that
the victims were gone as we knew it, and the payoff would come in an
unexpected way, that fans would be proud, amazed and relieved. I don’t
know about the hardcore, diehard fans, but this former one was none of
those things. I
was appalled and disgusted to see the lengths these soap
professionals would go to yank the audience’s chain, under the misguided
premise of keeping them on the edge of their seats.
of the hardcore fans would always throw DOOL’s current serial killing plot
device at me, as proof that gratuitous shock value worked, that people in
droves came together to see what those wacky motherfuckers in New Salem
would do next. Sorry, I never did. Marlena daydreaming about stabbing John
to death? Wasn’t watching it on the show, caught it in some preview teaser
a Seattle-based daytime talk show featuring Cindi Rinehart, Queen of
Soaps, who was as appalled and disgusted as I was.
Penghlis – who earlier broke the news to the press upon
his role that Marlena would be the killer, causing me to
laugh my ass off – sounded like he was taken aback as well, and hoped he
didn’t come off as the moustache-twirling villain with his empty laughter
at the lives he cost (and the fans his fall guy Tony needlessly pissed
off). Said he’d tried his best to narrate, in hindsight, how his character
orchestrated it all right from under the noses of us all, without turning
us all off. “I thought, ‘How do you tell a story that’s kind of brutal and
sadistic and yet make it entertaining, wanting the audience to follow you
in your element and still make them want to see you the next day?” [SOD,
Answer: You don’t, click, oh look, there’s Myrtle on AMC.
shouldn’t, and doesn’t, worry too much about whether his character will
get a second chance. It’s DOOL, where nothing is ever as it seems and
every phoenix rising from the ashes cornball cliché, complete with
cornball dialogue and bad acting, is possible. Even he said so, adding
that perhaps Tony would turn out to be bonkers, acting on insanity, but
returns cured and ready for the redeeming welcome of a braindead genre.
wait, wait... for the Ken Corday intro.
Jonathan cracked himself up after ordering Ryan to be more careful and
hiring two bodyguards, and I suddenly saw the reason for his hire. Dude
looks like Leo,
looks like. That’s about the extent of the resemblance, since
actor Jeff Branson hasn’t been wowing me at all, unless he’s butting heads
goes for James Scott as Ethan... unless he’s staring adoringly at Bianca,
the woman he can never have. Everybody’s talking up his eventual romantic
pairing with Kendall, talking sparks, but I don’t see it. I just see
Kendall trying too hard to relate to Ethan, citing their
similarities a little too desperately, now that Ryan’s taken with
Greenlee... and Ethan just standing there, clenching his taut little ass.
Come to think of it, Ethan acts like he doesn’t even like pussy. Hmmm.
There’s holding suspense and then there’s stalling. The baby-switching
story falls under the latter, and it’s pissing me the hell off. Plus, the
asshole writers are forgetting an important historic detail in the DNA
situation; we don’t know whether Babe’s baby is JR’s, the results got
tampered with after Babe and/or Krystal gave some blowjobs to the medical
staff... the only characters who know for sure are Babe and Krystal, and
they’re acting so far like it’s JR’s baby too. Why not simply conduct a
DNA test, under the radar of course, on little Ace in Llanview, JR, Jamie
and Paul, if these two bimbos don’t know? Why not simply have told Bianca
about her baby girl never having died in the first place... but that’s
water under the bridge. At this point, viewers are simply sitting around
impatiently, fuming right along with me at the latest outrageous stalling
tactic perpetrated by Babe on the auspices of giving Bianca what she
wants, just as soon as Babe gets what she wants too—undermining the entire
character redemption process.
should never have made Lily afraid of red. Now, every time she’s on, I
don’t watch her, because I’m looking out for anything red to set her off.
She must’ve been cured by Erica’s lavender scarf, because when they were
in Llanview, at Carlotta’s Diner, there was red everywhere. The red neon
signs outside, the red aprons.
a hard time watching the September 22nd AMC, as well. I kept
staring off at the framed artwork the set designers chose for each
character – Zach/Alexander’s painstakingly detailed white objets against
black velvet, the doctor’s office where David was with Babe and Krystal
and the Escher-like b/w puzzle print, Tad’s house with probably the
leftovers of Dixie’s down-home country style in the fruit branch... and
how those pieces somehow fit the mechanics of the characters’ individual
workings. Well, except for Tad, whom I felt should be displaying Red
Skelton’s clown paintings or something in a Sesame Street.
first I wasn’t paying attention to Zach and JR, because well, it’s JR, and
all that ass master does is bellow at full decibels. But then, when Zach
took over, he made quite a few clever analogies without coming right out
and saying that’s what they were... between his childhood and JR’s, how JR
tried to flee from his father’s blueblood, uppercrust shadow, but came
back and now seems trapped, a “junior” but never the original, Adam would
see to that – a similarity unspoken but clearly running through Zach’s
head, how he managed to, with Michael’s help, flee his own father’s
equally strict upbringing and expectations, to be his own man, and a
Zachery Slater, no less, not a “junior.” Of course, this revelation went
right over JR’s dullard head.
at this point, I wished every other character in Pine Valley would speak
like Zach, instead of Tad, Greenlee, Ryan and Kendall... y’know, that
clever, overly-rehearsed, bumper sticker kind of patronizing talk, like
they’re all auditioning for
Last Comic Standing,
instead of having real conversations with people. Nothing sounds real, or
natural, when coming out of their mouths. Although, Tad
will throw in a quick zinger that does work (see below)
sometimes, but he has to do it without thinking.
feet hit the ground, and the rest of you followed,” Greenlee told Ryan, in
the September 23rd episode, after he tried to get out of his
hospital bed, walk toward her a few feet away and take her clothes off
(long story, too gaggy to mention). One minute I’m watching Ryan pull the
sheet off him, cut to commercials, the next, he’s waking up, Greenlee
calmly tending to him, after having suffered a blackout. I mention this
because the scene is medically accurate (for a change for soaps), and
because I lived it two Septembers ago following a myomectomy. Two days
after my uterine fibroid surgery, the MENSA geniuses in the sparse nursing
staff thought it would be a neat idea if I tried to get up out of
hospital bed and walk around. I no sooner stood up with their help, than
felt immediately like heaving the empty in my stomach, which is nearly
impossible to do if it’s knotted up with stitches, next thing I knew, I
was sitting on a chair, several minutes had passed and the nurse had to
call an orderly to help because I’d dropped to the floor, out cold. My
problem, however, wasn’t a bullet removed from the gut, but the ill
effects of an epidural still dripping into my spine and low blood pressure
following the surgery. And those stupid nurses.
than the above, I had no idea what Greenlee and Ryan were nuzzling and
cooing to each other about, Greens sniffing Ryan’s chest, making a face,
bringing up vodka and olives, what the fuck-ever. The “sugar rush” Ryan
felt at Greenlee’s attempted clever sweet-nothings over the IV dripping
their love gave me a toothache.
Aidan didn’t need to stand there watching a topless Ryan being fondled by
Greenlee in their own private, nauseating soft-porn, he did provide comic
relief, in the end, piping up about wanting his own rub-down.
the other end of the clever spectrum, David admitted to Derek that he
bragged about putting Adam in the shipping crate, after the fact, not that
he actually committed the deed, and that doing so kept JR preoccupied with
finding his father, not hassling David’s daughter Babe. Nice save.
acronym as clever means for antagonizing JR, brought up by Reggie. He
toyed with the chiseled blond mannequin – forcing himself to wait at
Derek’s house until Derek found out whether David did crate Adam off in a
box – asking for in-person insight into being an EWG – Entitled White Guy.
Later, as Derek did a little of his own verbal beat-down, “... like
Hamlet’s pipe...,” the two former enemies bonded over their one-two-JR
punch, until they noticed Danielle watching with amusement. Derek and
Reggie swearing, together, that they weren’t enjoying a close moment was
more funny on AMC than I’d witnessed in weeks. Almost as funny as Derek’s
leisure get-up, loud aloha shirt, Bermuda shorts, socks, as emphasized by
David, “Did I double-park, or did you want to invite me to the
nagging Krystal to marry him, going behind her back to nag daughter Babe –
in a weird prelude where he went down on one knee with an empty ring box –
didn’t strike me as very funny, romantic or loving. But it’s typical
control-freak Tad. He thinks if he can get that one nagging secret out of
them, Krystal will have no other excuse but to agree to be his love slave.
Between his invasive prying and Krystal’s incessant, neurotic damage
control, these two obnoxious jerks cancel each other out.
did, however, enjoy Tad’s growing frustration when Krystal arrived to shut
Babe up and keep Tad from prying, then David followed not long after.
“Enter the world’s only flightless vulture,” Tad quipped, then groaned as
David gave Krystal and Babe the knowing eye, asking them to come with him.
“Oh for God’s sake, it’s surreal. What is it with you people? You got
everything but a secret handshake,” Tad said, exasperated that the
Great Martini wasn’t let in on the big secret too.
help me, I love Babe, despite her keeping Miranda from Bianca. When (is
she a doctor, a physical therapist, a physician’s assistant?) Anita
confirmed, in a roundabout way, that Kelly’s baby Ace could not possibly
be Kelly’s, the tears of joy on Babe’s face mirrored my own. While
everybody else in the thinking world waits impatiently for Babe’s
retribution, I’m in hiding, hoping it won’t be that bad.
Bianca has a really bad habit, afflicting 3/4ths of the alleged good girls
in soaps: an annoying tendency to bait her worshippers into mentioning a
painful trigger to one of a million tragedies suffered because of her
goodness. Take the September 24th episode (please).
checks out Bianca’s new pad, formerly Greenlee’s, when she accidentally
picks up the shirt Bianca wore when giving birth to Miranda. That spurred
on a conversation about loss and eventually, Erica’s new beginning,
starting that new company she promised before going nuts and going to
Vegas to be a showgirl. At the very mention of her mother’s new company,
Bianca brings up Erica’s painful encounter with the reporter several
months ago, when Erica was still in denial about her alcoholism, and the
interview that never happened—for no reason apparent to me, except
twisting the knife in Erica’s still raw wound about her alcoholism. Or
maybe the writers needed an excuse for the two to make it all about
Bianca’s pain instead; it did happen to be the day she gave birth and
subsequently lost her baby Miranda.
Predictably, Erica doesn’t acknowledge her own personal suffering from the
interview gone awry. She does, however, immediately offer up an abject
apology (for bringing it up—she didn’t, Bianca did), because immediately,
Bianca appears obviously stricken with horror, like,
Mother! How dare you
bring up that painful part of my past in such a thoughtless, roundabout
fashion! ...Only to have Bianca react with self-conscious nobility herself in
granting her mother pardon,
Oh it’s okay...
permission to launch into a self-pitying tale of woe.
next goody-two-shoes who even thinks about pulling this: Hey, don’t bring
up the subject if it will somehow wind up being about you and your pain!
And don’t act like the other person did it to hurt you, passive-aggressive
caught a glimpse of
Kendall’s bare back while yammering at Ethan about some bullshit or
another. One glimpse was enough, girlfriend needs to eat some fries. Maybe
that sounds like a personal attack (after all, when
Soap Opera Digest’s Carolyn Hinsey wrote the same thing in her “It’s Only My
Opinion” column over a year or so ago, she got slammed by a few overly
sensitive types for daring to go there), but a half-blind person could
plainly see that Alicia Minshew is beautiful, but way too rail thin,
beyond ballerina thin. Let’s just say, if she and Ethan
shagged, the simulated sex would be the last thing on my mind.
want Tad’s house, but David’s desk accessories.
your doors, people!
for quite possibly the least sexy female voice in the soap world: Greenlee
and Krystal. Theirs is enough to shrivel my own proverbial cock.
The following is what ABC Soaps in Depth online reported on
September 22: Head writer Michael Malone exits, as Dena Higley takes over,
effective the next coming weeks. Malone – who joined then quit OLTL
before, in the ‘90s – will return his attention to writing novels, as he
had before. He leaves with warmth for cast and crew and a special place in
his heart for Llanview in particular. Higley comes from the DOOL writing
staff, and hopes to passionately steer OLTL’s characters forward with a
“fresh perspective, while at the same time remaining true to the show's
illustrious history,” which means keeping stories character-driven.
Here’s my take on the departure and replacement: Michael Malone got
so fed up with the constant interference on story by the network suits
that he threw his hands up and said, Fuck it, I give up, I’m going back
to where the money and the results are, writing my own shit. So the
network suits scrambled and picked up a team player in Dena Higley,
someone who’ll do what they say, but mouth the party line about
here’s what bugs me about Antonio going all dark over his new identity as
Manuelito: big fucking deal, so his biological father was a murdering
sociopath who made his living pimping illegal drugs. He still had two
decent moms, Carlotta and Isabella. True Isabella isn’t of much use to him
now, but c’mon! What’s the guy have to be huffin’ and puffin’ about?
Nothing’s changed, nothing at all. Except maybe he should get over his
drama queen tantrums and get to beating the shit outta Tico.
the camera panned from Jessica, to Sonia, to Antonio, to a handful of
strangers with familiar faces who didn’t care about anything going on,
leaving me apathetic as well, I briefly toyed with the idea of putting an
indefinite hiatus on OLTL until the baby-switching story started winding
down for the finale. After the dreadfully boring, repetitious, derivative
September 22nd episode, which I could not detail for you if my
life depended on it, could you blame me?
a suggestion, in hindsight: Had Antonio and Tico developed any sort of
genuine family tie, gotten to know each other better, bonded, instead of
immediately thrown up red flags, all but winking for God’s sakes, for the
audience, practically signaling to all of us that Antonio suspects Tico of
something underhanded, Tico hates Antonio and is secretly working him to
get to his girlfriend Jessica, and they aren’t going to be connected, by
blood or friendship any time soon... maybe the story would’ve played out
better. This is what I mean about the soap writers treating the soap fans
like complete idiots, children to be led by the hand, step by step,
through every storyline turn, like we can’t figure out for ourselves
what’s to come. The better story would’ve been to let these two enjoy a
relationship, perhaps like and respect each other, before the mistaken
identities dropped like bombs in their laps. Then, they could’ve tried the
conflict angle, shown off a few acting chops... or not. Also, to have
included other residents of Llanview in on this, would’ve added integrity
to Antonio’s attempt at angst.
Instead, Tico never gave a shit about Antonio, the feeling’s mutual. Tico
blinks as he’s remembering how he physically assaulted his own mother
(that bad example for children I’ve been telling you about in the above
NOT YOUR GRANDMOTHER’S DAYTIME) and caused her fatal fall on the
broken glass, as if he’d just remembered that night he had the bad clams
or ran into a traffic jam earlier in the day. Sonia’s no better. Tell me
why I should care about these two in particular, if they don’t care about
anybody else but themselves.
September 23rd show kicked off the gala fashions worn by some
of Llanview’s most prominent female citizens—mostly in blues and purples
(sale at Sak’s?), lulling me into a false sense of soaps the way they used
to be, and forcing me to wish AMC would resurrect the Crystal Ball and GH,
the Nurses’ Ball. Proceeds from the real-life sales of gowns up for
auction and t-shirts for the occasion could go to charities.
Anyway, on to the fashionistas. Even before the gala began in earnest, I
fell madly in love with Dorian’s black pant suit. The top featured a
stunning gold/red-leaf pattern border, flaring out flatteringly from the
hips, the pants were loose-fitting, also flattering. Her strapless gala
gown, in deep purple, though, would fit my ostentatious mother more, huge
jeweled bedecked half the bodice, with a revealing curved slit down the
middle of the ballroom skirt.
Adriana... she took my breath away. My eyes teared up at the very sight of
her, just as Dorian’s had. The younger version of Dorian (it’s true, Robin
Strasser, in a professional portrait as AW’s Rachel, many years ago, is
the spitting image of Melissa Gallo/Adriana) was simply a vision in a
vibrant mauve, strapless, like Cinderella. The belle of the ball tried to
hide in the hotel bar at first, but her date Duke coaxed her to show
herself with this truth: “You’re sweet, smart, you’re your own person,
you’re real.” For once, another character isn’t just feeding a line of
ass-kissing bullshit to the show’s reigning, self-proclaimed
goody-two-shoes, ala GH’s Emily and AMC’s Bianca; for once, the praise
fits the character, and in a good way, not goody, goody (Adriana to Duke:
“Watch my teeth [for spinach].”)
was, okay. Her dark blue gown hung straight and narrow, reminiscent of the
1920s flapper style, with the front so narrow that she probably had to
tape her boobs underneath the cloth to keep those babies in place.
Cobalt blue and strappy fit Sonia’s more sensual undertones, also bringing
out the tan in her skin. I could’ve done without the big-assed tie high up
in the back (visions of Homemaking 101 dance in my head), maybe made the
back a gathered plunge.
of the day goes to David, natch, while reassuring Kelly that Kevin may
attend the gala with his socialite of the week, but “Kevin’s arm candy is
just discounted junk food compared to you.”
of the day went to Adriana, bursting into Dorian’s living room, hair in a
disarray, freaking out because the hairstylist hadn’t showed (remember
Gene Wilder’s character walking into the conference room in a straightened
nightmare to stunned co-workers in the movie
Woman in Red?
Har!), cut to David and Kelly’s
What the fuck?!
Adriana and David, however, carried the comedy, not Kelly.
is where astrology distinguishes itself. Kelly’s Heather Tom is a Scorpio,
her predecessor, the original Kelly’s Gina Tognoni is a Sagittarius.
Typical Scorpios cannot attempt goofy, wacky, hysterically,
if their intense, controlling lives depended on it. All I saw was Tom
attempting to be a good sport in what was supposed to be a light-hearted
slapstick scene, and probably TPTB’s attempt to show this Kelly as a
facade of her former self, still capable of smiling, laughing and
appreciating the absurd. But I couldn’t shake the sense that when Adriana
put her hands on Kelly, begging her to help, keep Duke from seeing her so
early, Kelly wanted to shake Adriana’s hands away, make a sour face, and
get this fucking stupid-assed drama over with. I didn’t get that Kelly was
enjoying the moment at all, just waiting for these idiots to snap out of
it and get the problem fixed. But that’s my astrologically-motivated
Kamar de los Reyes (Antonio/Manuelito) can
do suppressed, seething rage, without appearing soapy and Drake
Hogestyn-ish. When Carlotta asked for a moment of his time to plead her
case again, it was Patricia Mauceri’s case to plead, and she succeeded.
Carlotta begged Antonio not to turn her away, he was all she had left, and
the cold, heartless bastard just walked away, de los Reyes giving a clear
portrait of caricature, not conflict.
that must be about six times now, once or twice every day the past week of
reliving Isabella’s unfortunate death by fall on glass. Enough is enough.
Babe and Krystal joined in the gala, wearing subdued gowns – which tells
me for sure that the color scheme was pre-planned – Babe’s pale pink with
spaghetti straps matched actress Alexa Havins’ pale blonde skin tone, for
a change (AMC’s costume designers always screw up with her in those
glaring 50s outfits). She sure made Kelly look like an overly made-up
shrew, that’s for sure... not all of that aesthetic.
and Babe facing off over Ace... classic soap. I should be feeling for
Kelly over Babe, since Kelly has no idea that Ace is really a stolen baby
from a rich family, not the hand-out from a homeless woman. And yet, it is
Babe I sided with, because a) I hate Kelly and her entitled sour face, b)
while Babe has yet to return Miranda to her rightful mother Bianca over at
AMC, Ace belongs with Babe, not Kelly, c) Babe’s Havins out-performed
Kelly’s Heather Tom and will any day of the week. Babe even managed to put
Kelly at ease toward the end of their scene together, by saying she had a
baby girl and understood Kelly’s situation. That ease lasted all of that
one scene, because in the next, she’s with Karen or Julie, the nanny, and
issuing forth her suspicion against Babe’s true intent.
OLTL’s very own Nora, on the other hand, could’ve been dressed better. Her
drab dull brown/green thing didn’t belong in a fancy gala but the bedroom,
alone with the ice cream and the HBO
marathon, as lingerie.
Making her grand entrance (but still paling in comparison to my adorable
Adriana), Jessica attends the gala after all, in a skin-flattering pale
sky-blue, strapless gown, with Grecian criss-cross tie thingie (Officer
Dayna of the “Fashion Police,” I ain’t, what the hell
those thingies called?) in front, in off-pale-green, chiffon scarf in blue
around her neck.
Another line of the day, rather, creative reinvention of the naughty term:
horse’s ass, from Asa, while muttering and fondling his six-guns: “Todd...
you horse’s rosette.”
what happens to Sonny when he stops acting like a ferocious mobster, and
interacts with the people of Port Charles he used to know when he was just
a conflicted, mentally handicapped, middle-aged man.
Eye on Soaps’
“Fashion Police” columnist
Dayna reminded me of it when she mentioned how likeable Sonny is when
he’s teasing Alexis about the ruffled stringy thingies under her neck
(after her thwarted romp with Ric earlier on his office desk) –
can you tell I’m no
fashionista like Dayna?
She wrote: “And how about
that exchange for evoking emotions? I went from furious at Sonny
(nothing new there) for initiating such a disrespectful conversation with
my Ms. Davis, to just cracking up at the way his eyes flashed when Ric
entered the room to support her "your brother gives better bed" comeback.
Still gets me when I recall liking Sonny.”
I did more
than just crack up at Sonny, I positively melted before his dimpled,
eye-flashing presence. If the writers would just let him
show this part of Sonny more often, instead of the cocksucker in the
Italian suit, then show the other part, the child who breaks and is
broken, in a fully researched, fully fleshed-out, relationship-based,
character-driven story about the awful effects of manic-depression, why it
is frequently called a disease of brilliance, and the slow, therapeutic
redemption of a formerly abused Brooklyn-ite street thug into one of the
greatest federal agents the world has ever known, I would promise not only
a string of Emmys, but offers from the movie and primetime world, and the
instant legendary status of Maurice Benard as Sonny Corinthos in my
soap-viewing life. Forever.
Steven together – Star
... doesn’t work for me. Mostly because Tamara Braun doesn’t seem enamored
of Shaun Benson’s acting choices. The last two times they interacted, it’s
like she, as a pseudo-veteran actress, is trying to control what he, as a
newcomer, does in scenes. When they parted ways in front of Kelly’s,
Steven drunk and apathetic, Carly betrayed and pissed, Braun had to tell
Benson to look at her, look at her, when she talked to him. Later, after
he took her to the hospital to bandage up her sprained wrist, and after he
had a run-in with her husband Sonny, she did not look amused by him
suddenly, inexplicably laughing when she seriously explained the problem
with Sonny and his suspicious nature. I thought that was odd myself. The
whole thing stinks of discomfort.
But what the
fuck was up Sam’s asshole September 20? She just went ballistic about
Sonny to Jason, and then on Sonny himself after he merely asked her to
sign legal documents making it official on what they already agreed was
best for her, him and their unborn daughter. Sonny wasn’t asking for sole
custody, as Jason tried to explain. But Sam didn’t hear it, she kept going
on about Sonny demanding
period, and she wouldn’t have it. No wonder Steve Burton (Jason) and
Maurice Benard (Sonny) reportedly balked at making this an issue worth
their characters going to blows over... ‘cause, it ain’t.
Who did Bobbie
call—twice—after Carly hassled her about her past johns, no pun intended,
in searching for her biological father? She’d secretly placed that call to
a person I assumed was
the father, her first true love and boyfriend, not casual “best john.” But
lately, the real John is
like he just saw her, through a window at Kelly’s Diner, after stealing a
postcard from her to Carly, talking to Steven about her as if she were
just another hooker he hadn’t contacted in ages, much less exchanged two
secret phone calls with.
laughed bitterly when John ranted at Steven on the docks about the years
of trust they’d built together, that John trusted nobody but Steven as his
righthand man, and it took two days of being with Carly for him to lie and
betray for her. The old Carly under Sarah Brown? Definitely. Tamara
Braun’s growling, scowling, butch, street thug Carly? No fucking way.
laughter almost turned into tears of despair when John offhandedly praised
Sonny to Steven. Steven put the two of them together as ruthless assholes
who’d just as soon use blood relations as protective, deflective shields
as a means to out-maneuver the other. John immediately went into Sonny
worship mode by informing Steven, as if he and Sonny were past lovers,
that unlike him, the ruthless, heartless, soulless federal prosecutor,
Sonny, the heart of gold mobster would
in a billion
years risk any women and children, inferring in so many ways that Sonny
has that honor John never possessed. Mission accomplished, guys, bad=good,
recalled a brief real-life, praise-filled quote from John Durant’s
portrayer Corbin Bernsen about Sonny Corinthos’ Maurice Benard – only a
week or so into the role – that the two actors got together and agreed on
their characters’ probable history and motivation in regards to each
other... that most likely, John wouldn’t have anything personal against
Sonny, he’d probably be amenable to a few drinks, because there’s a
respect amongst these men who are tops in their class, even with their
confinement must mean something entirely different to the clowns running
GH. From what I’ve read in newspapers and magazine accounts, and seen of
documentaries, solitary confinement could drive a person mad; it’s as
close to lock-down in a mental asylum without the rubber walls. What Faith
ended up in was another cell, but without a roommate. I’d kill to get that
kind of solitary confinement (er, if I were in prison).
another good-bye note, packed her bag
off—as far as Kelly’s Diner—to bum a room off a reluctant Bobbie, who
actually stood her ground this time, on behalf of her daughter Carly. The
note to Jason, as well as the kiss-up to Bobbie, reeked of insincerity and
manipulation. To my observation, Sam overreacted, saw her opportunity to
paint herself Sonny’s helpless victim, pit Sonny and Jason against each
other (she didn’t want them at each other’s throats, after she went
butt-fucking bonkers???), then pretend to bail, to show Jason how
sensitive and noble she was. Nobody bought her bullshit, least of all
Jason, who, IMHO, was making all nicey-nice to her to keep her from
harming the unborn baby,
Keep the nutty slutty lady calm so she won’t jump off a cliff or something.
It took all of two-three minutes of talking about nothing important before
she bummed a free meal off Jason, saying she was starving but had no
money. See? If she had no money, how’d she expect to bum a room off
Bobbie? My worthless street urchin of a brother, er, I mean Sam
come running. If I were Kelly Monaco, having to play this horseshit every
other day, I’d be horse whipping my agent to get me the hell out.
Sam even went
to Carly for advice. Did this bimbo think the street thug with a 15-inch
dildo in her boxers would go all soft and mushy seeing her all torn up
about Sonny handing her legal documents for shared visitation? Carly is
Sonny’s biggest bitch, and Sam biggest enemy... Carly would as likely help
Sam with a faltering, hesitant smile (that all-elusive conflict, y’know),
as Sam would stay put, get a job and stop the goddamned whining every 15
starting to repulse me so much, the guy’s even crawled into my nightmares.
The last one, suffered on the morning of September 22, had his alter-ego
sending a couple of thugs after me for crimes against
(that, or because I dared to steal a glance at his holiness on a bus
ride). I need to FF from now on, for my own safety.
week of September 20 had to be biggest waste of my time ever, since right
before Bob Guza took over the first time as head writer in the 1990s. I
put off catching up with the recordings as long as I could. And when I
watched, I wished I were anywhere else. It was pure torture. Between Sonny
bellowing at Sam bellowing at Sonny, Nikolas acting like Sonny on a
bender, close-ups of Emily in the middle of an orgasm, Faith and Skye
doing tough prison bitch impersonations (when’s the ass-licking scene?),
John Durant not giving a shit whether Carly is or isn’t his daughter,
because he has such a hard-on for Sonny, Steven giggling through other
characters’ pain and stress, the sacriligious audacity of Jax and Courtney
fantasy-playing the priest licking the nun’s cunt underneath her habit at
moonlight.... I was about ready for a permanent nap.
In the latest
drama over at L&B Records, I must admit to be on Dillon’s side – even if
Brook Lynn typically (for a girl) turns on him once she discovers her
Britney – I’d rather hear
female artist’s songwriting and singing brilliance, than see the old pop
package. The haunting piano intro, full of melodic harmony in an almost
echo of the mind’s remembrances, her work in progress told me volumes
about actress Adrianne Leon’s innate ear for original ground-breaking
music. The show business part, pimped and pushed by music producer Simon
and mom Lois, told me nothing except the writers were just following the
MTV crowd as usual.
believe Lois would pimp out her own teenaged daughter like a common whore
for the masses, just to sell a CD: “You gotta use your sexuality...” Sure,
she’s savvy on music business, but her own daughter? Then, the evil,
soulless whore glint in her eye as she eyed a black number for herself
from her daughter’s suggested new sluttier wardrobe, with which to
mind-fuck Lorenzo. Said to myself at the time, “This is the beginning of
the end of my interest in Nu Lois, thanks to TPTB.”
And that red
dress Lois chose for Brook Lynn. Made her look like the opera slut Carmen,
or the drag queen icon Cher. What’s worse, Brook Lynn’s protestations
about remaining true to her art, being herself, honored for the content of
her personality instead of the cunt allure of her outward appearance...
was all a bunch of teenage poseur bullshit. The second girlfriend put on
the hooker outfit, showed a little leg and promise of pussy, had the boys,
namely Lucas, panting after her, calling her “hot,” she turned into just
another teenaged bimbo Britney wannabe hitting the malls. Next.
I want Sonny’s
a haircut already. The ‘60s hippie look died ages ago.
I wish that
damned Courtney didn’t interrupt Jason’s walk to the car to drop Sam’s bag
off. Sam was supposed to order dinner. I hate when characters do that and
end up never eating. One day, I would like to see Sam chow down to a
five-course Italian meal. And burp loudly.
not pull off power suits well, least of all the pink one with the ruffled
short skirt she’s been sporting for weeks now, really accentuating her
linebacker shoulders and muscly legs (kinda like Britney Spears in
couture). Athletically fit, with a strong body I would kill for, actress
Alicia Leigh Willis can do better than what the goof-offs in wardrobe have
really does not look good turning the bet into a game, dragging Jason’s
lips into it for Jax’s benefit. The bet might’ve held promise, been a
novelty, but now, it’s just revealing itself as another stale plot device
designed to prolong the agony, instead of actually
Courtney would fall in love with Jax and vice versa (some of that was
explored when Skye went to prison, Jax’s guilt, Courtney catching him
during a serious moment), them getting to know each other as the people
behind the suits and the jobs.
could’ve been both Courtney and Jax’s ticket out of backburner status into
supercouple. But the writers had to squander their appeal together with
this stupid bet that has gone on way too long for nothing. Courtney got it
right when she told Jax, “We flirt, Jax, that’s all.” That’s pretty much
foundation, job, his... have fallen by the wayside, until conveniently
picked up again for the next plot device. Such a shame. It used to mean
something when a character discovered a hidden talent and parlayed it into
the only plot devices conveniently used for the Emmy moments, or to drive
Sonny’s story (same diff). Paternity’s just as good. John Durant walks
into Sonny’s penthouse to declare that he knows Carly is his daughter and
invite her to her own club (which she hasn’t been seen attending to in
weeks), the Cellar, for a little getting-to-know-you session over drinks.
All this takes place in front of Sonny, who heckles him for the real
reason now and then, stressing to me not to get too excited for Carly,
because this is really about Sonny. What should be a pivotal scene and the
beginning of a relationship between Carly and her long-lost father John
and mother Bobbie, was rendered absolutely anti-climatic because of the
writers’ intent for the real pivotal scene to be when John faces off with
Sonny in the ultimate hard dick showdown.
At the Cellar,
John pretends to care about Carly’s hopes and dreams, no matter how
outrageous. But when he presses her to explain the circumstances of her
reunion with mother Bobbie, Carly balks, refusing to elaborate...
prompting me to mutter to myself, “He’ll find out anyway, the entire town
knows how you rode Tony like a wild tiger to get back at your mom. Stupid
bitch.” The soft-doe-eyed act at the end with her tentatively giving in to
John’s embrace gave me the runs. Will never make up for the million more
scenes of her whipping the dildo out and bitchslapping her innocent
victims with it.
to smart, sensible Courtney? Whyever would she pull Jason into a kiss—and
cause Sam to forget that she was supposed to order dinner on Jason? To
make Jax jealous? To avoid kissing Jax? Does any of this strike you as a
Courtney move? Even more bizarre was Jason’s reaction, at first hurt and
disgusted, then, as he escorted Sam back to their place, smiling like a
fucking idiot. I don’t know whether to assume he’s crying on the inside,
or if he really doesn’t give a shit about Courtney and her kissing games
The line of
the day in the September 23rd episode, however, went to Tracy.
So delicious, I actually wrote it down, word for word: “She’s [Heather]
dying to lead him [Edward] by his :: dramatic pause :: aging libido.”
bribe me to watch the past week’s last two episodes! A hundred bucks, a
Too late. I
caught the first 30 minutes of September 23rd. Why’s Brook Lynn
copping attitude with Dillon when he’s only following her lead since she
came here? Why’d Dillon just leave instead of sticking up for himself? Why
am I not there to shove Brook Lynn back and scream two inches from her
clown-made-up face: “BITCH, YOU WERE THE ONE TO ADVERTISE TO EVERYONE
WHO’D LISTEN THAT YOU HATED THE PACKAGED SEXED-UP POP DIVA APPEARANCES
THAT COME WITH SELLING YOUR MUSIC! And now, you’re yelling at Dillon for
simply sticking up for you?” Next time she changes her values on a dime a
dozen, she might wanna clue everybody else in first.
make a good undercover agent. He knows human behavior, every gray area,
and could work well outside the system to bring the bad guys to justice,
because he was one, probably the only one left to skirt justice for this
being Lois on September 22. I’m done with her. No offense to actress Lesli
Kay; she still rocks. But I’m tired of sticking in there for nothing, when
the writers are only mind-fucking me again.
mind-fuck me in many different positions. Character assassination (Lois,
above), character destruction (Brook Lynn, above), repetition (Journey,
shock value (Sonny thinks he shot Lorenzo but shot his wife in the head
during childbirth), and liberal use of revisionist history, week to week,
plot device to plot device, to heighten the dramatic crisis of the moment,
as evidenced by the recent furor by Jason and Sonny over John Durant
coming to town, pretending to want to know Carly as his daughter.
stifled a guffaw as Jason lectured Carly about the dangers of her slipping
up around Durant and costing him and Sonny their freedom, maybe slipping
up about their illegal businesses. Every fucking person in that fucking
town, hell from Port Charles to Llanview, knows Sonny is a mobster and
Jason is his enforcer. They can prove it too, but they don’t and won’t.
Sonny and Jason don’t even bother hiding their illegalities, but flaunt
them. I often wonder if they have to be caught red-handed by a group of
nuns and priests, videotaped on the spot in the act of laundering money or
offing a rival mobster... even then, they go free on a technicality only
the GH writers could pull out of their asses. I hardly think Manhattan
federal prosecutor John Durant—as good as he is—poses much of a threat,
least of all due to Carly’s slip-up.
Okay, $50 even
to persuade me to catch the rest of this shit.
GRAPHICS BY SCOTT BILSTAD