Friday, December 15, 2006

Blue Spanish Flies

Fans, friends, and more fans, I have fallen in love again, with a great, nay, a monumental talent. As the pictures at the top of this post that are already burning your eyeballs have told you, the object of my objectification is the great Mexican TV star Eduardo Capetillo. Only one thing stands between Eduardo, Me, and the consummation of the Great Passion which threatens to consume both of us; the small matters that we have never met, and that he may never have heard of me, nor have the slightest idea who I am. I barely know who he is. Thank God for the iMDB! (Although their page on me is grossly inadequate.)

I know it sounds inconceivable to most of you that there could be a man, and not just any man, but a man who is himself a popular international star, who has never heard of me. I have, after all, been one of the greatest movie stars of the last 100 years. Surely all but primitive cave dwellers worship at my shrine, and frankly, some of those prehistoric cave paintings look quite clearly to me (Or as clearly as anything can look to me these days) like early posters for my prehistoric movies. I was the pin-up girl of the Triassic Age, which is why I appeared so tremendously authentic in my cavewoman trilogy, 1,000,000 Years Ago, When Dinosaurs Ruled the Block, and Jurassic Tart.

However, my little Eduardo is young, only an infant of 36, which means he was born after I retired. My films don't get the reissues, rereleases, revivals, and televisings that other, lesser, movies get, though I have had a few memorable revivals myself, from my local paramedic boys, Chance and Chad. I love to take Chance's, and I am even more enamored by that magnificent Dangling Chad.

My movies are like Granny Puett's Best Silver: too good for everyday, they're put away for only Special Occasions. You know, the silver your mother packed away in her cedar chest along with the Best China, and never, ever used! No event was ever special enough. Christmas? Nah; we have that every year. Your daughter's wedding? Please; do you know how many times daughters get married? Mother's Funeral? Well, we don't want to actually look like we're celebrating, do we? My movies are like that: too good for everyday; they're put away for Never.

Then there's the additional problem that Little Eduardo was born and grew up in Mexico, and currently lives in Spain. The fact is, my films never translated into Spanish well. Even though my first real lover (as opposed to just boys-I-had-sex-with) was the great Spanish star Gilbert Rolaids, I've never been very popular in the Latin countries. The translation of my name, Tallulah Morehead, that was used for my Spanish-language releases, Cuadro de la EyaculaciĆ³n en Boca, unfortunately retranslated to "Oral Cumshot,"* which was felt to reflect poorly on me (Depends on the lighting, I would think.), and limited where my pictures could be exhibited, at least until someone had the bright idea to bill me as "Countin' Flaws", and hope no one would notice the difference. (Surprisingly few did. Not even Cantinflas.)

Consequently, poor Little Eduardo, growing up in Mexico in the 70s and 80s, may never have seen any of my movies. Talk about a deprived childhood! No wonder so many of his fellow countrymen and women suddenly pull up digs to relocate in the United States (Some apparently quite suddenly.); they just want to live and raise their children in a country where they can see and/or enjoy my movies! How can we speak of building a fence and trying to keep out such lovely people, who just want to be my fans? That's living The American Dream!

Eduardo is the great Mexican soap stud. I began seeing him ten or twelve years ago on these telenovellas that my various Latin housekeepers and houseboys over the years have loved. Telenovellas are like American soap operas, only they aren't endless, the acting is better, and nothing about them makes any sense at all. American soaps, even Passions, have as many as ten to fifteen sensible minutes every sweeps period.

Also Joan Collins is never in them. Instead you have something a thousand times better: you always have a middle-aged Spanish or Mexican actress who aspires to be Joan Collins, specifically, to be the Joan Collins of 1985, but lacks the, well, je ne sais quai.

(By the way, Joan Collins is the fakest actress in the history of the world! On every single epsiode of Dynasty the woman picked up cocktails, generally but not exclusively martinis, and gestured with them, swirled them, sniffed them, threw them in Linda Evans's face - Well, who hasn't thrown a drink in Linda's face? The woman just asksfor it! - she has hovered her drinks in the vacinity of her mouth, set them down, and even then poured another, but she never actually took a drink from any of them throughout the whole run of that otherwise utterly realistic TV series set in a Denver, Colorado, where it never snowed, and where there were palm trees. I detest acting sham. Whenever I played a scene where I had a cocktail, not only did I actually drink the damn things, but I insisted on using real cocktails as well, for the added realism, particularly in the later takes. And to be on the safe side, in case back-up was required, I generally had a cock and/or some tail waiting in my dressing room. Joan Collins, I spit on your no-drinking acting!)

I love telenovella acting. It really takes me back to my days in silent movies, except they aren't silent. They act their faces off, but at the same time, they're every bit as loud as we always looked like we were. Telenovella actors and actresses must take special classes in Glaring, Eye-Rolling, Sneering, Smoldering, and Complete Hysterics. (On a telenovella, no one ever has Partial Hysterics.) Best of all, there's always a really juicy role for an actress of a "Certain Age." (In my case, the age is quite certain, and it's 109.) And when I say a "Juicy" role, I mean it. These are incredibly juicy roles; not only do you get to play every raw emotion imaginable, and always at 11, but you expel gallons of pretty much every imaginable human fluid, although always tainted by massive liquid mascara contamination.

Eduardo's specialty is Smoldering. Good God, that man smolders more smokily than Jack Cassidy's last mattress. He glowers in a manner that has made me flood out a low-lying coastal town, and he can flash his eyes brighter than a 1978 strobe light at Studio 54 flashing over Truman Capote as he lies dreaming of Perry Smith and sobbing.

Since telenovellas are in Spanish, and the only Spanish phrase I know is "Tequila grande!", I have the distinct advantage of having no idea what the hell they are all about. Think of it; They could be saying the stupidest things in the world, and for all I know, it's Shakespeare. (I mean that as it sounds. To my ears, Shakespeare is every bit as incomprehensible as Spanish. Given that he was a supposedly great English writer, for the life of me, I can not understand why the Beard of Avon didn't just write his plays in English, instead of in Shakespearean.) You know, I think audiences would have laughed at my performance as the hysterical, not-actually-insane woman in The Snake Hole a lot less if they'd not been able to understand the extremely stupid things I was saying. You try saying, "Go on ya rats, take my nipples for acorns!" without getting a laugh. Damn my flawless diction!

I never laughed at anything the divine Eduardo Capetillo said in Marimar, which I've watched now three different times, and still have not a clue as to what it's about. If you know, Please do not explain it to me. I no longer want to know. I'm too enamoured of the fake plots I invent in my head as I watch. Actually, I do the same thing when stuck watching Shakespeare, like when I'm out of batteries for my remotes. I don't know what the hell The Tempest is about, but the plot I invented in my skull is a dandy. "Oh Caliban, you're a monster! I'm Miranda the Virgin, and I've never been touched by a man. Touch me, Caliban, Touch Me! --- and Fuck off, Ariel. I am not going to marry you."

Last year Little Eddie starred in La Madrastra, which was more over the top than Free-LSD Night at the Ringling Brothers Circus. There was a man in that story named Bruno whom I don't think I was ever married to, but who seemed a dead ringer for three of my husbands. I never want to know what Bruno was really saying, as nothing could ever justify his performance, a performance which would seem Too Big for a cellphone. He was probably just reacting to learning his wife or boy friend had just slept with the help, or that his son wasn't his son at all, but his father, some normal soap crap like that, but Bruno's performance said "A fleet of 7000 spaceships, all stuffed full of 20-foot, hyperintelligent, carnivorous squids, has just landed in Washington. They are eating congress, and my sinuses are killing me." To learn his real lines would just make it all so ordinary.

I don't know if Eduardo speaks English in "Real Life;" We may not have a language in common. But so what? Eduardo darling, it doesn't matter a fig to me if I never understand a word you're saying. You're probably better off not understanding me at all either. Why should you be any different from my other husbands? Frankly, I think that two people who never have any idea what the hell the other is saying sound like the ideal married couple. But then, I start off with an advantage; I never understand myself half the time.

Should I ever meet Eduardo in those blue denim pants he's wearing in the picture above, he will easily get my meaning, once I get my hands on his Blue Spanish Fly.

Ole, darlings!

* "Tallulah" is a Choctaw word meaning "Leaping Waters". "More" means "Additional", and "Head" means "Fellatio". So a literal translation of Tallulah Morehead would be "Leaping Waters from Additional Fellatio." Apparently someone at PMS's translations department got too literal in coming up with a Spanish name for our Tallulah. A more straightforward Spanish translation of "Tallulah Morehead" would be Saltar Las Aguas del Sexo Oral Adicional, but that's too long for a marquee. - DM.

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