So don't complain. Altogether they come to about 60,000 words, so it's like a whole book about one dopey TV show.
Jacob saw me looming and immediately went to work on his loom. That man is a tapestry-making madman! Jacob's friend was grumbling about finding "the loophole." I yelled out, "Hey Essau, how about slipping through my loophole?" But then - Zip! - I found myself lying next to Juliette at the bottom of yet another slimy hole (SSDH), and Juliette was slamming her hand down on a DVD of Viva Laughlin. "Darling," I said, "that starred my future-ex-husband Huge Jackman. How bad can it be?"
"Did you see Australia?" Juliette asked.
Then somewhere someone gave The Island donkey wheel a shove and I was blasted through white light into the base of Set's statue. Adam Lambert lay dead on the floor in front of Ben Linus, holding a bloody knife. Beside him Locke spoke with Kris Allen's voice, saying, "Loophole, schmoophole, American tweens like their boys sexually unthreatening."
Just as I was settling into my work in Huge's crotch, a great Romulan spaceship came shooting out of a rip in the Eternal Time-Space Continuum (You have to be careful never to snag the Eternal Time-Space Continuum on nails or splinters, as it gets terrible runs), and killed Captain Kirk's father, thus saving Kirk from growing up to be William Shatner, and spreading overacting throughout The Galaxy, but creating a weird alternate-present, in which Spock was played by Liza Minnelli. It turned out that the horrible catastrophe that caused the Planet Vulcan to implode was Liza telling the Vulcan High Council that marrying David Gest was logical.
Well by now I was Lost. Brazil is weird.
By the time I returned to Morehead Heights, I didn't know what alternate present I was in, I decided to try and see if The Universe I was in was making any sense. I switched on the TV to TCM, a channel where I always feel comfortable, as not only do they run only old movies, but TCM are my initials. (Tallulah Clytemnestra Morehead.)
They were running a movie I had never seen before, the ultra-hilarious, right-wing objectivist claptrap, the film of Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead, starring Gary Cooper and Patricia Neal, as glamorous, sexy Fascists, I mean an architect and his best gal.
I'm afraid I haven't set the Time-Space Continuum right yet. This can't be Normal Reality, because this movie is the most ridiculous piece of twaddle I have ever sat through.
Enormously well-hung Gary Cooper plays Howard Roarke, the most brilliant, unpopular, and egotistical architect in the world. The movie is all about how people are always trying to get Howard Roarke to design buildings just like the same ones everyone else designs, but Howard is too great to listen to anyone, even his clients. People are always telling him when he designs something that is too outré, in other words, rectangular glass and steel structures that look exactly like every souless office building clogging the downtowns of every major city in the world, the very style that Jacques Tati spent his great movie Playtime attacking, that his work is too unpopular and controversial. "We can't take a chance," they always say to him, as though gambling their lives on an office tower or a block of flats.
The villain of the story is a newspaper architectural critic, who wields tremendous public power. He writes a column of architectural criticism, and his slightest word can bring the city to a halt. What planet is this? When the publisher fires the architectural critic, the staff walks out in support of the critic, and the paper buckles under to the critic, and the publisher shoots himself. Star Trek was more realistic.
Howard does not consider architecture to be a collaborative art. Rather, it's the solitary work of a lone artist, toiling alone in an attic somewhere. Making even the tiniest change in any of his designs is intolerable to Roarke.
So she's vacationing in a lovely home that adjoins a marble quarry where they dynamite rock all day, every day. Let me repeat this: she is intentionally vacationing in a house next door to a site that is blasting rocks with dynamite all day long, every day. You can't get more relaxing than that.
Her idea of sight-seeing is riding her horse to the quarry and then wandering around, drooling over the hunky, muscular workmen driving pickaxes into walls of granite. And her favorite workman is Howard Roarke, who is working there after driving himself out of business with his too-high standards of taste. She first sees him holding a jackhammer, drilling away into into solid rock. She is turned on by the ever-so-subtle sexual implication of his drilling into rock with a jackhammer.
Now she can't get him out of her mind. She rides around on her horse, imagining Howard and his drill.
So she slams a fireiron into the marble hearth in her bedroom and hires Howard to come in, inspect her damage, and hammer her a new sheet of rock.
The movie was written by the novelist-nutball, Russian-American, writer-philosopher Ayn Rand. She promoted a form of highly-anti-communist philosophy called "Objectivism," probably because it is so objectionable.
As a virulent anti-Commie, she believed that ownership and rights of property were sacrosant, although when Howard Roarke, her Ideal Man, blows up other people's property, it's a righteous act, not a violation of other people's rights of property. She's a hypocrite.
Ayn wrote every word of dialogue, and forbade a word of it to be changed. She was the Howard Roarke of screenwriters. What she was not was a good writer of dialogue, none of which sounds like human speech, and all of which sounds like speechifying.
When Ayn learned that some slight cuts had been made to her speech, she squawked and hollered, but she did not blow up Warner Brothers, nor set fire to the negative and all prints, nor even beat Jack Warner into paste with a poker, which makes her a raging hypocrite. It's what Howard Roarke would have done. It's what Bette Davis would have done.
Ayn is in a small vogue right now (very small, as the country is becoming far less happy with rightwing nutballs), because her magnum opus, Atlas Shrugged, a novel that makes The Lord of the Rings seem like a speedy short story, is celebrating its fiftieth anniversary just now. This means that the people who began reading it the day it came out, are nearly through it by now, those that haven't hanged themselves.
Ayn believed in a woman looking up to The Ideal Man, and Howard Roarke is Him. (And Ayn claimed she wrote it for Gary Cooper, so he's her sexual ideal as well.) Now Dougie has had artistic differences with folks from time to time, and even disliked how his work was changed by others, but he has yet to blow anything up.
Who is the bigger stud?
And who is the more feminine and better writeress?
Ayn darling, for a woman who wants strong muscular men to drill her like a jackhammer, why have you gone to so much trouble to look like a Bloomsbury literary Lesbian? You look like a young Rosa Klebb.
Life is too short to spend any of it reading the insane horrors which are the writings of Ayn Rand. As for Dougie and I, we're going back to Disneyland, to wait for the alternate reality to return where I'm Mrs. Huge Jackman. Juliette, give Jughead another good whack!