Back to basics pt. 3

That night I dreamt I was in a hell of my own making; endless demons and faces of horror dotted across my mind’s eye. I saw my body sink into a pit of blackness and death; ripped apart by shadows unseen as riotous laughter echoed through the void. Though my body had perished, my soul remains. Not freed from the mortal coil, it was just me and the void; that empty, bottomless void. It was clear to me then that hell is real, not the degenerate conception of ancient monks. You, me, and the world are living proof of that. In the awakened realm this is the truth we bury in our hearts; but it’s in dreams where this truth screams.

And I screamed. I screamed and screamed until Vic woke me up.

“Oy mate!” he shouted. When I awoke, I was lying in his immaculate chest and arms. The sight of his chiseled Scottish features was a welcomed relief.

“Wh-what happened?” I ask.

“Aye mate, ye was shootin in ye sleep. I been tryin ta beet me meet aw night but I kept gettin intarupted be scleams cumin frum ye room! Maybe ye shud stop eatin Mexican befor bed.”

“I’m sorry. I guess I’ve had a lot on my mind,” I said.

“I’m nae shrink but wud ye like tae talk aboo tit?”

I thought. Then I looked deep into Vic’s warm eyes. “Do you believe in the devil?” I ask him.

He looked back at me like I summoned evil itself. “Aye mate,” he said. “I seen em. I seen em on thee high seas. He came a buggerin on thee ole North like ah firin beest frum thee sky. He knocked aboot castin seamen inta the frigid woters and spitin fire n ice onta thee deck beelow. Men cryin helplessly inta the night. Ah mast came a tumblin down n nearly knocked me cock off.”

“So the devil is real then?” I asked rhetorically.

“Aye.”

“Can anything save us?”

“Nae mate,” Vic said. Then he firmly pointed his finger between my eyes. “Tha only thing that can save ye is what’s in ye noggin. Keep ye head aboot ya n ya might make it thru this tragedae.”

Back to basics pt 2

Dale was shirtless as he wiped down toilets rolling off the assembly line. “Christ almighty,” he’d utter as he’d cleared sweat from his brow. The crotch of his pants were soaked due to excessive perspiration but he might’ve pissed himself.

“First they tell me I can’t take benzos on the clock! Now they’re saying I have to wear a shirt at all times,” he hooted and hollered. “What is this shit?! Communist Russia?! My papaw didn’t murder innocent Italians for me to bake my ass off under this cursed sun! I tell ya, if HR says one more word to me I’m gonna tell that bitch to lick my asshole!”

“What seems to be on your mind today Dale?” I ask him. It was hard to pay attention to his screaming while sweat was streaming down his man boobs.

“Oh the same old shit,” he says. “The boss man comes up to me and says that he’s ‘concerned’. Concerned about what I say. And he says I clearly haven’t ’showered’ in weeks and that I ‘reek of booze’ and that I ‘keep going into payroll with a loaded .38 and threatening to kill myself and everyone in here”

“I wouldn’t take that shit Dale”

“I ain’t! Next time that mother fucker comes around here I’m gonna tell him that he’s a bitch and that he should go fuck himself!”

“You should.”

“They should know I don’t need this job! I might have lost my CDLs because of numerous DUI convictions but I can still back an 18-wheeler better than any limp dick bastard!”

“So true Dale,” I say. “Anyway, it’s been nice chattin. If you need me I’ll be taking my two hour shit.”

“But you just got here!”

“Yeah that’s true too. Anyways see you around.”

The boss man rounds the corner with clipboard in hand. He’s all smiles as he gives us the day’s instructions. “Great news gentlemen!” he begins. “We have an order of 5000 toilets to Mexico. 15000 to the Caribbean. And 3 to Little St. James Island. I need every toilet looking clean enough to eat off of before they ship. If you need me, I’ll be court side at the Clippers game. Good luck!”

“Yes sir,” says Dale.

Back to basics

This is a coming home moment for me.

Or perhaps a “homecoming” if you will.

I wrote some stories long ago about a guy named James who lived in Los Angeles. No, I’m not talking about “Detective James”. That’s a different guy (or is it?). Nor is it James Pietermeister, the character in my critically acclaimed A Shot at the Title series.

This James was just a normal guy with a hardass Scottish roommate whom he was possibly having sexual relations with. He also had a tense rivalry with a guy named Randy and a bully-like friendship with a dipshit named Dale. It was sort of my nod to Charles Bukowski.

Sometimes the stories connected. Sometimes they didn’t.

The last story ended on a cliffhanger where Dale was killed and Randy was revealed to James’ father. This will be a soft reboot.

So enjoy Back to Basics

***

Back to Basics

By Beau Montana

Sometimes I open my medicine cabinet and wonder how many ibuprofens I can take before kidney failure. Then I take a shit, pour a couple shots of Jim Beam, then grab my keys to begin my second shift job at the toilet factory.

This is how my mornings usually go.

But on this particular morning, I was stumbling drunk and minding my business when I was approached by a slick Philly with a quarter. “Say,” says the man as flips the coin off his thumb, “that’s a nice car you got there.”

“Thanks,” I shrugged, “it’s an 84 Fiero I pulled out of a drainage ditch in Glendale.”

“Care to take me for a spin?”

Not one to argue, I invited the stranger into the vehicle. “Are you gonna put on your seatbelt?” I say.

“You know what they say about seatbelts? Only the Dutch and homos wear em. Do I look like a Dutch?”. He lowered his shades and clicked his seatbelt.

I started the car and we began rolling towards Sunset in the direction of the toilet factory. At a stop sign, the man rolled down the window and pulled out an old Ruger .22. “Wanna see something cool?” he asked.

He lowered the pistol and aimed it at oncoming traffic. Several wheels squealed and came to a complete stop. I was now cleared to move through the intersection. “As my pappy always said,” he told me, “the car don’t make the man. But a Ruger sure does.”

It was at this point I started to get worried. A little closer to Sunset, the man wanted to accost a roaming street hooker. “Hey sugar tits,” the man shouted to the woman as I pulled up to the curb, “wanna make a quick dime?”

“Sir, I’m late for my shift at the Red Lobster,” the woman said.

“Don’t get defensive baby, I’m only looking for a tug or two.”

“How about I drop you off here?” I ask the man. “I’m almost to work anyway.”

The man lifted the Ruger and rubbed his hand across the dashboard. “Like I said, this is a nice car,” he replied. “It would be a shame if something happened to it.”

I thought for a second. “Yeah you’re right, this is a damn nice car. What should I do?”

Then the man rubbed his finger along the barrel of the firearm. “How about you walk the rest of the way to work,” he suggested. “I’ll take care of the car.”

I thought that was the sensible option so I stepped out of the Fiero and he climbed into the driver’s seat. “You’re a smart man,” he told me. Then he slammed on the gas and went roaring towards Sunset.

I stood on the street amazed. Everyday I’ve cursed Los Angeles and everyone in it. But I guess there are still a few good angels left in this town.

Comrade Bond

God save Barbara Broccoli, defender of James Bond, the franchise that started all franchises.

According to numerous reports, notably the Wall Street Journal, there’s a damn good reason why the next 007 film has not been announced: Barbara Broccoli thinks that the folks at Amazon Studios are “fucking idiots”. Amazon purchased MGM, who control the distribution rights for the James Bond franchise. In sum, Broccoli “doesn’t trust algorithm-centric Amazon with a character she helped to mythologize through big-screen storytelling and gut instinct.”

The official report from the WSJ is behind a paywall, but you can read about it here from Screencrush.com:

With the stranglehold that Big Tech has over our lives, our government, and our entertainment, I have to say that I am perfectly content with James Bond dying as he lived: by getting blown into smithereens by a missile strike in the Sea of Japan. If No Time To Die is his final appearance, so be it.

It’s not the way I’d want him to go considering that I’ve been obsessed with this goddamn franchise for 25 years. Without it, I’d know nothing of filmmaking and storytelling. But I’m a man of principle. And I’ll be damned if I let that real life Bond villain Jeff Bezos get his talons into this film legacy.

As of right now, there’s an Amazon workers strike in numerous locations around the US. In a sense, this means my Queen Barbara Broccoli, whom I swear allegiance to, and her brother Michael “G” Wilson stand in solidarity with those brave women and men. I know that the Broccoli’s are people of means. At face value, Barbara and Michael probably have more in common with Bezos than they have with you or me. Considering this, it’s likely that a deal can be struck at any moment. But I hold out hope. With this report, it reveals that Barbara and Michael have integrity; in standing up to Amazon, they carry on their father’s legacy.

I’m sure they’re contractually obligated to release their films through MGM via Amazon. I don’t know how one could get out of that without years of court battles. And even if they could, given the current state of the film industry, they’ll inevitably land a distribution deal with another Big Tech, “algorithmic-centered” firm. There’s no way to win.

But if they ever do get out from under the clutches of Amazon, then fuck it: let’s crowd source this shit! I’m telling ya Barbara, I’ll sell everything! And I mean EVERY goddamn thing if it means Eon Productions gets to maintain complete creative control of 007.

Setting the record straight

Folks, I’ve sustained yet another injury at the toilet factory. Workman’s comp got rejected so I turned in my United Healthcare card and hoped for the best. For the record, I was definitely NOT in New York City on West 54th Street during the morning of December 4th, 2024.

But while I was recovering from my injuries, I got to thinking “how am I so brittle? I’m only 94 years old! I gotta work for thirty more years!”. Then a sense of existential dread came over me that almost made me want to turn that muzzled 9mm I used to shoot that CEO…err, I mean….it almost made me want to kill myself (which again, for the record, I only wanted to kill myself because I was depressed. NOT because I allegedly shot a CEO of a health insurance provider).

So after I leisurely left the scene, I found myself hopping on a Greyhound Bus headed for the Canadian border. I sat next to an older man (he was 96 years old) who gave me a timeless piece of advice. While he was whittling away his toenails with a pocket knife he told me “know when to rest. But not only seek pleasure, but seek purpose as well.” I nodded at the old kook and fell asleep. When I woke, the old man had died and I stole his passport. After crossing the border, I boarded a plane directly to Moscow where I’m sure Uncle Joe (Biden) will preemptively pardon me (not that I did anything wrong mind you).

But the old man’s words stuck with me. Seek purpose, he said. But how can I find purpose in a world that views me only as a body ripe for exploitation? Work is the only thing I know. Work, mind you, that serves no vital function; that only benefits the rarified few. Have I wasted the best year of my life? I batter and abuse my body day after day. And for what? For a few golden years in a swiftly decaying state? And we’ve been drowning in this condition for so long. No, worse than drowning. We’ve been DEAD. Just as our handlers want us to be. For the dead don’t speak. They don’t complain. But we’re WORSE than dead; the mind keeps ticking, buried in a corpse waiting to be buried. My time is gone.

ANYWAYS! Thanks folks. See ya next time 😘

Diamonds r 4eva (part x)

I wish the bathtub scene was cut. It would have been far more effective had James Bond waltzed out of the funeral home announcing he would be at the hotel Tropicana, Mr. Slumber slamming the coffin cover closed, THEN cut to that glorious matte painting of the Whyte House elevated by John Barry’s bombastic score. That would have been amazing. Instead we’re saddled with a brief exposition scene of Bond explaining to Leiter that he needs the real diamonds. Something about this scene seems superfluous. It’s already established that the smuggled diamonds are fake and it would be obvious that the bad guys would be after the real ones. Were they trying to establish who had the real diamonds at this point of the story? Who gives a shit? That would have been established minutes later anyway in the Circus Circus sequence.

Nevertheless Bond visits the Whyte House, a fictional hotel and casino owned by Willard Whyte. He walks past the comedian who saved him from a fiery death and he’s giving a show. The comedian’s name is Shady Tree and he’s flanked on both sides by scantily clad women played by Cassandra Peterson (of Elvira fame) and Academy Award nominated actress Valerie Perrine. Also in attendance is Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd. The jokes are godawful.

After the performance, Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd visit Shady Tree in his dressing room and kill him (off screen). Afterwards, the casino manager Bert Saxby informs the two henchmen that they need to keep Shady Tree alive much to their chagrin. Bond ventures backstage to find the comedian’s lifeless body on the floor.

Unbothered by this, Bond decides to shoot some craps. The mumbling dealer objects to Bond raising the table limit and calls over Bert Saxby. 007 flashes an envelope from Morton Slumber’s Funeral Home, indicating that he’s the man with the real diamonds. Saxby agrees to raise the limit and a woman thrusts herself onto James Bond. Her name is Plenty O’Toole (“named after your father perhaps?”) and she’s played by Natalie Wood’s sister, Lana. The two naturally go back to his room for a boink fest (as the actors did in real life) but it is interrupted by the mobsters we met in LA. It is here where we’re exposed to the best double entendre in the entire series: a mostly naked Plenty steps away to the bathroom, Bond picks up her dress, flicks on a light and is greeted by a mobster with a gun. Bond responds with “It seems you caught me with more than my hands up.” Whatever Tom Mankiewicz got paid for this picture, it wasn’t enough.

Plenty, only in her underwear, gets dumped out a window and into a pool. Bond attacks a mobster but quickly realizes they’re not there to fight. They meekly retreat from the hotel room and Bond finds Tiffany Case in his bed. Naturally she’s there for the real diamonds, a fact she doesn’t deny, but to make it worth his while he begins undressing. I’ve said time and time again that while I immensely enjoy watching Daniel Craig’s ripped body, I wish that they would go back to the dad bod era of James Bond best exhibited here:

TO BE CONTINUED…

Diamonds r 4ev a: written commentary (part ix)

What happens next, Guy Hamilton calls a “snake pit” situation (or some shit like that): Bond finds himself in inescapable position and has to use his wits to get out of it. The most notable example of this is the “laser” situation in Goldfinger, also directed by Hamilton. I suppose that the “alligator jumping” sequence in Live And Let Die also counts. In Diamonds Are Forever, the snake pit situation is being burned alive in a coffin.

Arguably this is the most pants-shitting position anyone could find themselves in: after Bond deposits the diamonds in the mausoleum, he is knocked out cold and placed into a coffin to be incinerated. All things considered, Bond responds to this predicament fairly cooly. He doesn’t panic; his only move is an attempt to open the coffin. But right when you think it’s the end, Bond is rescued by Mr. Slumber and a pissed off comedian. “You dirty double-crossing limey fink!” the aged comedian yells, “your goddamn diamonds are phonies!”

Bond responds in the only sensible manner: “let me guess. You’re St. Peter?”

It’s a good exchange. To paraphrase Guy Hamilton, it’s a lovely bit of nonsense. But Bond gets out of this predicament by a switcheroo that wasn’t established to the audience: the diamonds that were shoved up Peter Franks’ ass were fake. We’re not told that until AFTER Bond escapes a fiery death. The more you think about it, it’s only by luck that Bond gets out of this alive, therefore making this the weakest of the “snake pit” situations directed by Guy Hamilton.

In the other two examples, Bond had to outthink his situation. In Goldfinger, he had to bluff. In Live And Let Die, 007 had to do one of the coolest stunts ever. In Diamonds Are Forever, it is by luck that Morton Slumber and the comedian discover that the diamonds are fake in time to stop the burning. Though he escaped by the skin of his teeth, Bond thinks on his feet: with thousands of dollars in his pocket, he knows they wouldn’t burn him up if the money was real. “Bring me the real money, I’ll bring you the real diamonds,” he tells them. Then he hops out of the coffin and strolls on over to Las Vegas.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Diamonds r 4eva: written commentary (part viii)

Tiffany Case and James Bond smuggle the body of Peter Franks, along with a literal assload of diamonds, into the United States via LAX. Bond is greeted at customs by none other than Felix Leiter.

Of all the actors to have played Felix, Norman Burton is among the least mentioned. This is a shame because he’s a good choice: he’s not built like an action star; he’s built like a normal schlubby guy doing his job. Burton plays him as a man who wants to do nothing more than go home and bitch to his wife about all the shit that the CIA puts him up to. That’s totally relatable. Say what you will about Guy Hamilton but the man knows how to cast movies.

But in this exchange between Bond and Leiter there comes the most controversial question of the film: who stuffed the fake diamonds into Peter Franks’ asshole? Tiffany Case or James Bond? This has been HOTLY debated for 53 years but the answer is obviously James Bond. Let me explain: Tiffany Case would have assumed they were smuggling REAL diamonds but, as it is revealed later, the diamonds extracted from Franks’ dead body were FAKE. Only James Bond, MI6, and the CIA could have known that. Ergo, James Bond shoved the diamonds into Franks’ rectum.

It really makes you think doesn’t it? Perhaps these are more thought provoking movies than people remember.

After Leiter’s inspection, the body is hauled away by three funeral home employees, who are clearly undercover mob guys, one of whom is played by Sid Haig (one of a few cult-favorite actors to appear in this film). Bond is convinced to ride in the front seat of the hearse all the way from Los Angeles to Las Vegas. So a few thoughts here: why? McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas is featured later in the movie. Why not fly directly there from Amsterdam? Did Amsterdam not have flights directly to Vegas in 1971? Would audiences have given a shit? As an American intimately familiar with the SoCal area, this has always bothered me.

So Bond and the mobsters arrive at Morton Slumber’s Funeral Home in Nevada. Mr. Slumber and Bond hilariously go through the motions of pretending to give a shit about the funeral process; Peter Franks’ body is burned up and in about two minutes the diamonds are retrieved from his colon and placed in an urn. Bond takes the urn into the mausoleum, retrieves some money, and is knocked out cold by Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Diomonds r 4eva: written commentary (part vii)

The James Bond franchise is noted for its versatility in action set pieces. You have skiing, boat chases, car chases, parkour chases, fighter jets, and even space battles. But I’m a simple man. There’s nothing that I like to see more than two men pummel the shit out of each other.

The train fight in From Russia With Love is probably the greatest example. It’s not only one of the best fights in the franchise, it’s probably one of course most notable in film history. Above all else, James Bond needs to be a brawler. They got away from that in the post-Connery era. No disrespect to Roger Moore, Timothy Dalton, and Pierce Brosnan but I’m pretty sure I’d stand a decent chance at beating their asses if it came down to it. The Broccolis thankfully reestablished Bond as a brute with Daniel Craig but there’s something about Sean Connery that I find raw. Watch any of the earlier films of the 60s. Connery portrays Bond as almost having a psychopathic need to throw down. That’s who James Bond is; he can’t feel alive unless certain death is knocking at his door.

Now I’m not saying that the elevator fight in Diamonds Are Forever is one of the best. It’s not even top 10. Actually it’s probably the worst in the franchise. But even the worst fight in a James Bond movie is better than the greatest orgasm. That’s a hill I’m willing to die on. But this is why the talent behind the camera is the best in the industry: they see an opportunity to do something cool (if not stupid) and run with it. Connery is what? 6’2 220? And the stuntman he’s fighting is at least that much. Then Guy Hamilton sees a 3×3 elevator and decides that’s where they’ll confront each other.

The “bad guy” (Peter Franks) is a total fucking idiot though. Think about it: you killed a guard, escaped prison, then went to Amsterdam. When you arrive at your destination, there’s another big ass dude (James Bond) that happens to show up. THEN you agree to get into a tiny elevator with him?! I get not wanting to look conspicuous BUT if I were Peter Franks, I would NOT let another big dude stand behind me under those conditions. But James Bond fucks up too. He probably should have chosen to choke Peter Franks out instead of winding up to punch him and breaking a glass pane. I mean goddamn, why am I not working for MI6?

Nevertheless a fight ensues, a bunch of glass breaks, a bullet is fired, and none of this gains the attention of residents EXCEPT for Tiffany Case. She stands hopelessly by while the fight spills out of the elevator and Bond defeats Franks with a fire extinguisher. Though Bond is victorious, he could have easily avoided this mess by, again, choking Franks out. No matter though. 007 does some quick thinking by exchanging Peter Franks’ wallet out with his and dragging the dead body into Tiffany Case’s apartment. When she checks the deceased for an ID, she gasps. “My god! You just killed James Bond!”

So, is James Bond famous? Kinda defeats the purpose of being a secret agent.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Diamonds r 4eva: written commentary (part vi, I think)

James Bond steals a tiny yellow car, flirts with Ms. Moneypenny, and is off to Amsterdam. We see a boat tour down the Amstel, a dead woman pulled from the river, and Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd cackling to themselves about sending pictures of the body to kids. The two henchmen walk away, James Bond drives past them and arrives at Tiffany Case’s house.

Jill St. John is controversial among Bond fans. Sure her character is a little uneven and she’s given odd dialogue. But as much as it pains me to say it, that’s Tom Mankiewicz’s fault. You can’t deny that St. John at least gives a performance. She’s picking up the slack where Connery is lacking.

BUT, with that said, even while Connery simply rolls out of bed and into his toupee, there’s no denying his charisma. As much as I love Roger Moore, there are times when I think “Sean could have delivered that line better.” And Bond’s first interaction with Tiffany Case highlights this point; She walks in and out of the room barely wearing anything, she’s confusing Bond with her constant wig changing, and she’s a total smartass. That’s a lot! Had Roger been in the scene, he would have raised an eyebrow, gawked at her, and looked like an absolute pervert. I would have never believed their chemistry. But Connery, in his detachment, plays it dumb and cool. He lets HER carry the scene. After Tiffany Case informs Bond that she’ll finish dressing, only Connery could have pulled off the line “oh please. Not on my account.”

Can you imagine if Roger said that? 🤢

What’s unfortunate about this scene is that very little of it carries into the film. Tiffany doesn’t become the strong female character she’s established to be and the wig changing plays an only a minor role later on. So the scene is confusing if not absurd. Then again so is the rest of the movie! But I think the biggest complaint is that many find Tiffany Case annoying.

I disagree wholeheartedly. The inconsistency in the character is ironed out by St. John. The strong face she puts on in her introduction immediately melts away once when bullets start flying. Where you find inconsistency, I find relatability. Where the screenwriters failed, St. John delivered nuance. So justice for Tiffany Case!

There’s an interesting scene after the Tiffany Case introduction when Bond returns to his hotel room and has a phone chat with Q. Bond commends him for the fake set of fingerprints and Q is flattered. I like little moments like this. The relationship between Q and Bond can sometimes be quarrelsome, particularly during the Connery era, but at the end of the day I like to think these guys like each other. But what’s confusing here is that Q kinda nonchalantly tells James Bond that the guy he’s impersonating has killed a guard, escaped prison, and is presumably on his way to Tiffany Case. I guess these things happen all the time at M16, but hell, even if I didn’t LIKE the guy, I’d still be a little urgent in a phone call to my coworker that a man is probably on his way to kill him! But that’s just one of the reasons why this film is so special: it’s explicitly telling you that we’re here to have fun.

This point is driven home in the following action sequence…

TO BE CONTINUED