The worst television show in the world bounces depressingly along, bringing us to new and exciting places, and old and awful ones. People were asked to leave and begged to stay. The heart rages on.
Paul Johnson Calderon
Yes, the Paul Johnson Calderon, star of New York society and demure little cricket. PJC's episode was all about love. Loving to hate people and, sometimes, hating to love people. Before he could do anything fun, he had to deal with something serious. Jules Kirby, the creature on the airplane wing of the world, had said some nasty mean old things about him on some sort of blog, and he needed to exact revenge. So he got in his plotting limousine and called up his florist. "Hi, I want a dozen black roses delivered to Jules Kirby, and I want the card to say this: 'Hey Bitch, you're a bitch. I'm fabulous and you're a bitch. xx, PJC." Ohhhhhh, burrrrrn!!!! That is some Yakuza shit right there. Kid does not mess around. I've always said never trust a man in a bowtie, and this is one reason why. (The other reason is that it might be a camera.) So once that wicked work was done, he could have fun. He decided to celebrate his PJCness by getting in his dating limo and picking up a boytrick.
It was the fellow from before, the model type from an episode or two earlier. PJC swilled champagne and picked him up and told us that he really likes him because "He's hot, and cute, and hot." Good reasons all. So they got champers drunk and hoofed it on over to a nice little benefit party, where PJC smooched all over the model's cheeks and the model grimaced and all the old ladies clucked their tongues and raised their eyebrows and said conspiratorially to each other, "Ohh, Helen. I would break it off in that hot piece." After the benefit had ended and all the diseases/homeless people/smiles had been cured, PJC and the model flitted off to a bar where they were just beset by well-wishers and lookie-loos. PJC basked in the attention while the model seemed more and more uncomfortable. He's a model! He's not used to being stared at and objectified! Finally when everyone was good and drunk, PJC and Model went for a private chat, a sloppy kissfest, and Model started... crying? Was he crying? I think he might have been. Well whatever, because then the waterfall words started tumbling out and he was saying "I juss dont wanchoo to be dating me cause Im model on yer arm, I love you..." PJC petted his head and said "Ssshhh, sshhh I love you we'll get married, and our babies will be models, I love you..." And Model smiled sadly and said, "I'm a model... But I wish I was an airplane. I wish I was a big, big airplane and I could fly over all the countries and I could wave down to them and say 'Hello countries!' and the sun would be bright and it would be nice but instead I'm a model..." PJC hiccuped and gave him a blearly stare. "I wish you were a puppy. I'd put you in a bag." And then he told the Model to go home and the Model did and PJC stood on the street, wobbling at the camera, saying "Why would I be using him? He should be using me? He's a no-name model, I've already made it, I'm Paul Johnson Calderon." And it's true, son. You are Paul Johnson Calderon. 'Tis pity no one knows what that means.
Dabney is Tinsley's partially absorbed twin that she lets out to play once in a while, like in that X-Files episode about the carnival. Tinsley was having a sad day, so she decided to release the Dabney and they would have a hotel fattie party for fatties. This involves drinking champagne and ordering terrible food from room service and then not eating it. So they ordered grilled cheeses! and chicky finguhz! and frencha fries! and laughed at how silly the foods were and they tossed them around the plates and made sure the cameras could see them being playful and silly with fried food (they're just regular girls staying in a Manhattan hotel for the night when they already live in Manhattan!) and they guzzled champagne and talked about Mom Feelings. Tinsley still feels sad about Mom, because Mom was being mean about things. Dabney's face fell and suddenly the room seemed overly bright and the food sallow and ugly there on the table and she realized that they weren't there to be sisters, they were there so Tinsley could talk some more about herself. Dejected, Dabney crawled back inside the twin hole in Tinsley's side. "Oh, OK, OK, goodnight," Tinsley said, a little surprised. Pretty soon Dabney was snoring in her mucusy cubby and that was that.
With the groaning sound of an old log flume taking one last run, we trundled over to renowned flop sweat witch Jules Kirby. She was simultaneously scratching her crotch and biting off her toe nails when she noticed a peculiar stain on the carpet of her hotel room (where she lives). It was vomit! She knew whose vomit it was, of course she did, but that didn't matter. She called down to the cleaning people and said "There is vomit or something in my room! Why hasn't it been cleaned up??" Well Jules, because housekeeping hasn't been by in the last hour, since you drank two many corndog, rum, and blood cocktails and heaved them up all over the rug. So some poor cleaner showed up and Jules whipped him with her cat-o'-nine-tails, still vomiting Julestinis as he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. After that incident, she decided it was time to get pretty. I mean, prettier.
She went down to the nail place and grunted at them "Nails, bitch. Now. Fuckin' nails." The lady said that they've been very accommodating to her in the past but today they really really were booked solid and she said "Whatever," and shuffled off, setting fire to the salon and locking the girl inside. She went back upstairs and while doing her beauty regimen (bathing in egg salad, smoking cigarettes not with her mouth) came a rap at the door. It was Todd Sprightly, the manager of the hotel. He had some bad news for her. She was getting kicked out. Yes, kind and gracious Jules, thrown to the curb. The genuinely tragic thing is that she didn't seem surprised at all. Apparently she'd been in a fight outside and a hotel staffer had seen it and run in and said "Miss Sprightly, Miss Sprightly! The flop sweat witch is battling a demon outside!" And that was it. Jules didn't want the cameras filming the moment, so she walked right up to them and swatted at them like a badger and eventually they got turned off, and then she was out on the street, photographed by fake paparazzi that the CW had called ahead for, and who knows where she will go next. She'll probably go stay at her parents' place in the sewer.
Deb Trachtenberg, the editor of a magazine called Social Geographic, continued her quest to hate Tinsley Mortimer. It's a noble pursuit, one that really adds meaning to one's life. So she decided to go to parties to tell people that she hates Tinsley, and everyone was proud of her for spending her time so wisely. Before the party, though, she had to go get some diamonds. So she went to a special diamond bunker where a man draped her with three million dollars worth of very subtle diamond jewelry and off she went with a security guard, to regale the partygoers with her tales of Tinsley and of wearing three million dollars worth of diamonds right now. When she got there, a few people were impressed. There was a tiny pixie from New York Magazine who nodded his head and said "OK, OK, uh huh" as Deb yammered on ceaselessly about hating Tinsley and loving diamonds. And there were two gay hobos that the CW had put suits on and promised sandwiches to if they would go over and pretend to be fans of Deb and her magazine, Society Beat. She gushed and said "Thaaaank you, you're so cute, I'm wearing three million dollars in diamonds and I hate Tinsley Mortimer." They giggled and clapped as they'd been told to do and then read her something off a cellphone about how she hates Tinsley and she said "It's true, I hate Tinsley. Almost as much as I love these three million dollar diamonds." The two gay hobos bounced off and went back to their alleyway where they do elaborate choreography to made-up musicals about rats and fish bones and old leather satchels, while Deb returned the diamonds and, without their glorious and expensive weight, felt suddenly cheap.
Poor Dale. All she's trying to do is meddle insanely with her adult daughter's life with complete impunity. That's all. Sigh. Needing a respite from the city, Dale steam whistled up to Newport, RI, that storied palce of Vanderbilt mansions and rolling lawns and gin-soaked sadnesses. She invited Tinsley up because she wanted to prove a very important point. So Tinsley got off the Amtrak at Kingston (so weird to see her at that train stop!) and headed on over to Momma's house. It was a sprawling, garishly antiquey affair, with lots of dark, uncomfortable furniture and many rich oil paintings. Dale had invited a local Newport gay asshole to give Tinsley a talk about divorce and society. He showed her lots of paintings of people from olden times and said "If you want to be an old painting someday, you can't get divorced." That was Dale's master plan. To show Tinsley some old stupid paintings of old stupid dead rich people and say "You will never be an old stupid dead rich person hanging on a wall in a tacky Newport castle if you divorce that man named Topper." Tinsley was appropriately horrified and stomped out onto the lawn. Dale followed her and begged with her to just be a good girl and not get divorced. Tinsley got all teary and said "Momma, love me! Pick me! Choose me!" And Dale just didn't know what to do. It cut to an interview segment with her and she said "It just breaks my heart..." and you thought, OK good. It breaks her heart that she's been so awful. It breaks her heart that Tinsley doesn't love her anymore. But no, she said "It just breaks my heart... I have always done so much for her." Oh, so it's still Tinsley's fault. Yay Dale! Fuck off! Actually all of you! All of you fuck off!
After the grass fight, Tinsley went to her room and wrote in her diary:
Today was a sad, ugly day. Today I took the choo-choo up to Momma's house so she could show me some creepy old paintings of people that were alive a long, long time ago. Like a million or a hundred years ago! And Momma was holding a kleenex in her hand like she always does these days and she pointed her finger at the paintings and she said 'Tinsley, you cannot move away from Topper, because otherwise you won't be a painting!' And I got very upset and ran out, because I want to be a painting! But I want to be a painting of just me maybe, or maybe me and Prince Nicepants. I do not want a painting of Topper because he makes my heart feel like mud. But Momma doesn't understand that. Or maybe Momma wants my heart to be mud. Who knows. She is very confusing with all her Momma plans and Momma mysteries.
And now I am here, staying in the blue room, and there are windies outside. Maybe there is a storm coming over the ocean like birds or a boat, and maybe it will wash this house away and everyone inside it. Or maybe it isn't windies at all, it's scary ghosts. The people from the paintings. And maybe they are saying to me that it is OK to be your own painting, that you don't need to be a Topper & Tinsley painting to be a good painting, that there are lots of different kinds of paintings in all the big art castles in New York City and I can be one of those. Or maybe the ghosts are just saying, over and over and over again in ghostlanguage, 'Momma is wronnggg! Sometimes Momma is wronggg!' I would like the ghosts if they were saying that.
I used to be a little girl and I would come to the big Newport house and Momma would take me down to the oceanside and I would say 'Momma? Can I go swimming?' And Momma would say 'Tinsley, young ladies do not go swimming,' and I would get very sad and sometimes cry, but I believed Momma then because I was just a little girl and what do little girls know. Not a whole lot, that's what. But now I think Momma was wrong. I see lots of young ladies swimming and it looks like they are having fun and nobody's mad at them.
So I am going to do it. Even though there are ghost windies outside and maybe a storm is going to come and eat us all up, I am going to disobey Momma and go swimming, even though it is nighttime. Goodbye Diary, for only now I hope! Splash!
(That was not really me going swimming but that's what it will sound like in a little while when I do.)
Malik the Sheik
It wasn't ghosts, and it wasn't windies. It was Malik, lost in the night.
Three more weeks guys.