"You were laid by vultures on a stump in a hollow. I found you, felt sorry for you and took you home to raise as my own"…Thomas Vines (My father)

 

DRINKING WITH ED WOOD JR. by Anthony Clark Vines

 

There is darkness all around: Pitch black, motionless, cold. Still, I am able to see through it all. It is a misty fog, unlit and yet clear. It makes no sense except here. Here, in my bed, in the middle of nowhere it makes perfect sense. There is no sky, no ground, and no features. I lie still under my covers and look upward. Still, I am aware of my surroundings. They are familiar to me. I have been here before, many times now. I know the whole of it. There is no up or down, left or right, east or west nor north or south. There is nothing…nothingness. I am not floating but I am nowhere. And still I know. I know what comes next.

 

Perhaps he is a little closer than times before, perhaps a little farther. It doesn’t matter. He isn’t important, not to me anyway. Taking a deep breath I raise waist up and peer forward. He is there as always. This is the first of several Dickens-esque spirits. I am to play the part of Scrooge and he is my Marley.

 

In reality, he is just a reference to something more sinister; something more dark. He is Freddy Krueger of the Nightmare on Elm Street movie series and he is grinning as always: Big smile with a toothy upturn of the lips. He is all scars and claws. Here is a parody of all his kin come before him. He sees the entire world through a blood-covered wash. He acknowledges all his shortcomings and takes advantage of them. This creature is half man, half something more. At once he is accomplished in his craft and equally unacceptable in its execution. Like Ebenezer and his partner, we share a common thread that I am yet unwilling to accept. It is one he is willing to expose to the world to any who would listen and to me whether I like it or not.

 

I half expect him to rush forward or creep toward me slowly with knife-laden appendages out stretched, all the while cackling a bitter string of actions he is going to unleash upon me. He does neither. He merely removes his timeworn blood caked hat and bows to me. Then he laughs. It is short lived and followed by the sound of his sickly sweet voice. “No demon in heaven or hell could have done more.” He turns his head up from his lowered stance, his eyes ablaze with evil that now acknowledges me. “You are one twisted piece of work.”

 

I am taken aback. And yet I know he speaks the truth. I know to what he refers. Yet he is only a fictional creation: A monster of someone’s mind. I am yet alive locked in a living nightmare within a nightmare. There is more to come and I am beginning to sweat.

It is difficult to take my eyes from him but I must. There are others here, others for me to acknowledge. I turn my head to the left. There stands another grotesque creation, Michael Myers from the Halloween series of films. He stands motionless as the air that surrounds us both. His blue jumpsuit perfectly buttoned. He has a knife clutched and primed for action. The pale and painted mask of William Shatner’s image covers blank eyes that peer forward. His head slowly assumes a cocked position to one side. He doesn’t understand anything. He has all but lost any sense of the real world. Life for him is a series of motions now. I understand perfectly. There is no beauty left for him, only urges. Forces he cannot control drive him.

 

Again I expect the worst. But he makes no move on me. No lurched walk, no dead man’s run. He just shows me that he is aware of my presence with a quick flick of the knife. Light from an unknown source causes it to glint a bit. It’s a statement almost, saying perhaps, “I am walking nothingness. I am neither good nor bad just insanely unaware. I have no remorse now. I accept who I am.” We share a moment of understanding. He and I have a common bond. My throat is going dry.

 

I know there is more. There are always more. I continue on in my 360’ nightmarish tour. Craning my head in an impossible and uncomfortable position, I sync up with one last movie creature: Jason Voorhees of the Friday the 13^th horror cinema.  Jason also stands back behind what should be the head of the bed but in this place, it is a pointless area of reference. He is the biggest of the three. He is a lumbering giant in coveralls and a hockey mask. He is stippled with blood. It seems to almost ooze out of his pores and from behind his mask. He is muddy, grungy and generally frightening. An impossibly long machete resides in his hand. He slashes the air for emphasis. It is a hacking motion, unclean, corrupt, and crude. Yet, there is something still there: something in the way of craft. It is hidden and in order to be seen or discovered must be studied. There is no sense of fear on my part. He is not swinging to kill me. He is showing me his talent. He is saying in his silence, “See, we are one, you and I. This is our pact. This is our way.” I feel nauseated.

 

I stare at him momentarily as he repeats his motions again and again. I begin my return tour, nodding to each as I correct my position in reverse order. Jason, Michael, Freddy. I know them all. I accept them all.

 

But now it is time to accept the most real demon of all. There are three other beings here just to my right. Only one is of concern to me. It is not the barkeep that stands behind a long, ebony and ivory bar. No, that creation is just an added bonus to this whole, horrific, hammer-to-the-head, notion of what and who I have become. He is the Devil, Satan, Lucifer, etc. and he is just serving up the drinks for laughs and chagrins. The real demon sets on the other side of the bar atop a worn out stool in a dingy tavern or pub somewhere.

This somewhere is just inside the realm of Rod Serling who stands in the spotlight on a stage just up and cornered from all. He is in full monologue and stating the obvious for an audience of one, me. This is The Twilight Zone and the signpost up ahead reads “Welcome to Hell. It’s a personal thing.”

 

The demon raises his glass in tribute to me. He motions me over. I slide out of bed and into the nothingness. I struggle forward and take a seat on a stool across from him. “Drink?” he asks. “I don’t…never have tasted it…no thank you,” I manage. “Now’s the time to start,” he suggests. I agree. He orders me something.

 

The demon sips his drink, all the while watching me behind a pencil thin mustache. He is handsome in a 50’s kind of sense but oddly clothed in a fuzzy, white, angora sweater. Beneath it he wears only a black, bomber bra, which is propped up and stuffed to emphasize his lack of the necessary accoutrements. He wears black mini-short panties, fishnet stockings over hairy legs and concludes with black stilettos. He has no front teeth. They set on the bar beside him. He tells me he lost his real “pearlies” in the war. My mouth is agape. This is Ed Wood Jr. He is a legendary film figure. He is not gay but a transvestite. He made bad films. He struggled against all odds, trying but eventually came not to care.

 

My drink arrives and I take a gulp: Whiskey. It burns going down. My eyes tear up. I shut them tight in an attempt to regain control. When I open them, Wood is gone. I look around. He is nowhere to be seen. I look to the barkeep who only gives me a smirk and a Boy Scout salute with an added nod for accent. Then it catches my eye. There is a mirror to the rear of the bar. Suddenly, all the characters are gone: The barkeep; Serling; the monsters; Ed Wood Jr. Now there is only my reflection and myself…and I am wearing the pencil thin mustache, the angora sweater, the lingerie, and the stilettos. I hold the drink. I have become my worst nightmare. I have become Ed Wood Jr.

 

I wake up. I expel the contents of my stomach into a waiting can. The dream has come and gone but the nightmare can never really be extinguished.

 

My name is Anthony Clark Vines. I made the world’s worst movie.

 

DRINKING WITH ED WOOD JR): What I did (Part II)

Occasionally, I still have the dream. But it is not really a dream so much as it is a nightmare: A horribly symbolic nightmare. It is symbolic of the very real internal turmoil, frustration and guilt that I harbor. Sadly, as per my confession, it is not a deep, dark secret such as a fresh corpse tucked away somewhere [1] that causes me such distress. It is not some act of indiscretion (I would brag about them).[2] I have never stolen, robbed or taken anything more than the occasional pen at work.[3] I have never done anyone any known harm that I am unwilling to admit too.[4] And so now I have to fess up to most horrendous, insidious, and personally devastating act of my life. I joined the aforementioned Ed Wood Jr. in the ranks of the immortals that produced a cinematic wonder so mind bogglingly bad that airsickness bags should be standard issue when viewing the “film” in question.[5] But unlike Wood, whose films became classic bad cinema, my film is just plain bad. It was the worse film of all time. I can only say this: It is as bad as Showgirls was but doesn’t have the saving graces of Elizabeth Berkley and Gina Gershon doing the lesbian electric tongue slide to even make it viewable.[6] This film was a royal fubar:[7] A one of a kind disaster of biblical proportions. This little cinematic gem was a tour de force in bad scripting, bad producing, bad acting, bad locations and bad cinematography and yes, ultimately and admittedly, bad direction.[8] The work in question is an example of when stupidity, egotism, greed and a growing sense of being overwhelmed by circumstances and forces beyond ones control merge to form one brutally ugly reality: That of a few moments in time forever captured in all its digital brilliance.[9] And what is more, sadly, it is my reality, my burden, and my personal albatross to bear.

 

Why mine you ask?[10] Because it is my name that so blatantly stands out on the damn thing. It makes me cringe to think about it. If you ever see the film[11] you will cringe too for all together different reasons. Viewing the film is akin to wiping one’s derriere with a corncob after eating a lot of Mexican food. It is ineffective, hurts like a mother, still stinks when it is over and you wonder who came up with this idea in the first place. If Helen of Troy’s face launched a thousand ships, this film created a million regrets and even more nightmares. Not even the great cinematic Saint Alan Smithee could cleanse my soul or wash my hands clean of this work. No, even Ed Wood Jr. would view this little gem, shake his head in utter disbelief and say, “You know, son, I want to thank you for saving me from the eternal torment of being called the worst director of all time. Here is the crown. I gladly yield it to you.”

I would have to take it.

 

Why Edward Cannot Rumba

Anthony Vines

 

Edward cannot rumba.  For the record, Edward cannot waltz, tango, box-step or even do the hoochie-koochie.  There are many reasons for this fact.  The steps are too complicated for him to understand.  He has never had lessons.  However, the most obvious reason that he cannot dance is that he is a cat.  He is my cat or perhaps I am his person.  In either case, he still cannot dance.

While this may bother me, it seems to be a trivial thing to him.  No matter how often I try to explain the aspects of dancing or how often I show him how to dance, Edward is just not interested.  Perhaps this is the true reason for his lack of dancing ability.

 

I have given the problem of complicated dance steps much thought.  Often I have come up with a brilliant plan to teach Edward the dance steps.  Each time I have failed.  He seems incapable of mastering them gracefully.  I have examined his hind paws carefully for flaws. They were as normal as any other cats. I pondered making him some small dance shoes, but he could never tie the laces.  I have physically showed him how to dance.  He only hissed and growled in discontent.  I believe it intimidates him when he cannot grasp the complicated dexterity involved in a tango or waltz.  His frustration grows to the point of refusal of cooperation and lack of interest.  His ears veer backwards and his brow furrows.  He gets angry.  I grow mad because he refuses to even try.  I tell him that he can do it even though it is complicated.  He pushes away and leaves.  He just cannot do complicated dance steps.  He is not interested.

 

I have thought of giving Edward dance lessons.  If he had some instruction, perhaps he would be more interested and involved.  I called a few studios to sign him up.  No one was interested.  One lady laughed.  Another man called me a nut.  If I could not teach Edward to dance, I thought someone else could. No one would try.  When I broke the news to Edward, he was disinterested.  He walked away.  I scolded him.  He did not care. In fact, I think he was happy about the whole affair.  If he has no lessons, how can he learn?  How can he know the joy of dancing if he will not even show the interest to take lessons?  He will never get dance lessons.  He is just not interested.

 

Some of my friends say Edward cannot dance simply because he is a cat.  They say that he is mentally and physically not capable of handling all it takes to learn dance steps.  How could this be true?  He has the intelligence.  He can figure out how to get into the cabinet to get to the kitty treats.  He has the dexterity.  He can snatch a flying bug in mid-flight.  He has the cunning.  He can stalk, pounce and kill an innocent pair of socks.  He has the rhythm. His purring keeps up with his breathing.  He can read a clock because he knows that five-thirty in the morning is the right time to make as much noise as possible.  So I ask, if he can do all these things, should he not be able to dance?  Just because he is limited to his species does not mean he is limited in ability.  Edward is capable of dancing, he is just not interested.

 

It could be that I am taking this all too personal.  After all, Edward is just a cat.  It is not necessary for him to learn to dance.  I just think that it would be a rewarding hobby for him.  It might expand his limited horizons.  There has to be more to life than eating, sleeping, chasing odd objects, ruining household items and catching slow bugs.  Dancing could give him the creative outlet that has been holding him back.  He could teach my other three cats, Maureen, Cary, and Max how to dance.  They could have little dance parties for the neighborhood cats.  They could start dance clubs.  It might even become a national craze.  Just think about it: Cats everywhere doing the rumba or limbo.  However, that will never happen because Edward cannot dance. Edward is not even interested in dancing.  I wonder if he would be interested in golf?

 

The Orchid

 

He was not an ugly man, nor was he handsome but he lie somewhere in between. He was the kind of man women occasionally noticed as they passed. He never struck them as a threat but never peaked their interest either. Only those women of similar nature paid him any heed and the kindness was never returned. It was not that he did not notice, for he did. It was just that he was reclusive. By nature he was studious and reserved. And he never, ever gave away his emotions. He had but one love, a beautiful, rare and precious thing to which he bestowed all his passion and lust. He substituted his earthly longing for love to that of which no other could possibly understand. He had a flower. No ordinary flower, mind you, but a flower that was almost the rarest of the rare. It was a beautiful, graceful and flowing work of nature that he himself had raised from a happened upon seed.

 

It was a miracle occurrence that he should happen upon it at a social function of an affluent client. She had attempted to raise the flower from several seedlings and failed. The seeds were tossed to the wind in his presence. He had eyed one as it fell to the earth. He knew instantly that it would never grow thus and so, he took pity. He carefully took the seed and placed in his pouch. He made his apologies for not staying and hurried away.

 

At the time, he had known nothing of flowers. He did not even know why he wanted the flower. He just knew it was something that he could lavish upon, not having to deal with others in the process. He made his way to his little room. It was a small place with some light. However, there was one window that always, as he seemed to recall, had light the whole day through. The light would creep along the sill all day, never crossing over into the room. He thought that this would be the ideal place for the flower. He used an old bowl to gather in dirt and placed the seed carefully there in. And not knowing anything about plants, he proceeded to learn. Soon, other plants graced his room. All were well maintained and properly cared for. However, his favorite was his first flower. It grew and became a vibrant piece of nature’s artistry. He doted out all of his attention on this precious thing. He would leave his business at lunch every day to check on the flower and make sure it was getting ample sunlight. He allowed the flower to become a substitute love. He admired it, cared for it, and loved it. He would set for hours and night and watch it. He could almost hear it grow. He though his life could be no better than this. He had his flower and nothing else entered into his life.

 

As his life continued on, so did his odd behavior. People could see the plant setting on his windowsill of his second story room and they would talk about it. He became known as the man who could make plants grow strong and beautiful. He could hear them talking and secretly, he enjoyed his notoriety. Then, one day, the Queen herself came by to see the flower, and to talk to the famed man. He was deeply honored by the beauty of her presence. She spoke to him as a friend. She spoke to him about his interest in foliage and expressed her own personal interest. Finally, she intrigued him. She said she had the rarest of rare flowers in her possession. An orchid that was so blue that it appeared black. She invited him to come and admire this wondrous thing. He graciously accepted, though secretly, he laughed to himself. He thought that no plant could rival that of his flower.

And so, on the day set forth previously, he made his way to the Queen’s greenery room. He presented his invitation with a low that he had never felt before. The footman led him to the Queen and announced his presence. She greeted him kindly and warmly. Then she led him form the greenery to a room in a tower. There upon a pedestal in a room lit by sunlight through stained glass was the orchid. He was stunned and awed by the beauty. He was mesmerized and could not catch his breath. It was as if his very existence had been in vain up until this moment. He began to cry. Tears flowed from his face like two insistent waterfalls. He and his whole life changed. Nothing mattered but this moment. The queen smiled at this obvious appreciation. She intrigued him to look closer at the orchid. He approached the flower as one approaches a great work of art or fragile piece of crystal. As he grew closer, the beauty intensified. He could no longer stand, but rather fell to his knees as if to worship the beauty. The Queen walked to him and gently lifted him up. She turned his face to meet hers and looked deeply in his eyes. Tears still fell as she lightly kissed his lips. The melted into each other and love followed.

At first, their love went unnoticed. After all, she was the queen and he was a lowly artisan of plants. But all eyes are not so unforgiving and soon courtly tongues full of vile rumor spat and the world was a buzz. The man came daily to admire the orchid, to behold its beauty and grace, and to love and lavish and seek sweet return. And it was returned, truly and meaningfully. The two grew careless in their admiration. The King sought to put an end to this dalliance. So he sent his guards to intercept the man and deliver a simple message. They caught him on his way to his daily meeting with the Queen to view the orchid. They did their duty. The message was clear. He could never again come to view the orchid and live or return that day, view the orchid, and die the next morning. He considered the proposition. He returned home. Upon arriving, he found that his room had been robbed. The one plant that he had so nurtured was destroyed. He cried. He stiffened. He returned to view the orchid.  He did so and was taken. The block was arranged just below the tower where he and the Queen had so admired the beauty. He was taken to the executioner’s block and his head was placed on there. The Queen placed the orchid on a windowsill so that he may see it as his life came to an end, and hers as well. The axe fell. The gathered crowed did not resp0ond as usual, with uproar and catcalls. Instead, there was silence. Slowly, they filtered away, screaming in their silence. Later, everyone did note that two streams of blood ran form either side of the block. They formed the perfect petals of an orchid.

Anthony Clark Vines. © 1990. Library of Congress. All rights reserved.