Push, Nevada
Color Of Money

Episode Report Card
Djb: C | Grade It Now!
Oh, they're shoveling it, all right

Props to legendary film director The Great Blair Treu. Smoke the next one for me, you beautiful, beautiful wo/man. Donatello!

The Naked Light Bulb Of Garishly Illuminated Lost Innocence shines harshly down on a hand holding a needle in a close-up so intense even Judith Light skin care infomercials are like, "Right. Epidermis. Check. Jesus. Yank it back, Asimov. It's not freakin' Innerspace." A grunty shot of the grunty face of "The Cancellation Death Knell Of" J. A"lfred" Prufrock indicates that he's been under some duress lo these last nine or so TV seconds, and SkinCam rounds Jim's face and moves to a tight shot of his increasingly Rorschach-like upper back. The tattoo guy we met last week (did he have a name? It's too bad there isn't some kind of central resource where someone records the details of each episode in painstaking detail so that…ah, forget it) stands behind Jim, shirtless except for an elaborate scarf wrapped around his neck, because he's hurting inside and he never had a puppy. He inks in an outline on Jim's back as Jim grimaces and sweats and goes through the natural emotions of one experiencing illicit desert manlove (er, I mean, "legitimate artistic body decoration") while bent over a chair and begging for mercy. Okay, I change my vote back to "illicit desert manlove." Buffalo Bill The Tattoo Shill wins first line privilege this week, though if this episode is anything like last week's, I suspect that the first and all subsequent lines will resemble something along the screenwriting patois of, "Remember that one x-variable thing of shady origin and failed resolution that happened to either us or one of the other characters at some point last week? That was cool." Let's go see! Bill mumbles the pearl, "Pain is the Miracle-Gro of life." Right. And "love springs forth like the Chia-Pet of our dreams." I mean, as long as we're all quoting from the All I Ever Needed To Know I Learned In KinderGardening coffee table book Bill has clearly left open to Page Gay somewhere just off-camera. And, I mean, I don't even see a coffee table in that place!

Buffalo Bill The Name-Brand Compost Shill admires his work through gritted teeth that hold a cigarette in place, as I lunge to close my window (my community has a neighborhood watch program for kinky naked bondage porn, and I'm about to have the amber light turned in my direction) and check my closed captioning (because what? WHAT?) on his incomprehensible line, "This is looking good." Jim hazards some conversation, asking, "You ever do any serpents?" Bill doesn't miss a beat before volleying back, "I did a lawyer once." Oh! Rimshot! If you will. Is that a punch line from the "Kidsday Joke Page" Sunday insert of the Push Times, as submitted by the students of Push Elementary's second graders? Because if so, I think I've got a pretty good idea where that 400-pound gorilla is gonna sleep, don't you, Bill? Don't you just? Just plain ungimpy enough for his fetish needs, Bill hands Jim a belt and insists, "Bite this. It helps." Man, if I had a nickel. I could give you the million myself and we could turn this off and all go out for pizza and body art. Jim voluntarily places the belt in his own mouth and resumes the third-degree (Kelvin, I'm just unbored enough to report) softball questions: "I mean, any serpent tattoos? On people? Did you ever draw a tattoo like that on a man?" Bill confirms that he has indeed, and Jim follows up by asking that man's name, causing Bill to get trapped in the emotional spin cycle and tilt his "unbalanced load" light on, answering harshly, "I don't answer questions while I work." Not unless there's a wacky lawyer quip to be made at the other end of it, eh, Bill? Hey, Bill? What do you call a lawyer buried up to his neck in sand? Not enough sand! How many lawyers does it take to screw in a light bulb? What did the lawyer say to the blonde? To the Polack? To the door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman? Oh, here's one: a lawyer, a tattoo artist, and an IRS agent walk into the unemployment office…

Jim, a pointy object plunged in his back and a strap of leather cinched across his vocal cords, continues multitasking: "This belt tastes funny." "Funnier'n a lawyer joke?" Bill's eyes seem to ask. But he cops to why the culinary bouquet might be different than those of the other belts Jim is accustomed to eating, reasoning, "It's laced with peyote." Bill is soon to deem the squirming Jim "a real chatty Cathy," which is a pretty dangerous-sounding threat coming from a crazed recluse who, if Jim doesn't tread lightly with the questioning, is going to burst forth with the even more slicing epithet, "Mind your own beeswax, Mister Looky-Loo." Nonsensical banter indicating that Affleck was poised to leave the monkeys with the typewriters to finish off the script until he remembered that he was the monkey at the end of this book ensues, Bill asking if his trailer is a library and then telling Jim he's not allowed to talk in there anyway. He tells Jim, "Settle down…what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." And the look of resignation that passes over Jim's face communicates the message as well as the shoddy direction will allow, "And if all else fails, I'll just come back and have him change it to 'Wino Forever.'"

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Push, Nevada




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