Okay, so I left off with Kelly ushering The Gang into the Casa Walsh Dining Room for her Tasteful Dinner Party. Onward!
So in the Casa Walsh Dining Room, the table is all set with Kelly’s Total Pier 1 best: trendy-colored dishes and glassware, a few low bowls of flowers, candles in votive glasses (not that there’s anything wrong with these elements in and of themselves, mind. I mean, I have plenty of my own Tasteful Dinner Parties with heavy, painted plates and ker-nifty glasses and stuff, but there’s a subtle yet very obvious difference between my Wonky Stuff&Foof, and Kelly’s Impersonal Tastefulness. Kelly *so* wishes she was as cool as me! Ha! Ha! HA!) Anyway, so everything is very artful, tasteful and impersonal. The Ethnic, Okay (TM xix) caterers hold chairs and serve the Hillsters, while Kelly chatters brightly about the food courtesy of “this new Mediterranean restaurant I heard about” and Donna cheers “this is great, Kelly!” while popping a miniscule bit into her overly-lipsticked mouth to try to convince us that she isn’t anorexic (yeah, right) and Tara/Kara chimes in her agreement about Kelly’s Wonderousness.
Kelly beams, all but wriggling like a puppy with delight at her Success. “Actually” she says, picking up her wine glass, “Brandon and I had a reason for inviting you over tonight.” And she inclines her head toward Brando, who picks up his glass and rises pompously to his feet.
“That’s right,” Brandon says, launching into Magnanimous Brando Speech Mode. “We wanted you, our closest friends, to be the first to know. Kelly and I are getting married.” And he puts a proprietary hand on Kelly’s shoulder while she smiles primly and modestly, as befitting a Totally Successful and Blissfully Happy Woman like her, who has just Achieved something else totally Fabo and Great: engagement.
The assembled Hillsters gasp with delight. Donna jounces around in her seat, clapping and bouncing. Stevie crows “Another one bites the dust!” and David and Noah hold up their classes and mumble “congratulations” and “cheers” respectively. But Val and Tara/Kara both looked stunned.
“Wait, wait, there’s more!” Kelly calls out, and then looks up at Brando again, dewy and beatific.
“That’s right. We’re also going to be parents.”
This time, the assembled Hillsters don’t quite know what to do. David and Noah raise glasses and mumble “cheers” and “congratulations” respectively. Steve lets loose a skeevy ribald chuckle. But Donna lurches forward (so that We the TV Viewers have a better view down her boob-sling to her cavernous cleavage). “Kel, you’re pregnant? But I thought you couldn’t have children?”
Kelly smiles primly at Brandon again.
“No, Kel’s not pregnant,” Brandon obligingly answers for her (because when you’re part of a couple, it’s important to do these things that show everyone how intimate you are, because you can, like, answer for each other, and communicate without saying anything, and this way all your friends can see just how Awesomely Wonderful your relationship is, and what a Super Dooper couple you are, and how Lucky you are, and they can envy you because they could never hope to Have all that). Kelly simpers some more, and Brandon continues: “We’re adopting a baby. In fact, we just spoke to our lawyer today, and everything’s ready to go. We’re adopting Brenda’s baby.”
“That’s right,” chirps Kelly. “Brandon and I both believe a child needs a strong, stable home with two parents – a mother AND a father – to love it and care for it. So we’ve filed a petition to be made the legal guardians of Brenda’s baby.”
“Well what does Brenda say about this?” asks Valerie, looking challengingly from Brando to Kelly.
“Oh, she’ll agree. After all, it‘s what’s best for the baby,” says Brando, and Kelly chimes in “That’s right. She’s not in any position to make those decisions.”
“She’s not? She’s the baby’s *mother*” snaps Val.
Brandon slams his hand down on the table. “Val, don’t pass judgment on us!” (which would be the most tragically ironical thing Brandon Walsh could ever utter) and Kelly snips “You know, Val, YOU aren’t one to talk about responsibility, either” and meanwhile the other Hillsters are (1) looking on in begoogled pop-eyed-shock (Donna and Steve) or (2) staring off into space (David and Noah). Tara/Kara, however, is leaning forward, watching intently.
“What makes you think you have the right- ” Val starts, but-
“We have EVERY right!” storms Kelly. “We can nurture that baby better than she can! Brandon! Tell them!” wails Kelly. “I want that baby! I need that baby!” and her Itty Bitty little face twists up in pain as Brandon Oh-So-Macho-like comforts her.
And the camera pans around to the wrought-iron staircase in the Casa Walsh Foyer, where Brenda, effectively Otherized, is sitting with her arms wrapped around her sweatshirt-covered belly, tears of shock, anger and disbelief trickling down her cheeks.
Scene: Casa Walsh, the next day. Up in Skeevy Stevie’s room, Tara/Kara is sitting cross-legged in a tiny silky nightie, her dark hair (wig) clashing with the Kelly Tayloresque pastel shade of said nightgown. While she watches adoringly, Stevie bumbles around getting dressed. He combs his sparse hair with one of those handle-less brushes that look like a horse curry comb, picks his teeth in the mirror, examines his nose hair, and licks a finger to smooth his eyebrows. Finally, he fumbles around tying his Rilly Hiddy Ties, all while Tara/Kara gazes up at him with big cow eyes.
“How do I look?” asks Stevie, straightening his tie and striking a pose.
“Gorgeous,” sighs Tara/Kara. “You always look gorgeous.”
Stevie’s Cheeze-Wiz smile spreads like an oil slick across his face. “You think so, do ya?”
“Oh yes. You’re incredible,” she breathes, rising up on her knees to wind her arms around Stevie’s neck. “You’re handsome... and you’re sexy... and you’re very... very... good,” she says, punctuating her words by chewing on various places along Stevie’s neck and ears while he hip-thrusts and growls in response.
“And YOU are one bad mamma-jamma!” groans Steve in Penis-Boy Ecstasy as he grabs at Tara/Kara and tries to Tune in Tokyo.
“Do you have to go to work?” pouts Tara/Kara in her best Kelly Taylor Babytalk. “Can’ oo jus’ stay here wif me?” And she works her hands under Stevie’s shirt.
Stevie growls and gyrates some more. “Mmmm... you know I’d love nothing more, baby, but tonight is the opening of Peachy’s, and I have a lot of stuff to oversee. But you’ll be at the opening party, won’t you?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it!” beams Tara/Kara. “And I’ll pick out something extra special to wear, too.”
“Like those thigh-high leather boots you wore for me last night?” says Skeevy Stevie in his “Shaaaa!” voice.
But Tara/Kara giggles moistly, pursing her lips -- another Kellyism. “You’ll see! Now you hurry, or you’ll be late!” And she sends Stevie off with a little spank and another coy kissy-kissy. She maintains the smile as she listens to Stevie gallumph down the stairs and slam the front door. Then, smile instantly dissolving into a conniving smirk, she eases out the bedroom door. After an oh-so surreptitious look in the direction of Brinda/Val’s closed door, she sneaks into Brandon and Kelly’s room.
Tara/Kara’s smile widens as she shuts the door behind her. In a sudden frenzy, she seizes upon an abandoned nightgown on the bed, holding it up in front of herself and gazing into the full-length mirror. She pulls on Kelly’s Ultra-Tasteful pastel Victoria’s Secret gown over her own shortie one. Then Tara/Kara takes off her dark wig, revealing a Razor’s Edge Kelly Taylor ‘do, and pounces on the stuff littered across the dresser. First a hairbrush, with icy-blonde strands still clinging to it. Tara/Kara uses it to fluff up her own hair, and then selects a couple itty bitty barrettes. Then Kelly’s makeup bag... Tara/Kara paws through the department store cosmetics, intently lining her eyes and lips and making Kelly Faces at her reflection. Once she has her makeup to Dewy Kelly Taylor perfection, she heads for the floor-to-ceiling dresser, opening drawers and pulling out panties, bras, stockings, slips (all lovely extra-‘spensive lingerie items that could never hold up a *real* pair of breasts, but that doesn’t matter because it is all so pseudo-elegant) and ransacking the closet for Itty Bitty (TM) Kelly Outfits, grinning in obsessive delight at the baby tees, Tasteful Pastel Suits, clunky shoes, granny sweaters and flowered dresses. Clutching an armload of clothes, Tara/Kara purses her lips at her reflection and wriggles her shoulders around. “I have to pick out the perfect outfit for the big party tonight!” she announces to her Kelly Taylored (or is it Kelly-tailored?) reflection, sounding like either a) an impersonation of her Idol or b) a seven-year old girl playing with her Barbies.
Scene: The Former Beverly Beat/Current Southland Independent Offices. Things are clearly in a state of upheaval; several boxes are stacked inside the doorway, and that stack is topped with another pile of books. A huge, battered desk replete with computer/monitor, more books, file folders and newspapers has replaced Brandon’s little power book lunch table. The sound of a printer or fax or something attests to the actual work going on. However, the only person in the office is Editor Ohndrea Zuckerman, in Casual Office Garb with her hair pulled up and clipped out of her face, sipping from a coffee cup while she goes over the pages on the table in front of her.
With that casual looking-away-at-the-ground move that signifies Brando’s Utter Cool and Self-Control, he stands in front of the open door and knocks on the jamb.
“ Brandon. You’re in early this morning,” says Ohndrea, and the Potsie-cam zooms in on the wall clock so We the TV Viewers can see it is, indeed, only a few minutes after seven, and be impressed that Brando has shown up [ostensibly] to work at such an hour.
With his head askew as if he’s still leaning on the doorjamb (Cool and Casual, remember?), Brando takes a couple slow and deliberate steps forward. “Yeah. Well. I could say the same for you,” says Macho King Brandon Walsh, continuing his mosey on into the office, holding up a manila envelope.
“I wanted some time to prepare for the interview with Jean-Jacque Roland,” Ohndrea explains, but Brandon isn’t interested in some interview Ohndrea’s gonna do with some French film-maker.
“I brought you my editorial,” he announces, swaggering over.
“Editorial? Brandon, I need you to write a human-interest article on Allegra’s restaurant and the college students who work there, not an editorial.”
“Oh, this is human interest, Chief,” assures Brandon, taking the article out of the envelope before handing it to Zuckerman, perching on her desk to watch her read it. “An Editorial from the Former Editor?” sighs Ohndrea.
“Just read it,” insists Brandon pompously, leaning forward.
So Ohndrea skims the piece, murmuring aloud the few key parts (a la “The Green Room”) for the benefit of We the TV Viewer: “ ‘... old friend Andrea Zuckerman... The Blaze, school paper at West Beverly High... for years had a crush on me, but I never saw how special she was... rough time in college... dropped journalism... got pregnant and got married... went away to Yale... failed marriage... obviously disappointed with men... qualities that a person in a position of power should not possess....’ Brandon, what is this all about?”
Brandon smiles winningly. “I guess you’d call it a rebuttal column.”
“Rebuttal? Rebuttal to what?”
“To being dropped as editor from the Beat, for starters.”
“ Brandon, no one’s written an article about the changes in staffing here in the first place! Why would it make sense for you to write a so-called rebuttal?”
“Are you afraid to print it?” Brandon issues his Trademark Challenge with his Trademark Challenging Brows.
Ohndrea stares at him for a moment. Then: “Frankly, yes. Yes I am afraid to print it. And do you know why? Because if I print something like this” – she holds up the papers in front of him – “then that will imply that I have no idea what I am doing as editor-in-chief of a newspaper. This is not news, Brandon! It has no place in the Southland Independent and, if you won’t write the articles assigned to you, then you have no place here either.”
Brandon sighs and slowly rises to his feet. “Ohndrea... these last few years have been really tough on you, haven’t they?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the baby, the divorce from Jesse, dropping out of Yale-”
“Of course it was tough on me, Brandon. I tried to make the best decisions I could under the circumstances, but I was young and insecure-”
But Brandon cuts her off. “I mean, don’t you think you might be taking all that out on me now that you have a failed marriage, a failed education, that you haven’t accomplished anything like the rest of us?” Believing his Spinectomy is complete, he moves in for the kill. “I thought *I* meant more than that to you, Ohndrea.... Remember high school...? Remember Prom night...? After all that we’ve been through, don’t you think you owe it to me-”
Ohndrea continues to stare at Brandon while he talks, low and soothing like someone breaking a spirited horse, about all they’ve shared, about how she wanted to lose her virginity to him, about how close they used to be.... But when Brandon starts leaning closer and places a hand on her shoulder, she knocks his hand away.
“I ... can’t... BELIEVE you!” she says, shaking her head. “I can’t believe that you would seriously try to... to *manipulate* me like this. Do you have no respect for me? No, never mind. Don’t answer that. You’ve given me all the answer I need.”
But “But Ohndrea-” is on a roll, and even The Pompous Brows of Brandon Walsh can’t stop her. “No, Brandon. Absolutely not,” she says, almost nose-to-nose, eyes narrow, yet still calm. “You still think I’m the same insecure Ohndrea Zuckerman from Van Nuys who just wanted to be accepted by your ‘group’ but was afraid she didn’t fit in anywhere. You think I’m still the same person who had so little self-confidence that she actually gave up a college scholarship because she was too scared to make that ultimate break with the places and people that were familiar. You think I’m still the same desperate girl who subconsciously sabotaged herself because she thought she wasn’t ‘successful,’ and had to prove to everyone that she could be that Superwoman and do it all: med. school, marriage, motherhood, everything all at once-“
“But you used to have a crush on me! Remember?” Brandon wails.
“Brandon, I used to have a crush on Ricky Schroeder, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let him get away with writing shoddy and self-serving ‘articles’ “ – and she does, in fact, make the “quotes” thingie with her fingers – “for this paper.”
“You mean Ricky Schroeder is writing for you, too?” says Brandon disparagingly.
Ohndrea sighs and shakes her head with an “oy, vey” throwing up of the hand. “Look, Brandon,” she says, firing the words like bullets. “The owner of this paper hired me to do a job. That job includes assigning articles and accepting or rejecting articles submitted for publication. Anything printed based on personal feelings for the author undermines the integrity of this paper... and my integrity as editor. Do you understand?”
“So what you’re saying is you refuse to print my editorial?”
“ Brandon, have you heard a single word I’ve said?”
“Yeah, yeah I have *Chief*” sneers Brando the Mando. “You’re afraid to print my article! You’re afraid of any opinion that’s not your own!”
“Once again, that answers my question,” says Ohndrea, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand. “ Brandon, I have one more question for you.”
“Have you completed the assignment I gave you for the restaurant?”
“I’m an editor too, Ohndrea. I don’t do restaurant reviews,” Brandon says with scorn.
“Then I’ll take that as your resignation from the Southland Independent,” says Ohndrea.
Brandon opens and closes his mouth, shakes his head, and pushes himself up from her desk. “Whatever, Chief,” he says self-righteously, getting in the last word as he dramatically tears up his “editorial” and lets the pieces fall on Ohndrea’s desk before stalking out.
“ Brandon, before you go...” calls Ohndrea, getting up and picking something up from an opened box on the floor next to her desk. “Don’t forget this.” And she hands over his chintzy journalism award. “Oh, and don’t bother asking me for a recommendation for your next job.”
And Brandon snatches his award, and resumes his stalk out the doorway, the Potsie-cam following his self-righteous Self-O’-Hair as he goes out the office door, down the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door of the building.
Meanwhile, over at the Former PPAD, workmen have just finished putting up a new sign that reads “Peachy’s” in flowing script, with “A Gentleman’s Club” discreetly following. Part of the neon logo incorporates the old PPAD peach, but with a big bite taken out of it, and a drop of juice “trickling” from it via blinking neon effect. It isn’t nearly as impressive in the mid-afternoon as it will be tonight for the Big Opening Party, but Skeevy Stevie crows in delight over it, and Davy “Pocket Pinball” Silver manages a “Cool” in between shifting, twitching and deedling. With a machismo high-five, they go back though the Big Steel Door of the PPAD to admire how the club’s interior has been transformed.
“Wow. We really pulled it off,” says Davy, and Steve adds something about how this is “hotter than those two swimsuit models I hung out with in Jamaica last summer.”
An enormous T-shaped stage-runway takes up most of the central floor space, and poles have been erected (yes, pun intended) in four different places along it. Small, round tables abound, but there is plenty of room for the aforementioned “spanking corner,” complete with assorted benches, and paddles, whips and other accouterments hanging from wall-racks next to the flickering sign that reads “Naughty Naughty!” Other corners feature handcuff devices suspended from the ceiling, large cages, and a huge, bubbling tank of water. Alongside the stage is a DJ booth, and one techie is messing with the control panels for assorted colored lights while another one selects a CD. “Okay, Pussy, you’re on!” he hollers, and Tom Jones’s “What’s New Pussycat” comes blaring through the speakers. While Stevie and Davy gape and pop tiny boners (TM xix), a leather-and-tiger-striped clad “artistic dancer” comes twirling down the stage, wrapping herself around the first pole and rubbing it like a cat. Stevie nudges Davy and makes that noxious “mrrow mrrrOW!” sound.
“Boys, boys, *there* you are!” exclaims Devon Dean, dressed for success in a pair of tailored gray trousers, an understated hound’s-tooth jacket, a fuchsia silk shirt, yellow-print tie and several large rings festooning the fingers with which he gesticulates fluently and often (hey, how else would 90210 deal with gays except as stereotypes? I’ll bet Aaron Spelling and Jackie Collins are secretly twin brother and sister.)
“D.D. my man” effuses Stevie, trying to engage Devon Dean in a complicated macho handshake, to which “D.D.” looks at Steve’s outstretched hand, sighs, and gives first Steve and then David a brisk, limp (what else?) handshake. “Steven.... Dave....” Then he looks around at the flashing lights, flickering neon signs, potted palms, and two more babes on the catwalk, twins this time, clad in matching silver sequins, chains and draped black chiffon. “Striking, unusual, exciting,” DD murmurs (despite the fact that it is clearly none of these things).
“Yeah, Donna did a great job on those costumes,” laughs Davy, with a particularly shifty deedle in his trousers.
“Now, about the fashion show segment of the opening tonight.... Dave, you’ve got the music ready to go, don’t you?” fusses DD.
David shifts, twitches, deedles and says “Yeah, all set,” while looking off in some other direction.
“Good, good. Be sure to meet with our little designer Donna when she gets here later for a run-through, n’kay?
“Yeah, sure, okay.” And David twitches, laughs, deedles and shifts.
“Mmm, yes, things are coming together nicely, aren’t they? Well, boys, why don’t we go next door for some breakfast, hnnn? We’ve got a long night ahead of us.” And DD puts one arm around Steven and one around Dave and guides them next door.
In the Peach Pit, of course Nat is presiding over all with his coffee pot, and although he warmly welcomes Stevie and Davy with DD, a flicker of jealously crosses his squiffy features when they aren’t looking. Poor Nat. Anyway after his requisite line “coffee’s on me, fellas” and exit, Brandon comes storming in through the front door.
“Hey, Bran!” hollers Stevie, waving him over.
With an angry sigh and a macho turning-the-chair-around-to-straddle-it routine, Brandon shakes his head and bangs his fist on the Formica table-top. “I just don’t believe this, man!”
Devon, meanwhile, lips pursed around a straw (has anyone actually used a straw in their drinks at the PP? Or ice? I always notice that no one has ice in their drinks there, and all the fizz has gone out of the soda... I mean, does it take them so long to film a scene that the ice in the glasses melt and the soda goes flat?) is regarding Brandon contemplatively while the Furrowed Brow'd One spills his tale of woe about that Mean Ol’ Ohndrea Zuckerman.
“So you’re saying she’s taken over the paper you boys put together?” queries DD after Brandon’s tirade has ended.
“Taken over, changed everything, and fired all of us,” confirms Brandon.
“Well... maybe I can help,” smile Devon, straightening his ochre-yellow tie self-consciously. “You called it the...ah, ‘Beat’?”
“That’s right. And since we copyrighted the name, it’s still ours!” Brandon shouts, banging his fist on the table-top again.
Devon’s smile widens. “Mr. Walsh- Brandon. I have an idea....”
And as he leans closer to Brandon, Nat and his coffee pot stare from across the crowded counter in pain, jealousy, anguish, and, oh yeah, just REAL HARD (TM xix).
So, backstage at Peachy’s, Donna “Boobsalot” Martin is rushing around like the proverbial overly-surgically-enhanced daughter of a filthy-rich sexist TV mogul with her head cut off. Around her, several bored 7-foot tall female (or female looking) “models” are letting Donna clomp around them swinging her bony arms and shouting “ladies, *please*” although it isn’t quite clear what she wants them to be doing before she starts adjusting and pinning a costume made entirely of gold cording and tassels.
Noah the Mistake-ist comes cruising on in and meanders over in Donna’s direction. “Hey Donna Devon um wanted me to see if you were ready for the dress rehearsal for the fashion show tonight we um need to make sure all the music is good to go,” he mumbles while looking off in another direction, and between that, his own shelf-o’hair and his special brand of pocket-deedling we now know what would happen if you put Brandon, Dylan and David in a blender.
“Noah! Can’t you see I’m BUSY right now! There’s all of this PRESSURE on me to get everything READY in time and I have a TON of things to DO and one of my MODELS never showed up!” As if by exaggerating every other word, she can make up for Noah’s passionate lack of passion.
“Well um excuse me for bothering you Ms. Fashion Designer sorry to er put so much pressure on you” says Noah, intent with unemotiveness. “I just thought since I just talked to my lawyer and found out that I lost all my money in that lawsuit Valerie filed against me that you might be a little more loving,” he finishes all non sequitur because Hillster Women are totally insensitive to the needs and feelings of Hillster men and Donna should’ve KNOWN that something was wrong with poor (literally) Noah because he clearly is so distraught.
“Oh Noah, I’m so sorry-“
“Yeah I’m sure you are but I don’t need your sympathy thanks for nothing Donna” huffs Noah before making his big dramatic exit and leaving Donna gazing after him in hurt bewilderment and wringing her scrawny fingers in agitation and forgetting totally about the bored model standing there.
While she hems and haws, Davy “Hidey Ho” Silver comes swaggering in, hands in pockets, natch, and says “Hey Donna Devon um wanted me to see if you were ready for the dress rehearsal for the fashion show tonight we um need to make sure all my music is good to go.” [Yes, it was deliberate, you oh-so-careful readers.]
“Oh, David, okay, I’ll have the models ready in just five more minutes. I’m sorry I’m taking so long. Everyone must be so mad at me.” And she blinks her eyes in almost-tearful self-recrimination
“Hey is everything all right? You seem upset,” but David is looking around instead of at Donna.
“Oh, no, no, no David. Everything’s fine. I’m fine. Fine.” And Donna puffs her hair out of her face with an exaggerated upward breath, bleats and makes a Trademark Donna Martin Sticky Smile before sticking another pin in the model’s costume- excuse me, designer-original costume.
And in swishes Devon Dean with his Steve Sanders hair blow-dried to queenly perfection, waving his hands at this group of models and that couple of techies and exclaiming things like “Hurry we haven’t got much time, darlings, hurry! Donna, darling pet, are we almost ready, dearest heart?”
“Almost. But Mr. Dean, one of the models still hasn’t shown up, and I have all her clothes ready but no one to wear them!”
DD looks at the rack of leather, spandex, sequins and nylon. “Oh dear me, dear dear me” he mourns. “What will we do?” And, first allowing time for the little light bulb to pop on above his coifed head, he seizes on Donna. “You! You will model tonight! Who better to model these creations than the designer?”
Donna bugs her already-buggy eyes out. “Who me model no way nuh-huh, never, not gonna do it no no I couldn’t no never I couldn’t be a model I’m not pretty enough I’m not good enough” and sounds a lot like that dopey baby vulture in the Bugs Bunny cartoons but four octaves higher.
“Darling! Of course you are!” insists DD, turning on Davy. “Tell her, Dave!”
Davy twitches, deedles, laughs and says “Yeah, yeah Donna, you should do it.”
“Well. Um. Okay. Um. If you THINK so” heaves Donna, contorting her face like an epileptic. A totally cutely insecure epileptic, natch.
“Of COURSE we think so,” DD smiles, patting Davy on the arm, then gesticulating to someone off-camera. “Jenny! Sergio! Our lovely model Donna needs her hair and makeup done! Pronto, pronto!” And Donna smiles with her lipstick’d lips still stuck together and laughs in delight by way of drill-revving out her nose.
So out by the bar, Steve-o, Brando and Noah-o are hanging out waiting for the dress rehearsal to begin, and Noah finishes guzzling a beer and slaps his hand on the counter, calling out “’Nother!”
“Noah, the bartender isn’t here yet. Don’t you remember? You got the last four drinks yourself,” Stevie reminds him.
“Whaa? Oh. Yeah.” And Noah staggers around the counter to rummage noisily amongst clinking bottles to get himself another beer.
“Hey, Noah, man, it’s only two o’clock. Doncha think you better ease up, bro?” interjects Brandon “ah-HA!” Walsh in best Do-Gooder fashion, eyebrows raised to the limit amongst his forehead furrows.
“Whaa? Uh? No way man I can handle it I can handle it just fine” insists Noah matching Brando furrow for furrow. He pops the top off and chugs half the bottle, following it up with the hard-liquor-grimace (the lighter “Sam Adams” version), Stevie and Brando exchange Really Worried looks.
Then Stevie launches forth. “So. Bran. You really going to publish the Beat as an S&M newsletter for ol’ Devon Dean?”
Brandon pulls himself up to his full height (all five foot four of it), arching The Brows patronizingly as he explains in Der Fürher Walsh Lecture Tone: “Never right and wrong again. It’s not an S&M magazine, Steve. It’s going to be an UNDERGROUND PUBLICATION. Very ground-breaking.” And as Stevie cackles, Brandon maneuvers The Brows some more in Pure Exasperation. “There’s never been anything like this in Beverly Hills, Steve. Devon Dean is providing me with an excellent opportunity to make a name for myself.”
“If you say so!” warbles Stevie.
“I say so. Seriously, man, we’ll be able to provide great publicity for the club here. This is going to benefit both of us. And I’ll bet we make a lot of money!” And Steve and Brandon “yeah” and “awwright” and give each other macho noogies, oblivious to Poor Noah who is sucking down his beer and staring with deep pain, anguish and- oh, hell, who’m I kidding? – make that just staring.
So Davy “Big n’ Baggy” Silver comes meandering out. “So wish me luck, guys, we’re gonna start the dress rehearsal for the fashion show,” he says, and to make the point that he, Big Bad Davy DJ is doin’ the music for this thingie, he holds up a cassette tape (let's hear it for outdated technology) which, thankfully, means at least ONE of his Wandering Hands is occupied.
“Hey, yeah man good luck,” chorus the OPBs (minus Poor Noah who is still staring and drinking).
“Hey yeah and wish Donna luck too. She’s gonna be modeling. Devon made a last-minute switch when one of the other models didn’t show.”
Poor Noah lifts his head and stares at Davy instead of the floor. “Wait a minute- Donna’s going to model in the fashion show tonight?”
And Davy laughs, says “Yeah,” looks around, twitches and deedles.
Brandon furrows The Brows. “Well good for Donna.”
Poor Noah huffs, shakes his head, and grabs another beer. Of course, because he is such an emotive person, We the TV Viewers are unsure if he is pissed off that Donna is modeling, hurt that Donna is modeling, surprised that Donna is modeling, sad that Donna is modeling, just drunk or e) all of the above.
Davy makes his way over to the Big Studly DJ Booth and puts on his Big Studly DJ Headphones. When his homeslice acid-house-rap-alterno-haze-trans-punk-old-school-techno-ambiant-funk soundtrack starts pumpin’, out whirl two “models” onto the runway in their Donna Martin Original shortie-nighties trimmed with marabou feathers and sparklies and the whole Fashion Show looks like a rip-off of Duran’s “Girls on Film” video, ‘cept Davy’s music/Donna’s “fashion” concepts could never hope to achieve the groundbreaking (albeit oft-overlooked) heights of Duran Duran and anyway monkeying what Duran did 20 years ago and trying to pass it off in today’s societal climate is none to smart (witness, say, Duran’s recent vid for “Electric Barbarella” thank you very much). But anyway after the two girlie models hustle on and off stage in their quick token appearance, on comes Donna in a green bodystocking that looks like it’s made out of flubber and big ol’ platform sandals, with her hair all high-fashion-techied in her Tubular Curls. And the workmen and people setting things up at Peachy’s naturally go wild and cheer and scream and whistle as she gyrates and wiggles. Each time she makes an appearance on stage, the adulation of the crowd grows, and bits of “Wow!” and “Amazing!” and “She’s really got what it takes” resound. And each time this happens, Poor Noah gets more and more sullen (ersatz Dylan?) and keeps drinking.
When the dress rehearsal ends, Donna is swept up by Devon Dean, who exclaims, “Darling! I never knew you had it in you! You’re a natural! You MUST be the feature model in the show tonight! You have so much talent-” (Yadda yadda yadda… more Heaping of Praise on Insecure Donna-Tori.) And David steps down from his Big Studly DJ booth and says “Yeah Donna you were really great out there” and laughs and looks around.
And Donna bugs her eyes out anxiously and says “Was I really?”
And David shifts, laughs, deedles and says “Yeah, you were. You were great.”
And Donna makes a Sticky Smile and “hhhNNNN”s out her nose and claps her hands and bounces just a little and “hhNNNNN”s again for good measure.
And all the while Poor Noah is drinking and glowering, glowering and drinking. Poor, poor Noah.
Cut to commercial. I suggest one for antacid or, some stop-that-diarrhea-NOW stuff.