After decades, Archie finally decides who he wants to deflower.
I can see a future Archie comic, produced by the sinister Dark Horse publishing, where we’re sent 10 years into the future. Veronica’s dad, Mr Lodge, has suffered a massive stroke and is hanging on by life support. Archie is a scotch swilling bitter yesman, hired into Lodge Industries purely by matrimony. He’s approaching his middle age (and middle age spread) and is unable to access Mr Lodge’s vast fortune until he shuffles off this mortal coil. Jughead is a common street thug now and is hired by Archie to pillow-party Mr Lodge’s face. Pratfalls and close calls with hospital guards ensue.
Meanwhile, Veronica is a pill popping socialite with more plastic surgery scars than Mickey Rourke, schtupping Reggie in the back of his dog grooming business. She spills Archie’s plan in the throws of passion and Reggie decides to rat him out to the police, convince Veronica to divorce Archie and marry her to obtain the cash. He celebrates by going to the local gay bar.
Meanwhile, Big Ethel and Jughead, living in sin of course, devise a plan to harvest Mr Lodge’s organs for drug money once the job is done.
Midge, meanwhile, checks herself into a battered wives hostel after her last confrontation with Moose.
Meanwhile, Mayor Betty has become hardened by her lonely solitude and unrequited love of Archie, and has instructed Dilton to fire up the extremely experimental particle accelerator so they can start selling cheap energy to the rest of the state. Moose, dreaming of his glory days on the gridiron, throws one too many switches and all is thrown into a black hole.
Like George Lucas I’m going to jump back to a time before my move to England with a couple stories that inspired me to travel across the pond. Enjoy!
I’m 18 years old and I’m sitting in line with other hopefuls at OCAD (then The Ontario College of Art). I’ve not decided entirely what I want to do with my life and my father is getting nervous that he’s going to have a live-in son until he shuffles off this mortal coil. I do know I want to stay in the art field but I had not decided exactly where I was going to take my talents. My portfolio, chock full of wildly coloured pastels of muscular torsos I had been drawing for months, sits on my bouncing knee. Compared to the rest of the hopefuls, my manner of dress is utterly “Sears” to their “Queen Street West”: one small girl is decked out entirely in leather in her shock Rough Trade look, her hair teased higher than my hopes. This is 1983, remember. I’m there to sign up for their Fine Arts program and let that take me wherever I wanted to go.
I enter the room and here is where my memory shatters up to a point: The room is narrow, almost another hallway. It’s dark, or I sort of recall that it was dark. There are three people at a desk and two look through my portfolio. I was so nervous that I didn’t catch who everyone behind that desk was. Only now, in my 40s, someone told me that one of the people looking at my work was a student and I assume the one not looking at my portfolio was a teacher or admissions officer. I do remember they asked all the questions.
What were my interests, favorite art period, method, incentives, history, my personal history, more personal history? Suddenly it was over. Fast. They breezed through my work and shut the portfolio. Not a good sign.
Then one of them laid it on the line (and I’m paraphrasing here): I was a privileged middle class white kid who had not experienced anything in life, certainly not enough to create any kind of meaningful art and that I should get out of Ontario and see real art. It was like a punch in the gut. The fact that I was living in my Dad’s basement and working nights at a hotel and had never travelled further than , made the OCAD’s assessment of me sting a little more.
They were right. If I wanted to be a serious artist I had to go see the real thing. Including all life’s little roadbumps that came up getting to those galleries. Of course, for weeks I was utterly crushed and moped around like my life was over.
Then my sister called. She asked how I was and offered words of encouragement and then suggested that I move to England under the Student Work Abroad Program. I can remember vividly how a light came on over my head. This is exactly what I needed to do.
Last night was a busy one for me. Da and I decided to do some Father/Son bonding while hobnobbing (what the hell does that word mean, anyway?) with Toronto’s art elite at Art With Heart.
Da’s never been in the Carlu and was curious as to it’s grandeur. It didn’t disappoint. It’s a beautiful deco setting and the art that was placed throughout was amazing (the website doesn’t convey the demanding presence some pieces command). I have to comment here that the volunteer staff were clockwork perfect. Pleasant, informed
docets docents (Andrew helps me spelling!) cheerfully provided information on the art and never patronized. In all, a very organized successful event… I hope. I haven’t heard any numbers back yet, but the joint was packed, and considering Fashion sCares is this Saturday, I hope they made their target numbers!
Then we shuffled down to Canadian Stage to see my brother in Frost/Nixon. I have to admit that due to some of the reviews coming out of Vancouver, I wasn’t hopeful for this production. But when the curtain fell, I can tell you I was very entertained and greatly surprised. They have worked out all the problems mentioned in previous reviews, except the worrisome opinion that Len Cariou’s Nixon was not satisfactorily mimicking enough, which I tend to agree. I yearned to see the Nixon I remembered as a kid but got a sketch of that ideal. Not saying he did a bad job, he was captivating, but there was no jowly “Rich Little” kind of character play (which my brother does rather spookily at one point).
Oddly enough most of the cast and crew had been in science fiction TV shows (Battlestar, Stargate, RoboCop), including my brother, at one point in their career. Does this say something about Canadian culture?
Tonight, Sharkboy and I are off to see A Chorus Line with Mumsey! I’m being exposed to more culture than an open chest wound in an emergency ward!
The dead leaves swirl around our feet as we shuffle towards Trinity Bellwood Park. The icy fall wind tries to penetrate our cold dead skin but to no avail. You can’t cool dead flesh!
This Sunday is the 6th Annual Zombie Walk! Sharkboy and I are 90% ready with our costumes. Come join us!