Part 1 of Season 3, Episode 6: Castles in the Sand - Set to the tune of "Islands in the Stream," right? Because I'm not going to be the only fucking one with that song stuck in my head as I write this thing.

It's been a beat.  Lots going on; none of it good. So let's not waste a minute more in the hellscape that is our current reality and instead dive on into the only distraction I have left in my life: an overly-wordy rehash of a very old television show about a bunch of 27-year-old 17-year-olds.  Come along as I do my worst.

So even though we all live in the world and know what we're about to witness is a dumb dream, we're meant to believe we're still in Paris...

...uh huh...

...once more with feeling: Paris.

We wind up here in a park, Brenda - a VISION in this white halter dress - walking on a bench while holding Rick's paw as he strolls alongside her on the grass.  She tells him, "Here I was, feeling guilty for deceiving you when you knew all along I wasn't French."

Rick pretends that he's not a total nitwit (spoiler: he 100% is) and that he wasn't completely bamboozled by her horrifying accent work in the previous episode and lies, "Well, maybe not all along.  But the truth is, I'm really glad you turned out to be a red-blooded American girl." Oh, we know, Dean Cain.  We fucking know, you pile.

They stop and he literally lifts her person from the bench and sets her on the ground before him, something I'm pretty sure I thought was "hot stuff" at 12-years-old but now find to be the height of infantilizing and squicky.

He asks, "You don't regret missing your plane, and stayin' here with me in Europe?"...

...and instead of telling the truth - "Oh, no, I totally do!" - Brenda says, "No, not at all.  I really think I'm falling in love with you, Dylan."

The realization of what just happened takes a moment to dawn on Rick - given that the inside of his brain probably looks like this - but he eventually furrows his brow as Frantic Synth comes in...

...and Brenda, realizing her gaffe, quickly tries to course-correct with a stuttered, "I mean, Rick"...

...and then we're immediately inside the U-S-of-A-bound plane, with Brenda snapping-to from her really boring dream (strolling with the incel-adjacent, stupor-inducing Rick in a park? Talk about a drag).  She sighs and takes off her headphones, making a mental note to never fall asleep again.

The camera pans over to Donna seated next to her, expositing for Brenda and the audience, "We're almost in New York.  Can you believe it?" Brenda says that she can't and, "I miss Paris already." Donna concurs but apparently longed for the feeling of her boyfriend's persistent semi-upright chub pressed against her thigh more, because she adds, "I can't wait to see David."

And then OOPSIE POOPSIE Brenda just can't help herself and declares, "I know what you mean.  I can't wait to see Rick."

They exchange A Look and sort of giggle and I really won't be happy until "Rebel with a Cause" when Rick is given the ol' heave-au revoir and relegated to but a distant and dull short-term memory.

Part 4 of Season 3, Episode 5: Shooting Star / American in Paris - Smell ya later, Simulation France; the non-sex-having Real Doll that is Rick (for now); any and all references to the movie Casablanca; and most importantly, my stomach lining after enduring all three of those things - I hardly knew ye.

Thank the antichrist, we're nearing the end of these summer episodes.  I'm over it: over the gruesome twosome of Dylan and Kelly, sOuLmAtEs ~forever and always~; over papier-mâché Paris; over wooden puppet-come-to-real-life-boy-but-actually-still-fully-timber Rick; over Brooke's barely-concealed-by-bizarre-child-actor-vigor bigotry; over Steve.  Just...Steve.  And I know he's not going anywhere and will continue to haunt the deepest and darkest recesses of my mind long after I'm done recapping these things, but I've resolved myself to that life, and so should you.

Blah blah, check out Part 1; Part 2; and Part 3 to be all caught up on the non-festivities.

 

Things don't start off well for my psyche as we pan across the BHBC...

...and wind up at David sitting on a lounge chair, headphones on, but still menacing passers-by with his recitation of some Original Silver "Rap" Bars.  Somewhere in Michigan, Marshall Bruce Mathers III quaked in his boots following this episode.  Behold, the Lyrical Genius that is David, Son of Mel:

...

...

...

...

As much as everything is a goddamn waking nightmare under the Trump Regime, I can say without hesitation that this is worse.  (No, I don't actually believe that; however, this is swooping in at a close second.) And here's Steve and his daytime horror of another indecent-exposure-waiting-to-happen outfit, come to join this hellscape already in progress.

He sits down on the next chair over and mercifully unplugs David's headphones.  Bless this man and the be-mulleted bouffant he road in on.

I failed to mention above that I am also over this whole Steve Becomes David's Music Manager Because That's How High Schoolers Behave triple-z-plot to which we're being subjected, so let's breeeeeze through this anti-climatic scene and then book our hour-long cochlear massages that we're absolutely entitled to after being exposed to what is clearly psychological and auditive abuses.  So Steve tells David that he listened to the demo, then says the thing he says to his reflection every time his hairstylist turns the salon chair around: "Mmm, it's not great." He then informs David, "I'm your new manager."

David: "But I don't want a manager." Perhaps you want a voice coach, then? Or maybe a wake up call from someone to tell you YOU'RE NOT TALENTED.  PLEASE STOP.  And then a slap to the face.

Whatever, David just wanted Steve's "contacts" - I'll pause here so that all of you can wipe up the beverage you just shot out of your mouth and nose after reading that and bursting into guttural laughter - but Steve says, "My contacts cost, David." I'm going to hurl.

Steve says that he'll take 50% and David asks, "Isn't there some kind of law or something that protects talent like me from slime like you?" and I'd like to be the first to tell him, 1) no, unfortunately; and it disgustingly won't change over the course of the next thirty-ish years; and 2) which is really more of a question: the word "talent" is really doing the heaviest of lifting in that sentence there, no?

In the end, David tentatively agrees to be taken advantage of by the walking slide-whistle that is Steve, but only if he can get David a gig within two weeks.  Steve insists that's impossible, mostly because David sucks and who would want him?, and then kooky music plays as David wishes him, "Good luck," and Steve furrows his brow into the middle distance.

Part 3 of Season 3, Episode 5: Shooting Star / American in Paris - Following this thirteen minutes of viewing torture, I'm seeking immediate cognitive behavioral therapy because of the following: Brooke's proto-MAGA bigotry; Steve's micro-spaghetti strap tank top; Rick's controlling, involuntary celibate vibezzz; and Dylan and Kelly's EVERYTHING THAT THEY'RE DOING.

Acquaint yourself with Parts 1 and 2 here and here, respectively.  And now: prepare to be sickened.  Moreso, I mean.

At the Beach Club, Brandon and Brooke and her Kelly Kapowski-coded dress walk along.  She asks, "So what should I wear to dinner tonight? Casual, dressy? Whips and chains?" What an absolute caution this one is.

Brandon insists she doesn't have to do it, "it" being dinner with the Parents' Walsh.  Brooke, as egomaniacal as Brandon, flings an arm around his neck and assures him, "Don't worry.  Parents always love me." Cindy will probably love Brooke because she will mistake her for her similarly-maned bestie Jackie Taylor.

Brandon explains that he'll be late picking her up: "Remember that homeless guy we saw on the beach yesterday? I got him a job interview with Henry."

Brooke leans up against a wooden post and asks with obvious revulsion in her voice, "Well, what makes you think he wants a job?" This is when, if I were Brandon, I would've given Brooke the ol' heave-ho; however, he's much more measured than I, so he simply informs her, "Because he told me he did."

At that, Brooke makes a face...

...and Brandon's all, "What?"...

...and she, a seemingly very privileged person from a wealthy little coastal area of Los Angeles called Palos Verdes Estates, schools Brandon on all of her much-researched and vetted expertise about the unhoused: "Guys like that are hustlers.  They'll say anything to get enough spare change so they can go out and get another jug of wine." Brooke has a bright, fear-mongering future ahead of her as a co-host of Fox & Friends Weekend.  She certainly already has the hairdo for it.

Brandon insists Jack's not like that, and, contrary to Brooke thinking he wants to save the world, "I'm just tryin' to help out one guy who's had a run of bad luck."

As she steps toward him and puts her arms around his neck, she calls him "idealistic" and queries, "Who knew you'd turn out to be such a soft touch?" That sounds...filthy.

They kiss and their lip-smacking and the popping saliva molecules can be heard from space, where no sound is supposed to be able to be heard, but in this case it's made a disgusting exception.

After they pull away, I take back every nice-ish thought I've had about Brandon trying to help Jack out when he proclaims, "Didn't anyone tell you? I'm the nicest guy in America." Farewell, sweet prince.  I fucking loathe you once more.

Whatever, before she bounces she tells him, "Watch your wallet." I tell her, "Watch your hairstylist the next time you go into the salon when you ask for the 'Demi Moore in Ghost' and they instead give you the 'Season 2 Zack Morris but With Bangs'."

Part 2 of Season 3, Episode 5: Shooting Star / American in Paris - It's a real cheating free-for-all up in here amongst these teens who've lived a much more exciting existence than I ever did at that age. Or now, even. So fire up some Fleetwood Mac and dive on into this complicated mire of DECEIT.

Catch up on the infuriation: Part 1 is here.  And continue with the infuriation, starting...NOW:

The Parisian Hotel That Looks Like a Slight Breeze Could Bring It Down.

Inside, Brenda, Maggie and Donna descend the staircase  - they're all looking fab - and Donna asks, "Bren, are you sure you don't want to come with us?" Maggie, these summer episodes' answer to Samantha Jones (and filling in for Darren Starr's original prototype for SJ, Kelly Taylor), chuckles knowingly and purrs, "Hey, let her have some fun with her Monsieur Rick.  We won't wait up." And then she probably said this and shimmied her shoulders up and down a bunch.  Anyway, Brenda playfully responds with, "Good idea"...

...and Donna does NOT approve: "BRENDA!"

Brenda insists she was kidding and then she's off with a, "A bientôt!"

The phone rings and Madam D picks up, eventually shoving the receiver toward Donna with, "They are asking for Brenda." And of course it's fucking Dylan, clearly attempting to repent for the dire life choice to which he and Kelly recently subjected us.

He lounges on his couch and asks Donna how she is, a sentiment she returns, and in kind he responds with yet another seminal-only-to-me line: "Ah, jes oui hangin' out."

He asks after Brenda and Donna doesn't exactly fib, telling him that she went out sightseeing, and when he queries about who she went with, Donna once again sidesteps the lie: "She left here all by herself." Also: get bent, Dylan.  Your tongue was just swabbing the inside of your girlfriend's best friend's mouth.  I hope Brenda has sex with Rick, except that I don't, because I wouldn't wish intercourse with a piece of cardboard upon anyone.

Whatever whatever, he tells Donna, "I just kinda wanted to hear her voice right now" - LIES - and also not to tell Brenda that he called, that, "She'll try and call me back and I'll probably be asleep, or my penis will be in the process of exploring the depth's of Kelly's vagina." Donna says that Brenda's really looking forward to coming home and Dylan says the same before bidding Donna farewell and hanging up and then SOOOOOOPER Severe Synth begins in the background as the camera zooms in on his very handsome dirty dog face.

Part 1 of Season 3, Episode 5: Shooting Star / American in Paris - Speaking of shooting, time to shoot myself into the sun after this one.

 Poor Brenda.  Poor my stomach.  Poor my long-simmering rage at this sinister story line on a 35-year-old nighttime teen soap opera.  Poor my perimenopause causing me to feel 12-years-old and achy-hearted all over again.  My god.  Time is truly cyclical.  And a mother-fucker.

Triomphe,  Arc of.

Fountaines, of the Concorde.

This building, in which I want to live forever.

Fade to Brenda and Donna walking along a totally-non-Parisian street.  Donna carries a HEAP of shopping bags, and Brenda says that she deserves a key to the city for "single-handedly reviving the French economy." Donna will be joining Maggie soon to shop some more at "Les Halles," but Brenda declines: "I am shopped out, or at least my wallet is.  Buying Dylan's present left me awfully low on francs." She won't regret this gift at all; no, not at all.  Also, the only gift Dylan deserves after the last episode is a swift punt to his penis and a fresh turd slipped down the back of his wetsuit.

Let's pause to appreciate both of their outfits here.  Brenda's quilted leather vest with the mini is so chic, and Donna's floral dress is very of the era but also timeless and I want both of these looks in my closet, post haste.

So Donna's off to shop, and Brenda's planning to soak up their last few days in Paris outdoors.  Before they head off on their own, Donna stops in her tracks!: "I almost forgot!  I'm supposed to call my mom today.   What time is it [back home]?"

Brenda provides another iconic (only to me) line when she responds with, "Oh, it's just about...beach time." They giggle adorably...