After the maid runs down the hall, John Taylor's agent decides he's had enough. He marches up and quits, telling John Taylor to clean up his own mess. Catch that? "Clean up your own mess"? Pretty tricky, those writers. Following the agent's cue, John Taylor's other friends split, saying that he went too far this time. He doesn't understand this, because in the rock-and-roll scout manual it clearly says that too much is never enough. Regardless of the rules, everyone leaves. John Taylor is not fazed by this and dials up his old buddies Nick Rhodes and Simon LeBon, and they stay up all night giving each other back rubs and using Mary Kay's Satin Hands. All right, I'm lying, but it's much more interesting than what really happened. Really, it is. But back to, you know, reality -- John Taylor smashes the mirror with his head and starts drinking alone. As he bends over to see if he can touch his toes, we see the maid's reflection in the cracked mirrors, but how can that be? The room is empty! Other clues to the upcoming spooky events: the overturned cleaning cart's squeaky wheel is turning, the scary music is playing, and the doors slam shut and can't be opened. Then, horror of horrors, the windows slam shut, too. And then the phone won't work! Uh oh, is John Taylor gonna die? Probably, but at this point my crush is so gone and I'm really not going to miss him. The television set turns itself on and, terror of terrors, is showing Power Station videos. Oh, the humanity! John Taylor frantically tries to change the channel or turn the television off, but it's hopeless; whatever he does the TV stays on. He runs over to the door to yell at the maid, but the room has had enough of his antics and tosses a chair at him. A table rams itself into his legs, and then the couch that John Taylor so idiotically and illogically glued to the ceiling tosses itself onto his silly little noggin. John Taylor shakes the plaster bits and furniture stuffing off and yells to the room at large, "That all you got?" Oh, he must have been watching Dark Angel on the ol' telly. The room responds by flashing pictures of the humiliated maid on the television. John Taylor tosses the television out the window, but the cord wraps itself around his leg. This situation is less than desirable for the aging rock star who would prefer to leave this world in a more typical rock-and-roll fashion, like choking on his own vomit or overdosing on Jell-O shots. John Taylor picks up a piece of glass and begins trying to cut the cord. But the room will not give up so easily, and the cart pops back into shape in order to zip forward and shove him out the window. Alas and alack, he won't be coming back. Well, at least not until the next VH1 poopfest. My brain cells are going on strike.
Two guys walked into a bar. The third one ducked. Ba-dah-BUM. I'll be here all night. Okay, no, really -- two guys walk into a really well-lit and clean bar. Like if Starbucks created a club, it would look like this, all soft halogen bulbs and light pine flooring. The guys are chit-chatting about their careers as A & R scouts for unnamed major record labels. They're good, but not nearly as good as the guy sitting at the bar by himself and nursing a wholesome and hearty glass of milk. And who's that boy? Judd Nelson. And I am very sorry to say that, because although I am fairly traumatized by the appearance of my girlhood crush on VH1, I sort of understand why an aging and slightly (well, okay, more than slightly) washed-up rock star would end up on a sub-par music channel production. But why would a slightly washed-up aging actor be desperate enough to end up on a VH1 project? Why, Judd Nelson, why? Well, maybe From The Hip is why. Or, well, huh, what else has Judd Nelson been in since his glory days as the Brat Pack rebel and resident fuck-up? But regardless of whether or not he hasn't worked in years, landing a role in this eye-bleedingly bad "film" is certainly a Pyrrhic victory that shouldn't be repeated. ["Two words: Suddenly Susan. Two more words: 'hair' and 'plugs.'" -- Sars]
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An elevator stops on (can you guess?) the thirteenth floor. One of the hotel's maids steps out of the elevator and pushes her squeaky little cart down the hall toward John Taylor's room. You can tell she's serious about her work because of her Protestant hairstyle, the fact that she has decorated her cart, and her sensible nurse-style shoes. ["You can also tell that Holland Taylor's
agent hates her." -- Sars
] The radio is playing a muzak version of "Footloose," and I wonder why Kenny Loggins hasn't made an appearance on VH1 yet. The maid opens the suite's door and finds, of course, utter chaos. She stares in horror at the scene, and stares in even more horror as John Taylor stumbles out of his room, drops trou, and whizzes in the potted palm. I'm staring in abject horror myself. In fact, I'm staring in such abject horror that my eyeballs have fallen out of my head and scattered about the room. One has lodged itself under the couch, and the other rolled under the radiator. Well, I suppose that was bound to happen sooner or later, what with all the crap I watch. I hot-glue my eyeballs back in just in time to see John Taylor straggle out of the room with a blonde floozy under each arm. The maid rolls her eyes and begins the task of cleaning up. She spics and spans and dusts and mops until the room is back in perfect order. She smiles at a job well done and shuffles off down the hall. John Taylor's agent is trying to convince him to apologize to the reporter, because reporters are important when a washed-up rock star is attempting to stage a comeback. John Taylor is not terribly interested in apologizing, but agrees to meet with the reporter again. As they head back into the room, John Taylor notices that the room is spotless. This upsets him. What upsets me is the fact that he has bleached hair, is decidedly paunchy, and has a kind of burly accent. The crush I developed on this man when I was a hapless twelve-year-old is certainly dwindling.
Later that night, the reporter comes for a return visit. John Taylor lets him into the room, on one condition. What's that condition? That the reporter takes a shot of the devil-water for every question he asks. Wacky hijinks? You bet. A crowd is gathered around the table as the reporter takes shot after shot until he drops. The next morning, the maid returns. Remember the party scene in Sixteen Candles
? This is totally ripped off of that. The maid starts cleaning again, takes the pizza box off the table, and finds the reporter passed out underneath. Doesn't VH1 realize that their primary demographic would recognize that scene immediately? I've probably seen that movie six times. Anyway, the maid revives the reporter, who apologizes for the mess. The maid just nods and says that some guests are like this, and other guests realize they are guests. Mr. Vedder was a gentleman. Mr. Hendrix was not. Elvis, however, was the absolute worst. Like any intrepid reporter, the fellow perks up at this revelation. Elvis stayed here? Oh yes, the maid replies. How long have you worked here, he asks? Long enough to know that John Taylor has nothing on Mr. Sinatra. After she mentions this, she gets up to start cleaning. The reporter whips out his trusty tape recorder and asks her to keep talking. She cleans the entire place, and as she is leaving, she runs into John Taylor, who seems to take it quite personally that she has cleaned his room. And when she tells him that she hopes everything is to his liking, he decides to fight back. 'Cause why would a rock star want a clean room? And if this guy is staging a big old comeback tour, why is he staying in the same town night after night? Regardless of the reason, he sets out on a mission to destroy the hotel room. Smashing tables, spray-painting the pictures, putting fish in the furniture, chainsawing the walls. The maid cleans, paints, vacuums, and repairs whatever he damages. This goes on and on for days and culminates in John Taylor gluing all the furniture, lamps, tables, everything to the ceiling. With just a bottle of glue! He really earned his merit badge for that one. The maid, of course, thinks nothing of it and starts back to work. Okay, okay. I wasn't going to ask, but this is just getting silly -- wouldn't the hotel have kicked his ass out by now? Yes, yes, they would have. But does logic or common sense stop the fine writers at VH1? Nope.
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