A Geezer’s Notebook, By Jim Foster

I have written on this subject many times before and feel it is necessary to broach the subject once again. Movie producers, directors and screen writers are heartless b—–ds.

Oh, don’t try to defend them; you will fail because you know it is true. The stars of the movie industry always get the girl, or the man, or whatever they are trying to get, but the lesser folks in the cast just get the shaft. Think now, when did you ever see a co-star riding off into the sunset with the man of her dreams, or him with the girl of his dream, or him with the man of his dreams or her with the girls of her dreams, or a trans with… well you get the idea. But when? I’ll tell you, never. Someone has to care about these people and it might as well be me.

If you will recall, I commiserated with Victoria in Sleepless in Seattle even though I didn’t know what commiserated meant. (I’m still not sure; my Thesaurus says ‘empathized’ and I don’t know what that means either) Victoria was the young lady who was supposed to be off for a weekend special at a Holiday Inn with Tom Hanks until his son, Jonah, took off for New York to meet (here we go again), Meg Ryan, a movie star. It was all very romantic I suppose, but not for Victoria, she got dumped and after she had a bath and everything.

If you will further recall, a few years later I contacted the Holiday Inn in downtown Seattle to see if she was still there. Sadly, she was sitting in the lobby waiting, waiting, waiting, and had been there since 1993 when she got stood* up. I would have thought that after a year or two she might have realized Tom wasn’t coming; but no, she hung in there for 20 years and for all we know she is there still hoping against hope that someday he might slip up behind her, put his hands over her eyes and say, “Sorry I’m late, but something came up. And guess what? It came up again.”

Meg, the little tramp, left poor Walter with two glasses of Dom De Luise champagne and his mother’s wedding ring looking out the window at the Empire State building on Valentine’s Day. Had he known Victoria was hot to trot in the lobby of the Seattle Holiday Inn, Walter could have hopped a plane and saved her from a life of loneliness and despair. With any luck at all Tom had prepaid the room.

In defence of Meg, Walter slept with what appeared to be a whole air-conditioning unit over his face and I suppose it wouldn’t be conducive to serious passion, but then she wore a granny nightgown and that isn’t either.

What started me off on this harangue was not Meg, or Tom, or Walter, or Victoria, it was Freddy.

“Who in hell is Freddy?” I hear you say. Freddy is Freddy Eynsford – Hill from My Fair Lady. It was Freddy who stood outside Eliza’s house singing, On the Street Where You Live. He even drove her to the fish market in the morning. At least I think it was him, but it could have been some other love-sick bozo. English toffs all look alike to me. Just why she was dressed like someone on the way to an audience with the Queen was never explained. I mean, who gets dressed up to go to a flipping fish market? I’ve been to the St. Lawrence Fish Market in Toronto and half the ladies there are in T-shirts and the ass is out of their pants.

Do you know what is wrong with that movie? Why would Eliza Doolittle, a good-looking chick if there ever was one, settle on a bonehead like ‘enry ‘iggins? To start with, the old fart had to be thirty years older than she was and it appeared he got his jollies hanging around with Colonel Pickering guessing where Englishmen came from by their accent. And let’s be honest who cares where Englishmen come from anyway? Nobody can understand them and after Brexit, who would want to. She would have been better off with that ‘airy hound from Budapest.

*  When I said ‘stood up I meant Tom never showed, not some kinky position she learned on the Internet.

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