If you really want worry-free protection, I suppose the sanest course of action would be to get yourself some leak-proof panties. Being fresh and dry in and around your secret cubbyhole area is the highest point of development or achievement in some cultures. Holy embalming fluid! I’m currently typing words about Untamed Cowgirls of the Wild West, Chapter 1: The Pillowbiters. That’s right, all you lonely rangers and prairie princesses, I finally watched Rinse Dream’s bung-lashin’… tongue-gashin’… pantie-splashin’…squish-flashin’… pillow-bitin’ cowgirl casserole. High concept mockery with a hint of ridicule, it doesn’t merely satirize pornography, no, this 89 dollar laser disc eviscerates it. Let me put it this way: If the audience were farm animals who were afflicted with every barnyard ailment known to flesh, their entrails would be scattered all over the floor. Sure, you could keep toasty by hovering over your steaming guts like a ghost, but you would eventually lose consciousness and drift slowly into a shadow-vacant state of nonexistence. This 89 dollar laser disc dares housebound raincoats to manually accelerate time to a more tranquil period, but there’s no escaping the Sword of Damocles that hangs over every single frame. Your orgasm is inevitable, but the quality of your orgasm is in constant danger. And I’m comforted by that.
It should go without saying but I’m going to say it anyway. All housebound raincoats fear womanly wetness, and many of the early allusions to panty moistness will no doubt cause them distress. Which is a good thing and a bad thing. It’s a good thing in that upsets the housebound raincoat/porn hound status quo. It’s a bad thing because the producers could see this as an insult toward a large segment of their audience. The balancing act is extremely delicate. On the one hand, Rinse Dream wants to be able express himself as an artist. On the other, he has to do so under a number of constraints. You could say, there’s nothing more constraining than mainstream pornography. However, it would seem that Rinse Dream has managed to find a way to have it both ways. Make art, while at the same time, satisfying the needs of the marketplace.
There were several moments during Nightdreams 2 and Nightdreams 3 where I thought to myself: Wait a minute! This looks and feels like porn! And I think most people who are the cusp of being cool will agree that looking and feeling like porn is not a good look for Rinse Dream. Thankfully, this 89 dollar laser disc does not look or feel like porn. Oh, make no mistake, it is porn. And a frightfully insipid one at times (there are no stockings or tumbleweeds). But the sustained barrage of semi-confusing statements that do not logically follow from the previous semi-confusing statements, keep you agitated and thoroughly entertained.
Take, for example, the first five minutes. The sheer volume of uncut giddiness the roll call manages to elicit was off the charts in terms of off-kilter genius. This is the kind of inspired lunacy I want in my Rinse Dream. Every cowgirl is introduced by listing their name, their alias, their occupation and the felonies they’ve been charged with.
It helps to have some knowledge pertaining to 20th century American pop culture. As the bios are filled with references to Earl Scheib, June Allyson, Albert Einstein, Kewpie dolls, Cheese Whiz, Tallulah Bankhead, Raymond Burr, the sneeze guard at an Omaha Sizzler, Dr. Kevorkian, Ethel Merman, Frank Frazetta, Abraham Zapruder and, of course, my personal favourite, Ernest Borgnine. I’ve been referring to Ernest Borgnine’s ass since at least the late ’90s. So, to see Rinse Dream reference him as well, brought a tiny misguided tear to my eye.
There’s a moment when ‘Lil Bit (Tami Monroe) asks Cricket (Jeanna Fine) to “tell her more.” What takes place next when more is told can best be described as filmed mental illness. It’s what dementia must look like when laid out on a dissecting table. I don’t know about everyone else, but if the entire movie had been nothing but ‘Lil Bit and Cricket going back back and forth like this, I would have been one happy camper. Oooh, yippee! Me thinks that William Shakespeare wishes his poofy limey ass was a pillow-biter.
Gun-toting Swampy (Melanie Moore) is not Wayne Newton’s love child, nor is she the heir to the Forbidden Zone throne. She’s a ditch of estrogen and wants to put Cricket in a Chicago overcoat. Call me a saddle-sore that’s allergic to ointment, but this has the makings of a plot. Yippee-ki-yay!
Stay tuned, Cricket has an appointment to dine on Sagebrush Sally’s whisker biscuit to the sounds of dogs barking and pots and pans being thrown down a flight of stairs. I needs more Double Vision, yo! They’re music should be on compact disc. I think Roz from Frasier should have gotten an abortion. Or, at the very least, thrown her foetus off the Space Needle for charity. It’s what I would have done.
What’s a Boise Hamper Cult? Wait, a hamper cult? A Boise Hamper Cult. Ahhh! This 89 dollar laser disc is starting to glitch out on me. No, wait a minute. It’s not. Even the text inserts are beginning to question the well-being of everyone involved in what is becoming real twisto stuff. In hindsight, maybe I should have eased into this. Much in the same way the terminally ill CEO of a semi-successful fertilizer company slides into a lukewarm bath.
On Saturday nights, many eons ago, goth-industrial gay boys drank Carling Black Label straight from the bottle. In-between foppish sips, they would look up with a purpose-driven focus. What they saw was chapter one of Untamed Cowgirls of the Wild West flickering sinfully on a smallish television propped up on the bar. Everyone in The Catacombs, a nightclub located below the Sanctuary Vampire Sex Bar, would countdown to cowgirl cum, and celebrate the sullying of cow print bed sheets by yelling “squirt!” So, what’s a Boise Hamper Cult?!? Ummm…
Growing up in the USA during the height of the Cold War probably had a profound effect on Stephen “Rinse Dream” Sayadian. Hence, the reason every single one of his films looks like it takes place in a post-apocalyptic El Segundo. The threat of atomic weapons looms large over everything. And these films try to capture what life, or, more specifically, hide the salami, would be like for the survivors. Whether you spew a thick and chunky dollop of man-mayo or leak a short metal tube’s worth of expired Crystal Pepsi, the post-nuke landscape will shape your sex life in ways peculiar and strange.
Let’s be honest, shall we? One moment you’re stealing a Playboy jigsaw puzzle from your dad’s sock drawer, the next you’re being told that it’s compulsory for pale Anglo-Irish death MILFs with nary an ounce of Neanderthal DNA to get an orchiectomy. In other words: Don’t be afraid to put on the pink cowgirl hat of your condemned dollhouse dreams.
