CaptainScorpio's Log

being that

I’d recently stopped being married. She was the first woman I’d dated since then – a bizarrely amazing first date, we both agreed – and it had quickly not worked out. She was very type A. I was very type B. And of course I was emotionally a wreck (even more than I was a couple of years later, when I was still… far from a catch). I hadn’t fallen in love with her, but I had inappropriately saddled her with enormous emotional significance as all the insecurities I’d thought resolved since I’d gotten married had begun to unsuppress.

I’d gotten over those once I realized what I’d done. We’d stayed friends. She was wonderful. And beautiful. And brilliant. And kind. And vivacious – more so than anyone I’d met until then.

She was also, in retrospect, self-centered, self-loathing, emotionally masochistic and a drama queen. None of these lessened the qualities above, though they would eventually take their toll on them – especially the last. I wasn’t in love, but I loved her. (I still do, though my hope for her eventual happiness has waned over the years.)

She’d introduced me to The Birthday Massacre, and as with so many things at the time, we both loved them. We'd been to one of their concerts before, in slightly better times between us. This time, we ran into one another a few blocks before the theater.

We were almost certainly the oldest people there (she 30, I 36), except maybe that one guy in the Spiderman tee shirt. Most of them were teenagers, maybe a little older. Well, it was an all-ages show, I guess that’s what you get.

But we held an advantage; we were able to buy alcohol. And we discovered that there were tables with seats, but there was a $30 minimum, and we knew we were going to knock back at least 5 each by the end of the night, so we got ourselves a table.

We laughed at the first band because their sound sucked; I discovered it genuinely sounded better with my fingers in my ears, filtering out the extraneous noise.

The second band was better. Creature Feature. I still like them, in small doses.

Then TBM came out. They were the main event. They went through their last two albums. We sang along with most of them. When Redstars came on, I noticed she was crying through it (I don’t know exactly what memory that triggered for her, but I have ideas). I gave her a cocktail napkin that she used to dry her eyes.

(I still have that black napkin. The tears of a Bodhisattva, however flawed, struck me as a thing worth holding onto.)
It was a good night. And then the concert was over, and then it was a goodnight.

We walked to the subway together. I don’t remember what I said that triggered this, but she stopped me just outside the subway. She stepped over to me, and said, “Just so you don’t wonder.” And took hold of my coat, and pulled me in, and kissed me, slowly, one last time.

Of course, this rendered the subsequent wait for our train slightly anticlimactic. But that’s okay.

When I got home, I went to Aaron’s. I told him the story. He nodded, said, “Oh.”

He paused.

“So you wouldn’t wonder what?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I figured asking would’ve ruined the moment.”

And I still don’t know.

Time winds and rewinds and plays out, blindly repeating while still drawing always nearer its end. More precisely: my time, my end. Then comes a moment where the record skips, and in a desperate instant one looks frantically for an escape from the groove, before the needle lands in it again.

It's time to switch things up. 

I'm going to try an experiment. To write, here, floridly, even purpley, and yet unironically. To write with neither the belief that this inefficient use of words represents eloquence, nor with that self-effacing nod-and-wink that in fact renders self-effacement null; which lays all guilt upon the words themselves, and sends them forward as scapegoat, that I might walk free.

No. I'm going to play this straight, explore the words and the language as a virgin clumsily paws at his first partner. And it's been so long since I really have so delved into it that I might as well be a virgin groom. (And that's if I ever have; perhaps I'm a virgin still, whose fantasies are so vivid that what I remember as coitus was really just masturbation.) 

Already I feel the rote phrases starting to close in, jumping to the fore of my mind; the verbal tics that characterise my writing and speech to the point of caricature. "In fact," "Indeed," "To be honest," "To be fair," and others like them, cushioning my statements to mitigate any sin of certainty in my part. And (to be fair), those cushions are not irrational meekness, for I know that I have oten been guilty of... unwarranted arrogance.

So we'll see how this goes. A little a day, if can manage it. We'll see how the words flow, and if the silt ever clears unfiltered.

My Final Original Cyn
"Life gives these and also takes them away and the great difficulty is to say Yes to life.”
- James Baldwyn

Original Cyn is over.

For over six years, it said Yes to life, in letters the height of a worn bar and a steel pole, in one of the most gloriously divey bars in Brooklyn. For the last three and a half of those years, it was my privilege to be there, to learn to do the same.

I'm not the first to compare OC with going to church, but I suspect that he meant it less literally than I do. In it, I found community. Music. Ritual. The passing of the collection plate. Since the introduction of the Body Shot, there was a Eucharist. And, when Apathy Angel gogoed, visions of God*.  

There I met people more amazing than I'd imagined ever knowing --  the insanely brilliant, and the brilliantly insane; lovely bodies, lovely hearts, lovely minds (and usually combinations thereof). Notably Miss Mary Cyn, who started the show (and for whom it was named, and of whom it was an extension). Joe the Shark, who produced it with her for most of the past five years. Nelson Lugo. Schaffer the Darklord. Bea B Heart. Peter Aguero. Juliet Jeske. Bombazeen Bean. I could go on listing names for an hour and still come back the next day with a list of those I'd somehow forgotten. Some of these have honored me with their friendship, while the rest at least politely tolerated me (and I'm grateful for either consideration).

Since Miss Cyn has a goldfish memory for how significantly she touches the lives of those around her, she likely doesn't believe how much her show meant, or to how many. For once, she and I stand in disagreement**. What she created was a bizarre gathering place where the mostly normal and the mostly not could come stand united*** as Cynners beneath a banner of art and sex and booze and irony and the evidence before us that there's more to life than the way we spend most of it.

(About a month and a half ago, the thought struck me that OC was a lot like the Island of Misfit Toys. Though I was secure in this, I still had it confirmed at the very next show, when I overheard Ms. Cyn opine to another patron, "Are you kidding? This is the Bar of Misfit Toys!")

The announcement that it was all ending was well timed -- right after the penultimate show, so it didn't cast a pall over that, while giving as much time as possible for people to free themselves up for the finale. I'm sure I'm not the only one who felt it as a blow. Certainly not to judge by the crowd at the last show.

If you weren't there, the details are irrelevant. It was everything OC had ever been, many times over. Multiple hosts, favorite acts, every person there hungry for every second they could get until the final bow. Then The End of the World played and the afterparty began, with more dancers lining up for their turn on the pole than I'd ever seen. And then, hours later, there were hugs, and tears, and it was done.

None of the tears were mine, though; I have no business mourning. For three and half years, OC was exactly what I needed it to be, and more. 

Michael Stipe notwithstanding, the sun rose on a new day, to set into a night changed only by the absence of one tiny, bright star. My privilege now is to be one of those who can look at the place where it no longer shines, and know its name. I have my CBGB's now: my experience of a magic spark that will never be quite duplicated.  I've become a regular at Joe Shark's carny/burly Sharkbite Sideshow, and Dottie Dynamo's Bare Necessitease Burlesque has something of the bright and hungry, seat-of-the-pants energy that Miss Cyn describes in the early days of OC. Both are amazing, but neither will ever be OC (nor are they trying, nor should they). 

It only now occurs to me that the story of the misfit toys didn't really begin until it was time for them to leave the island. For years, OC was a reef in the open sea, a safe and stable place where colorful things could gather and feed off of one another's scraps in a weird ecosystem of friendship, kinship and creativity. Where they could grow into... whatever they wanted and could, but maybe couldn't without a place to call home. The thing about the reef is, not everything that lives there stays there. Some -- the big fish, usually -- are passing just through. Others start there, but have to hit the ocean to grow up, and make something of their own.

Had it not been for Original Cyn, I wouldn't be all I am now. And while what I am now might not be very impressive, it's a damn sight better than what I was before -- at least I have an I, now. I gained a name (and I'm still not sure how much of that blame I can claim for myself). I gained art to appreciate, and art to create. I gained friends, and people to admire, and ambitions to follow. 

And I gained an understanding of saying Yes to life. Enough to know that it often means saying your goodbyes with a smile.

* Or *dess, as you prefer.

** Twice if you count Sucker Punch, but I'm still open to persuasion on that one.

*** Because there was never enough seating.

Old Guys with Beards.
Just because.

Evil. Plain and simple.
Please watch this:

And read this:

'Muslims & Buddhists: Get Out!' Says Preacher Applauded by Santorum

Okay, so here's my new analogy for the current political climate.
It's like you've got a ridiculously huge country that was formerly linked by a few major roads, lots of local streets and, in many places, dirt roads. Individuals had a hard time getting places by car, and so were dependent on train lines (how good or bad a job the trains actually did serving this need is not, for this discussion, material).

Then said country decided to build a big highway system. It cost a ton, but it connected the country and enabled both commercial and private transit on an unprecedented scale. Commerce boomed, industry boomed, personal freedom of travel boomed. As with anything, there were bad effects mixed with good -- certain shipping industries suffered, populations and land values shifted, some communities were disrupted (becasue they were in the way, or because people left for newly accessible locations), carbon emmissions were increased (though it was still not the major cause of such) and a lot of people now  needed cars because they lived in communities accessible only by the highways. But for those interested in freedom of transportation, it was on balance pretty much win. 

[Aside: This actually happened!]

Fast-forward fifty years. Someone notices that the highway system near him, due to the way it was engineered, takes a tortuous route to get to his favored shopping center. Hell, he thinks, if I could just drive straight there instead of having to stay on the paved roads, it would take only half the time. He begins railing to anyone who'll listen that the highways are an infringement on his constitutional freedom to travel, that we should all just have ATVs and make our ruggedly individual way where we want to go -- and we could all afford them, too, if we weren't paying for this bloated highway system.

A lot of do people listen, because who hasn't fantasized, sitting in traffic, about cutting across the divider and going wherever the hell you want?

Over the next 30 years, the growing anti-highway movement manages to continually restrict funding for the highways. The highways start to fall apart, which the anti-highway movement points to as further evidence of the failure of the highways -- why, they say, we can keep our local streets in better repair than this! (And to those whose local streets are in even worse repair, they say that this is because of all the money being wasted on the highways.)

When the highways are at last reduced to decrepit, hard-to-use eyesores rotting across the country, and people are free to tear up the countriside in private tanks that cost a fortune in rapidly-dwindling gasoline, they are pointed to one last time as the great failure of cenrtalized transportation management. 

Whattaya think?

Looking for a Droid App: An Allegory
OP: "Hey, I just got the new Teleportrix X3, and I love it, but I notice there's a minimum range of 20 miles. I want to use it to get some milk from the supermarket a mile away. I used to do that with my old Teleportrix Mundane all the time, why did they put in a minimum? Is there a workaround/way to change the setting?"

Commenter #1: "Well, the X3 it has a minimum range, but it has unlimited maximum range. Easily worth the trade-off, IMO! :)"

OP: "Yes, it's a great feature, but I still need to get to the supermarket a mile away. Why did they put in a minimum range? I don't see what the one has to do with the other."

Commenter #2: "But with the unlimited range, you can go to Wisconsin for your milk!"

OP: "I really just want to go to my local supermarket."

C#1: "Why are you afraid of teleporting long distances? Maybe you'd feel better teleporting in a tin foil hat! :P"

OP: "I'm not afraid of teleporting long distances. I love the unlimited range feature. But I'd also like to be able to teleport to my local supermarket. Isn't there any way to change the setting?"

C#2: "This post makes no sense. Why would you buy an X3 when all you want to do is teleport a mile away?"

OP: "I don't just want to teleport a mile away. I teleport to my job on the other coast three times a week, and I visit my family in Toronto several times a month. Plus, sometimes I like to go ot the Grand Canyon for a few hours. But I'd also like to go to my local supermarket. I honestly don't understand why they took my ability to do so away. It makes no sense."

C#2: "Well I seriously doubt anyone put a gun to your head and made you buy the X3. The minimum range was right there in the end-user agreement. It's ridiculous to expect Teleportrix to put in every trivial feature ever user anywhere asks for."

C#1: "What's your problem with Wisconsin? They have enough troubles right now."

OP: "No one put a gun to my head. And I like the X3. I like the unlimited range, and the attractive case. But I'm not asking them to include a feature, I'm asking why they took away a function that had always been there. In fact, I'm not even asking that, I'm just looking for a way to go to the supermarket."

Commenter #3: "Why don't you just use your old Mundane for your supermarket and the X3 for everything else?"

OP: "Thanks, but I have limited space in my apartment, and would rather just have one teleporter that can take me where I want to go. Especially since I see no reason the minimum range was ever added in the first place!!"

C#3: "Well you don't have to bite my head off. Lot of luck finding help with that attitude!"

C#1: "Yeah, why are you even on an X3 forum if you hate the X3 so much? Fucking troll."

 She doesn’t think she’s beautiful,
except on the very best of days
when a threesome of accomplishment,
compliment and endorphins
gives her courage to look into the mirror without filters.
She’ll admit to sexy, grudgingly,
if bolstered by makeup and corsets
and other accessories.
But anyone can be sexy, she reasons madly,
and sets the stage for the jest that's to come.

It’s not much of a stage; just a box
about yae tall by wide by deep,
but she gains it, and confidence follows
though she doesn't admit why
(what the box is and she’s become).
But then the goddess plays her joke,
and slides around her,
visible to all but the one she rides;
the priestess gogos on,
blind to the divine radiance
that blinds in turn all who watch
and worship at her tiny altar.

Across the room dance the elegant dolls
against whom she measures
and finds herself wanting,
regardless of the hungry eyes
that turn from them to her
to sate themselves on her porcelain curves.
From behind her eyes, the goddess winks,
and we share the tragic comedy of this madness:
that she knows what effect she has
when she dances, when she breathes,
when she leans
to place her perfect, painted mouth
by an ear to speak over the music.
She knows full well what that does,
and takes some pleasure,
but feels she’s played a clever trick.
(A trick of delight.)
They don’t know what she really is,
she tells herself
(and the irony stuns small birds for miles).

When the night's done, she steps down,
the goddess withdraws
(just enough that we can look away),
and she goes back to her image of herself.
She checks her mail, and messages, and posts,
and finds among them this.
She dares suspect this paean is to her
but takes refuge in silly modesty
until she reads one more line
and sees what the clever boy did there;
then she admits, and smiles.
Tags: ,

Move along, folks.
 Okay, this needs some talking about. You've probably all read the case of the Texas cheerleader who was removed from the team for refusing to cheer her rapist, and that it the school's action was upheld in court. You've probably also read that last month she was ordered to pay the school's legal fees.

Most people reading this know me. You know I'm a feminist, a big anti-rape person, and a rabid fan of free speech. You know I'm aware of the rampant blaming of the victim and physical and political violence against women.

But people need to find another cause. Because this is not a case of that.

I posted it on my Facebook initially, decrying it like everyone else. it didn't help that it was Texas. But recently I had to take a closer look, because sometimes passion really is not better than reason. Here's what I noticed:

1) The girl was not "forced to cheer"; she was voluntarily a cheerleader, and the job of a cheerleader is to cheer the school's team. As far as I have read (and please correct me if I'm wrong), the school did not attempt to "silence" her in any other way.

2) Her rapist was a part of the school's team and, at the time -- and this is key -- had not been convicted of ANYTHING.

3) As a cheerleader, in uniform, at a game, she was literally a mouthpiece of the school. For her to refuse to cheer him was tantamount to the school expressing its opinion of his guilt.

The school, as far as I've read (and please correct me if I'm wrong) made no effort to silence the girl other than removing her from cheerleading duties after she refused to cheer for that one student (and understandably so).

Now. What in your opinion SHOULD the school do in such a situation? Allow a student to -- in an official school position, mind you, as much as if she were writing for the school paper -- express a yet-unproven charge against another student? I really don't think so.

One does not have a right to be a cheerleader; I see no grounds for a lawsuit, and that's what the court said. So the school was not required to pay the $35,000 in legal fees, and, if they -- as I maintain above -- did not act wrongly, why should they?

Now people are jumping all over this in the same knee-jerk fashion that I originally did. But it's a bad idea. They're foaming at the mouth about an imaginary injustice, saying things like "She should take it to a higher court!" when that would only find the same way and get her further into debt.
If they really want to be helpful -- instead of self-righteous clichés -- they should start a fund to pay her legal fees. That would actually go toward making things better. 

Shaolin vs. Evil Dead + Shaolin vs. Evil Dead: Ultimate Power
Time is illusory. Therefore, so is continuity.

That seems to be the Taoist, or sometimes Buddhist (the dubbing kind of switches back and forth) lesson to be learned from Shaolin vs. Evil Dead and it's -- sequel? Prequel? I'm not quite sure -- Shaolin vs. Evil Dead: Ultimate Power!

(For the form's sake, I'm including this warning that there will be spoilers, but I honestly can't recommend highly enough your not caring.)

Shaolin vs. Evil Dead actually doesn't start out bad. We open on some (presumably) Evil Dead, hopping menacingly toward a house of frightened... householders. (Chinese vampires, for those of you not in the know, traditionally hop. It's a whole subgenre.) However, almost immediately, we have the cultural rug pulled out from under us, and are switched to a scene of similar-looking but docile hopping undead (called "zombies", and acting a bit like them) under the control of a monk. We discover that

A) he's considerately leading them back to their graves so they can rest in peace
B) they’re hopping because he makes them do that so they won't cause trouble (though they seem to be under his direct control and stand around like cordwood when not doing anything else, so what’s the point?)
C) the classic zombie pose, arms outstretched, is also the priest’s doing, so they won’t bump into the ones in front of them
D) the priest has until now left his two bumbling assistants/acolytes/novices/whatever/sidekicks completely in the dark as to what he does and why, apparently so that they can have clumsy expository dialogue in the opening scene (which is how we learned B and C).

Okay, so far so good. The basics are covered: Evil (or at least unpleasant) Dead, and what is clearly a Shaolin monk.

Except that it soon becomes clear that Shaolin Temple has nothing to do with this. In fact, the priest, as has been indicated, spends the majority of his time as a Taoist, though he does significant Buddhist duty as well. (Presumably he got his Wiccan phase over with in high school.)

It doesn’t take long for the bumbling sidekicks (one a grown man, one a kid) to scare up trouble (see what I did there?) with their characteristically buffoonish insistance on eating. (Notice how action heroes, east or west, are seldom hungry. They seem to eat only out of grim logical necessity.) They find a restaurant and start gulping down noodles; only the priest’s tingling Tao Sense (which, honestly, kind of make sense) alerts him to something wrong. An incantation shows him the true nature of the haunted village; the other diners are rotting ambulatory corpses! And the Bumbling Sidekicks (hereafter refered to as “BSes” to avoid wear and tear on my keyboard) are eating not noodles, but… worms!

Our heroes are immediately Heisenberged, as the zombies immediately launch a shambling assault; though capable of at least rudimentary kung fu, they still move at a snail’s pace. Also, the illusion of warm, maintained earth tones fades to an appropriate creepy greenish-blue. Looks like there are Evil Dead after all.

They try to settle this with good old fashioned kung fu -- and the action’s not bad -- but they soon need ot start using ore magic, sucking otheir sould out with magic “soul egg” stones. In classic zombie fashioned, though, they’re overwhelmed by endless waves of undead, until they’re saved by two mysterious figures in black, who do the ame sort of kung fu/soul egg stuff, only at Vampire Lestat speeds.

The two are only mysterious for about a minute because as soon as the underad are eliminated, the priest (who, incidentally, wears awhite) refers to the newcomer as “brother” and admonishes him for having “tortured” the souls he collected. (I didn’t see a lot of difference in technique, except that he did it at range.) It’s made clear that “brother” is not just a term for another monk, because the stranger bristles at the term and makes it clear that he’s some sort of prodigal son, and all full of teenagey bitterness about having been passed over as head of the clan, blah blah.

Man in black (MIB) is, in fact, one of the better characters at this point. He has a terrific bad-guy face: handsome and brooding, streaks of gray in his hair, with a villain beard and awesome scowl. Hi black outfit is cool, in the best kung fu movie tradition. He, of course, has a non-bumbling sidekick (No-BS), who happens to be a good-looking female in a similarly ornate outfit. Anyway, he makes it clear he wants nothing to do with the good duys, who he then spends the rest of the movie following around.

The movie kind of meanders plot-wise after this, as we’re shown multiple examples of the priest laying the dead to rest and freeingtheir sould for reincarnation, and the counterpoint of the bad guys being awesome but, well, bad guys, the man in black getting crueller and crueller while his No-BS seems to get increasingly uncomfortable with this but stays with her master anyway.

Sidekick subplots provide some distraction: an amusing one where the kid gets possessed from having swallowed a spirit egg, and attempts to hide this from his master (which seems kind of like a doctor’s assistant getting a nasty infection and going to great lengths to hide it from the doctor), and a less amusing star-crossed lover story between the No-BS and the adult BS.

It isn’t long before the MIB to have his Kick the Dog Moment, summoning a spirit that just wanted to be laid to rest, so he can publicly kill it to impress some villagers, then control the village kids with magic. Fortuntely our priest reveals his bad-guyness (followed by a cool, if not particularly sensible scene of kid-on-kid violence in magic kung-fu chess) and the village turns their back on him.

Things go predictably bad when the bad-guy steals a treasured gem from the village, thereby releasing a super-powerful demon, which he temporarily seals away. Eventually it breaks loose starts killing people, and comes after him for the stone that had imprisoned it. (I don’t get that part. Were I him, I’d want that stone as far from me as possible. But whatever drives the plot at this point.)

Shit really hits the fan when the badass MIB becomes posessed by the badder-ass demon, becoming an Ultra Badass Big Bad that all the heroes, with the No-BS (who we know by now is really a good guy in her heart, just the victim of misguided loyalty) have to fight.

So they start to fight, and… the movie ends.

Wha? Yes. Out of nowhere, actiuon stops and credits start rolling.

But that’s okay, you figure, because right behind it is Shaolin vs. Evil Dead: Ultimate Power! Clearly the Ultra Badass Big Bad (UBBB) is the Ultimate Power in question, and the movie will pick up where the first left off. That is entirely reasonable, and completely wrong.

In fact, Ultimate Power seems to be a prequel, and spends the first 10 minutes dealing with MIB’s heroic kung-fu master parents. One thing I immediately noticed was a distinct lack of Evil Dead. Or dead of any kind, except the regular sort of dead that happens when people kill one another. It seems the mother is pregnant when poisoned by a throwaway over-the-top villainess. She sacrifices her life to give birth to their son, but we learn the baby is still carrying the poison -- apparently a moral poison, which may turn him evil – which may cause it to grow up evil.

The father overcomes his own poison via a potion, long enogh to raise the child (which makes me wonder why he needed to have been poisoned in the first place), and teach him his “Ice Heart” technique, which might allow the son to overcome the poison in his beins… somehow (we don’t know, because it’s never mentioned again until the very end).

The child is put in the care of the who is kid version of the good-guy priest from the first movie, who is admonished to treat him as a brother.

Unfortunately, all the kidness and wisdom doesn’t take, and the MIB is revealed to have been pretty much an asshole from the beginning. There’s a sort of the Anakin/Obi-Wan thing, only if Anakin’s childhood were never shown and he were always a complete prick who never had any respect for Jedi wisdom, and Obi-Wan were really, really wishy-washy.

Since we already know what happens – the MIB is passed over for leadership of the clan in favor of the priest, and leaves all butthurt – it is unnecessary to draw it out over the next hour, but we’ve got a movie to fill. When he finally leaves, he steals the clan’s treaures, including the map to the hidden Magic Sword, which, in combination with the clans unhidden Magic Sword, will make him super-powerful. With those, he then starts killing the leaders of all the other clans, for no discernable reason (there’s a suggestion it’s to start a war with his old clan, but that doesn’t seem to happen). The priest, meanwhile, has gone into seclusion to learn the clan’s Code of Leadership, which is apparently something he’ll need in order to keep the MIB from ruining everything. (Really? You’re already in a monastery. How much more seclusion do you need?)

Now’s where it starts to get weirder. In the first movie, I got the idea that the MIB was steadily progressing down the path of darkness to the point of irredeemability, but in this he goes Vader right from the get-go, summoning spirits of darkness to make him super-powerful (which involves a pretty cool makeup job that makes him look rather panther-like).

While he’s doing this, the priest has worked out that he can use five elemental stones to make a magic tower that might cure his brother of the poison. He makes that, and figures his “brother” will show up. Which he does, pretty much right then. Apparently he happened to be in the neighborhood.

They set up the magic tower and start “fighting” – apparently their spirits are pulled into other, elemental planes, because their bodies just stand there. The elemental planes are, for the most part, well disigned, wit minimal CGI (good, because it sucks where used) -- apparently when one or the other wins, they move to the next plane.

Priest and MIB seem to be evenly matched. This is where the Ice Heart finally comes into play, and turns out to be rather literal: the priest freezes the bestial MIB in a huge block of ice. He then somehow sets the MIB’s true self free, and he comes out without makeup and fangs, though they move to the next plane and continue fighting anyway.

Unfortunately, MIB’s power play seems to have had the side effect of waking up a graveyard full of hopping vampires -- in the same scene that opened the first movie!  These converge on the tower from all directions, with only the adult BS to fight them off. Fortunately, he’s already been imbued with the priest’s power – which you can apparently hand off like a set of keys – so he can do cool stuff like multiply himself. Note that this iis pretty much all the Evil Dead we see in this movie.

Now in what seems to be the Plane of Wood, the MIB still won’t listen to reason, so the priest pulls out his trump card. Which is basically a note form the MIB’s father saying “Aggression achieves nothing. Life and death are one.” Now, I can’t believe the father never said this before, but for some reason, the MIB totally gets it this time, and becomes a good guy again, and agrees to team up to fight his “evil self” that’s trapped in the ice. Which conveniently, at that moment, breaks free and enters their plane as a giant phallic wood pole that drives MIB through the floor.

Back in the real world, the No-BS (who’se gotten an Evil Hottie makeover with skimpier outfit) joins the vampires in attacking the BS. Not sure why; looks a bit like she’s being magically controlled. This seems to be borne out when BS blasts her with a forehead bolt in the way the priest did to imbue him with his priest powers, only to have her wake up and start fighting on his side.

Back in the alternate plane, the priest and now-good MIB are fighting the phallic log containing the evil self, which is carrying the MIB downward. They get the brilliant idea to break it open the log, instead of simply getting off of it and letting it plummet downward. Well, they musty know something. So they both break it open, and causality along with it.

The evil self come out, and looks to be… the demon from the end of the first movie! You know, the one that hasn’t happened yet? It re-possesses the MIB (guess he didn't make his exorcism payments, hahaha!), making him the UBBB again, just as the vampires bring down the magical tower by throwing themselves at it like it’s a giant bug-zapper. The UBB now takes th stone he was looking for at the end of the first movie (which, again, has not happened yet) and apparently becomes unstoppable, heralding the end of the world. Priest says, “We’ll need a miracle!” when, lo and behold, a metor appears in the sky.

The priest has just enough time to get the BS and No-BS tied to a floating paper lantern, which carries them sto safety (apparently he supercharges it) just as the meteor strikes, turning priest, UBBB, and vampires into ashed.

Cut to the BS and No-BS waking up on some grass as the credits start to roll.

The kid BS has been nowhere to be seen this whole movie, presumably because they haven’t run into him yet. Which apparently now they never will, because the main characters are dead.

Now, there are a number of ways you can go in a time travel plot. You can do the Heinlein thing where you can’t change the past because you didn’t. You can do a Butterfly Effect, where you go back, then return to where you left off, only to discover the results of your actions upon history. You can to the Back to the Future, where you can change the past and then have to put it right to avoid paradox. You can do a Terminator, where you go back into the past, only, and you can change it from that point on, and somehow causality is never a problem.

This case would seem like one of those last, except for one thing: It’s NOT A TIME TRAVEL MOVIE! There is NO apparent reason for the demon at the end of the first movie to appear where and when it does, much less to do something that would keep it from ever having been released.

So. You’ll have a fun time if you can ignore little things like this (or if, like me, you enjoy things like this). I’ve also read that the dubbing and subtitles don’t match; I didn’t have access to the subtitles, so I wouldn’t know for sure, but it sounds likely.

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