Film Review: THE MEN'S CLUB (1986, Peter Medak)

Stars: 2 of 5.

Running Time: 101 minutes.

Notable Cast or Crew: Roy Scheider (JAWS, ALL THAT JAZZ), Frank Langella (FROST/NIXON, BRAINSCAN), Richard Jordan (DUNE '84, THE FRIENDS OF EDDIE COYLE), Craig Wasson (BODY DOUBLE, A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET III: DREAM WARRIORS), Treat Williams (HAIR, DEAD HEAT), David Dukes (RAWHEAD REX, GODS AND MONSTERS), Stockard Channing (GREASE, SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION), Jennifer Jason Leigh (SHORT CUTS, SINGLE WHITE FEMALE).

Tag-line:  "The Breakfast Club.  The Big Chill.  And now The Men's Club."
Best one-liner:  Not really.

What is THE MEN'S CLUB?  I saw the damn thing, and I'm not sure I can tell you.  It feels like a play and reads like a block-headed sleazy macho paperback for yuppie dickheads, and yet is performed like a master's class in acting.  It sure doesn't have much in common with THE BREAKFAST CLUB or THE BIG CHILL, as the tag-line promises, though all three works involve groups of people talking to one another indoors about a variety of topics.

From the talented Peter Medak, director of THE RULING CLASS, THE CHANGELING, BREAKIN' THROUGH, and many other favorites of the Junta Juleil canon, comes the story of a group of professional and semi-professional philandering dudes who deliver monologues about how difficult their lives are.  Said dudes are portrayed by some of the finest actors of their generation, from Roy Scheider to Harvey Keitel to Frank Langella to Richard Jordan.  And they're giving it their all...(especially Scheider)... they just happen to be in THE MEN'S CLUB.

I can't really begin to describe THE MEN'S CLUB, nor do I really want to, but I can tell you about the few spectacular things that happen in it.

#1.  The Lee Holdridge soundtrack, which is spit-take inducingly fabulous.  Full of slap-happy slap bass, muted trumpets, wailing saxes, and smoove, easy listening grooves, I was sort of surprised that my walls didn't spontaneously sprout green felt and transform my apartment into a seedy, smoke-filled lounge where Malibu was consumed by the gallon and impromptu soft-core pornography shoots materialized out of thin air.  In short, I'm a little upset that the soundtrack has never received an official release.

#2.  How 'bout a Madame... with a frightening ventriloquist's dummy...

 
....who's peddling a young Jennifer Jason Leigh who's dolled up to sort of look like young Melanie Griffith?  I don't know what to tell you.


#3. I swear Harvey Keitel's contracts must include nudity in them.  They have to.  It's like how Van Damme's contracts must include splits and Burt Reynolds' must include bar-fights and Bronson's must have involved dummies plummeting from great heights. 

Anyway.

#4.  Frank Langella, reborn via midlife crisis into a suspender-wearing, post-80s New Wave makeup wearing-dude who looks like an extra from the Elton John "I'm Still Standing" music video.  I can't believe my eyes.


So there you have it– all the highlights of THE MEN'S CLUB without having to actually watch it.  Phew.

–Sean Gill

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Only now does it occur to me... THELMA AND LOUISE

Only now does it occur to me...  that the highlight of THELMA AND LOUISE is not when they drive off the cliff together, nor is when they blow up the tanker–

 

 

(although, now that I mention it, it miiight be when they blow up the tanker...)

but in fact it is the subtle pleasure of watching Harvey Keitel beat Brad Pitt about the head and neck...

 

 

 

...with his own cowboy hat.

THWACK

THWACKK

THWACCCCCKK!

As I say, it's a subtle joy, and one that's amplified by the fact that Keitel isn't really given that much to do in this movie otherwise.  Though I suppose it's more than pleasant to see him exchange Geena-Davis-and-Susan-Sarandon-hunting strategies with the legendary Stephen "Ned Ryerson" Toblowsky.

  

As I said, it's the little things.  Also– I must say that THELMA AND LOUISE makes a fine "homoerotic, adrenaline-fueled summer movies of 1991" double-feature with POINT BREAK. 

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Junta Juleil's Top 100: #70-66

70. FAT GIRL (2001, Catherine Breillat)

I'm the first to admit that, like BAD LIEUTENANT, CRASH, and any number of movies on this list, FAT GIRL is not for everyone. But I will also say that it's probably the truest, most important film about adolescence to come out in years, and its final, 400 BLOWS-mirroring freeze frame conveys an intent to shatter the complacency of watered-down "youth in turmoil" movies, just as Truffaut's film did back in '59. Catherine Breillat is a provocateur, to be sure, but she's neither a dime-store shock-peddler nor an obnoxious feminist. Her films attempt to glean meaning from the ever-shifting dynamics of sex and power which govern human interaction, and she doesn't shy away from asking the tough questions or handing out the tough answers. This is her masterpiece.

69. THE DARK CRYSTAL (1982, Jim Henson & Frank Oz)

I've said this before, but here it goes again:
True creativity, for me, is and has always been the ability to build something out of nothing- with your hands. THE DARK CRYSTAL is the apex of Jim Henson and designer Brian Froud's interminable artistry (they also collaborated on LABYRINTH), and here, they've built a timeless universe of breathtaking spectacle, exotic unfamiliarity, fanciful magic, ancient mysticism, exacting detail, and uncompromising depth. They are so confident (and deservedly so!) in their vision, that they've chosen to dispense with humans altogether, relegating them to puppeteering and vocal duties. There's no CGI here, no poorly rendered computer animations fabricated by some lazy skeeze at his PC. Everything's been rigorously fashioned and laboriously crafted from the ground up. While it's been designed for children to grasp, this is by no means merely a children's film. Using the familiar framework of the "quest" mythos, there's still philosophical complexity, palpable trauma, and visceral evil. Certain images possess a real potency, and stand out from the others: the dying Skeksis Emperor literally crumbling away in mid-screech as his vile, potential successors circle like vultures; the charming, faithful, lovable Fizzgig and his impossibly gaping maw; the genius matte paintings and meticulously sculpted forests that spare no detail from the tiniest of insects to the largest of trees to creatures I cannot even begin to describe. There is a certain REALness to the entirety of the proceedings because the screen is full of objects, animals, and characters that ARE real- someone could hold and manipulate them by hand or by string or by lever, and this is what gives them the breath of life. And with that breath, this film exhales upon the viewer the vivacity, exuberance, and sincerity that were poured into it by its creators. So eff you, CGI. You can toss my motherlovin' salad.

68. PULP FICTION (1994, Quentin Tarantino)

It was difficult to pick a favorite Tarantino. In general, he's something of a polarizing figure– in turns he's pompous, restrained, and occasionally misunderstood by slavering fanboys and disapproving critics alike. RESERVOIR DOGS has the tautness and intensity of a capital-G Great stage play, JACKIE BROWN features Tarantino at the height of his powers as an actor's director, KILL BILL is a helluva lot of well-orchestrated kung fu-spaghetti western fun, DEATH PROOF features perhaps the greatest car chase ever filmed and Kurt Russell's sleaziest, most ridiculous performance since BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA, and INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS forces us to question how each of us (consciously or subconsciously) constructs narratives out of history. In fact, I might have even picked BASTERDS for this list, but I think I need to sit on it for about ten years first. Regardless, PULP FICTION is perhaps the most lovingly-constructed paean to American cinema ever to be sung from the rooftops; it's KISS ME DEADLY and PSYCHO and TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE and RIO BRAVO and CHARLEY VARRICK and SHAFT and ZARDOZ and THE PANIC IN NEEDLE PARK rolled into one, razor-sharp, fast-paced indie crime-fest that got Travolta dancing again, Keitel into a tuxedo, Eric Stoltz eating Fruit Brute, Uma looking like Anna Karina, and Amanda Plummer shivering and shuddering with the force of her own insanity! ...I could go on. A damn good movie, and my only complaint is that Dick Miller got left on the cutting room floor!

67. LOST HIGHWAY (1997, David Lynch)

A spider climbs the wall. Gary Busey whimpers. Robert Blake points a camcorder at you. David Bowie croons "Funny how secrets travel..." You careen down a highway into blackness, the only illumination coming from your flickering headlamps... LOST HIGHWAY is truly an experience. And it makes plenty of sense if you think about it long enough, so don't tell me that "it's needlessly confusing"– it just demands a certain, brooding sort of viewer who'll allow themselves to be lured into the veritable labyrinth that Lynch has constructed. Plus, Robert Loggia's livid, red-faced rant about tailgating is surely worth the price of admission alone. And one of my favorite facets of Lynch's oeuvre is the fact that his movies often linger, long after you've finished watching them; hanging dangerously at the periphery as you continue your day. I first saw LOST HIGHWAY on a VHS with my sister during an overcast, Midwestern afternoon in late summer. Afterward, we went out to dinner with the rest of my family, as it was a special occasion. As afternoon turned to evening, the sense of mystery and uncertainty remained. As I walked into the restaurant, I took a fleeting, sidelong glance into a dimly-lit room adjoining the kitchen. I saw an older woman chopping something, quite robotically, and with a hint of menace. She turned toward me, our eyes locked, and in one forceful movement, she shut the door. The entire exchange couldn't have lasted more than four or five seconds, but it carried with it a frighteningly palpable sense of dread. The only reason I repeat this story is to illustrate that Lynch's power is such that his films don't just invade your dreams (as many have already posited), they invade your waking hours! The best ones are potent enough to put you in a genuine state, whereupon you see the hidden menace in everything. Obviously, it's not a state you ought to be in all the time, but it's a darkly magical one that I deeply appreciate. Brace yourselves for more Lynch as this list continues.

66. THE UNKNOWN (1927, Tod Browning)

Almost everything I could say about this film carries with it the potential of sullying your maiden viewing by way of 'knowing too much.' So I'll tell you this: It stars Lon Chaney, whose virtues I have extolled HERE; co-stars Joan Crawford, whose acting talents and frightening eyebrows I have praised HERE; and was directed by Tod Browning, whose penchant for nightmarish silent and early sound cinema has been raved about HERE. All I'll say is that it deals with ill-advised obsessions, the blossoming of twisted love, and the madness that dances around a man's eyes when he discovers the senselessness of it all. Oh yeah, and it takes place at A CIRCUS. It's bold, it's brutal, and Lon Chaney (near the finale) delivers what has to be the finest reaction shot in all of cinema. One of the greatest films from the silent era (or any other, for that matter).

Coming up next... Philip Glass, my second-favorite ghost story, and Ed Harris fights the dragon!

Previously on the countdown:
#75-71
#80-76
#85-81
#90-86
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2

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Junta Juleil's Top 100: #80-76

80. THE LAST DAYS OF DISCO (1997, Whit Stillman)

"You know that Shakespearean admonition, 'To thine own self be true?' It's premised on the idea that 'thine own self' is something pretty good, being true to which is commendable. But what if 'thine own self' is not so good? What if it's pretty bad? Would it be better, in that case, NOT to be true to thine own self?" Welcome to Jane Austen's SATURDAY NIGHT PYREXIA, a world where the silver-tongued parry, slash, and down vodka tonics (and whisky sours) deep into an endless night of excess, crippling malaise, and the sweet, sweet disco beat. The most clever, nuanced work of art ever written with "Disco" in the title, I've said before that it "follows a circle of UHBs (Urban Haute Bourgeoisie) as they simultaneously wrestle with preconceived notions of failure AND try to get the most out of their nightlife. If you prefer your comedy subtle, intricate, and full of stinging wordplay, then LAST DAYS OF DISCO will likely rank among your all-time favorites. Stillman's characters are at once extremely lovable and hateable; they either possess no sense of propriety or far too much, they won't take 'no' for an answer, or will, cheerfully." Also, we've got Chris Eigeman as, uh, well, Chris Eigeman. And make no mistake, that's one of the best things a movie can have. One of the great comedies.

79. NAKED (1993, Mike Leigh)

Ah, NAKED. A misanthropic cry unto the night. It's like FIVE EASY PIECES meets STREET TRASH. If ever there was an actor's director, it's Mike Leigh, whose rigorous rehearsal process and proclivity toward improvisation have allowed some of the finest performances of the last thirty years to flourish. David Thewlis is "Johnny," an on-the-dole-off-the-dole miscreant with scraggly beard, a bad attitude, horrifically misogynistic tendencies, and constant commentary about your "diminishing pachyderm collection" or "the 'ole Highland fling" or this or that or the other. He gravitates toward people to whom he can feel superior; it's important for him to continue believing that he's 'above it all,' and that no one is capable of understanding his suffering. His nocturnal journey takes him past a security guard who protects empty space; a sad sack waitress who sits at home and does nothing; a man who pastes retraction posters over posters for concerts that have been cancelled; and all manner of fascinating, disturbing, and well-written characters and vignettes. And who can forget Greg Cruttwell's insane, ever-snickering evil yuppie, who seemingly exists only to show that there are indeed even worse people than Johnny? Lesley Sharp is genius as the perpetual doormat, who possesses a certain command over her life despite a gullible streak, and Katrin Cartlidge plays the "wicky wacky friend Sophie" with strung-out, wounded aplomb– a truly connected performance. And yet for the hideous way the film makes you feel, it's endlessly quotable ("Ya big girl's blouse!," or "Jane...Austen...by...Emma"), and offers even greater rewards on subsequent viewings. Also: a fantastic, billowing harp and string score by Andrew Dickson and sordidly beautiful visuals courtesy of Dick Pope.

78. THE SHINING (1980, Stanley Kubrick)

Looking at this list in its entirety, it's sort of hard to believe that this is my highest-ranked Kubrick, but here it is, so I guess it must be true. It could have easily been eclipsed by A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (#88), or by 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY, PATHS OF GLORY, or even THE KILLING. So there must be a logic behind it. Maybe it's because, in a way, it's his most focused film. He zeroes in, amidst the vast, solemn expanse of the Rockies (set to the sounds of another "fantastique" Wendy Carlos reimagining), into the phantasmagorically deteriorating psyche of one man, and the effect that it has on the family around him. Rarely has such an exquisite sense of foreboding, of pure, tangible dread, been built by a film, between the architecture, the empty spaces, the sounds, the explosive imagery, the sense of being watched. And, of course, there's Nicholson's terrifying, deadened stare, which is perhaps even more frightening than his notorious deranged leering! Also: the insanity of Kubrick forcing Scatman Crothers to explain "the shining" for 148 takes, or him calling up King at 3:00 AM and asking if he believes in God– yep, Kubrick's nuttiness goes a long way, too. See ya in Room 237!

77. THE PIANO (1993, Jane Campion)

I mean it's not often that a face-tattoed quasi-Maori Harvey Keitel squaring off against an axe-wielding, stuffed shirt Sam Neill over the love of a mute, piano-playin' Holly Hunter, but here we are, so I guess it happened. Years before THE LORD OF THE RINGS introduced your average joe to the natural beauty of New Zealand, Keitel lorded over the majesty of its landscapes, and he was naked at the time, too. In all seriousness, though, this film is fantastic: the swirling through-line of Michael Nyman's masterful score and the intense, committed performances preside over disparate ideas on colonialism, ownership, emancipation, nature, gender, art... People occasionally try to pin down THE PIANO, either insisting that it beautifully depicts a woman's struggle for independence, or, on the other side of the coin, saying that it shows a woman traded from one brute to another ("I want to lie together without clothes on"), but it's not a film that trades in moral absolutes; it's just a tale of love and abuse and defiance and music and fleeting moments of joy and tenderness in one of the furthest corners of the world..

76. BAD LIEUTENANT (1992, Abel Ferrara)

Keitel, passed out on a couch, suffering the ill effects of crack, meth, coke, heroin, and God knows what else; a child, a niece or nephew of some kind, clambers over his prostrate body as a vintage cartoon depicting hardworking mice blares in the background: "WE'VE DONE IT BEFORE, AND WE CAN DO IT AGAIN, ANNNND WE CAN DO IT AGAIN!!..." Just another day in the life of Harvey Keit– I mean, the "Bad Lieutenant."
This nameless "bad" lieutenant (Harvey Keitel in perhaps his most crazed and convincing portrayal yet) wanders through his waking life with the sole intent of pleasuring himself (something shown quite literally in one notorious scene involving the Lieutenant and some teenage girls which probably gave it its NC-17). As the Lieutenant investigates the rape of a nun and his gambling debts continue to escalate, he begins a simultaneous downward spiral of depravity and an upward surge toward the divine. As with almost every Abel Ferrara film, plot and coherence take a back seat to character study and a twisted look at spirituality. The Lieutenant's overindulgence in drugs, sex, gambling, petty theft, and poor parenting (amongst many other vices) leads many viewers to take an unsympathetic stance; as the film progresses, however, we see that the Lieutenant is something between wounded animal and man-child, wavering between cruel intensity and pathetic innocence as he forever nears the bottom of a barrel that never quite comes into focus. He steals food from the store in which he is investigating a robbery. Is this the bottom? He does coke off of his children's photos. Is this the bottom? Perhaps a scene between the Lieutenant and a junkie (played by Ms.45 herself, Zoe Lund, also a co-writer for the script) puts it best as she says, "Vampires are lucky, they can feed on others. We gotta eat away at ourselves." We've seen stories like this before, but Ferrara and Keitel create such a raw, low budget (under $2 million) atmosphere of existential doom that it makes MEAN STREETS look like a walk in the park.

Coming up next... Maggots and Jimmy Stewart!!!

Previously on the countdown:
#85-81
#90-86
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2

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Film Review: TWO EVIL EYES (1990, George A. Romero & Dario Argento)

Stars: 4.5 of 5.
Running Time: 120 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Adrienne Barbeau (THE FOG, CREEPSHOW), Ramy Zada (DALLAS, DARK JUSTICE), E.G. Marshall (CREEPSHOW, 12 ANGRY MEN), Tom Atkins (HALLOWEEN III, NIGHT OF THE CREEPS, CREEPSHOW), Bingo O'Malley (CREEPSHOW, KNIGHTRIDERS), Harvey Keitel (BAD LIEUTENANT, MEAN STREETS), Martin Balsam (DEATH WISH 3, PSYCHO), Tom Savini (PLANET TERROR, MARTIN), John Amos (GOOD TIMES, DIE HARD 2), Julie Benz (DEXTER, RAMBO IV), Madeleine Potter (THE BOSTONIANS, THE GOLDEN BOWL), Christine Forrest (MARTIN, MONKEY SHINES). Special Makeup Effects by Tom Savini. Based on works by Edgar Allan Poe.
Tag-line: "When I Wake You...You'll Be Dead."
Best one-liner: "Christ! Rich people... Sick stuff always turns out to be rich people."

Originally conceived as a George Romero-produced, Poe-based cable television series (with Michele Soavi directing "The Masque of the Red Death," Richard Stanley directing "The Casque of Amontillado," and with John Carpenter & Wes Craven involved as well), it failed to receive the final green-light and instead we ended up with a full-length horror-omnibus twofer entitled TWO EVIL EYES. I've heard a fair amount of bellyaching about this film, ranging from Poe purists who're upset that the settings are contemporary to disdainful viewers who inexplicably cite the complete incompetence of Romero and Argento (!). I must say that these criticisms are unfounded– I see TWO EVIL EYES as one of the stronger horror omnibii, fusing outrageous Savini gore, virtuoso camera-work, audacious performances (including an entire host of CREEPSHOW alumni), and original expansions to the Poe stories together into a result that's occasionally hilarious and occasionally terrifying.

So without further ado– since Poe was a poet, after all– I'll express my love for TWO EVIL EYES in the form of verse:

THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR (in the mode of "The Raven")

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered zombie theory,
I felt a hankering for some Romero,
seized the disc and gave it a go,

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven though he sorta looked a crow.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched by the one-sheet of CREEPSHOW--
Perched upon a bust of Carpy above the one-sheet of CREEPSHOW--
Perched, and sat... like in the Poe!

Then the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of neon electric glow,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no Wes Craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from your nightly sorrow--
Tell me what thy lordly name is upon this night's horror-show!"
And quoth the raven... "Adrienne Barbeau."


It wasn't Father's Day, but Bingo O'Malley still wandered around, dead (ish)

You see, he died while hypnotized, so he can't sleep with the fish

This causes unease to his trophy wife
Who realllllly doesn't want his eternal life
Adrienne's performance is pretty sympathetic
Which after CREEPSHOW's "Billie" is no small trick
Gold-diggers got souls sometimes, too
(and you'll never hear me say that in another review)
The conspiring lovers wear yuppie pinstripes

and E.G. Marshall delivers some nice "old man gripes"

There's twists and turns and how the plot does grow!
Quoth the raven, "Adrienne Barbeau."

Hey lookit, it's Tom Atkins as a hard-boiled detective!
One of these days, I'll do a full-blown retrospective

And we hear about The Others, from the opposing side of the mortal gate
And while I won't reveal what they look like, I'll say that they're well worth the wait!

And Carpy's ex-gal shares a scene with (Christine Forrest) she of Romero,
Ya don't see that every day, I'll have you know
I'll bet they had some tales to tell in the midst of that tableau
It's not the kind of thing ya see in a film by Truffaut

So quoth the Raven, "Adrienne Barbeau."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Carpy above the one-sheet of CREEPSHOW;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow from his toe;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the row
Shall be lifted-- God bless George Romer-o!

~~~


THE BLACK CAT (in the mode of "The Bells")

See the suavitude of the Keitels
Bow-tied Keitels!

What a world of merriment
his beret fortells

He's a sort of Pittsburgh Weegee

What's this, who... me?

Oh that Keitels, tells, tells

Oh how we long to see
a shot of POV
on our old tube TV

So thank God for Signore Argento
The man puts on a goddamn show

There's things that he's got
and things that he ain't
of the latter, there's not
a great deal of restraint

Pendulum P-O-V
looks pretty good to me
(the gore's all Savini)

Cat P-O-V rears its feline head
and instills in Keitel a true sense of dread

He's a beret-wearin' artist livin' life in the city
He just wants to photograph the nice little kitty


He's shacked up with a sensitive l'il lady
her hair's as red as the beard of O'Grady

She's a music teacher to a young Julie Benz
And Argento captures all this with his wide-angle lens

Her violin music so beautifully wells
For the Keitels tells tells
The Keitels tells tells

Harvey hits up a ren-fair
But who knows if it's really there

It's probably only in his dream
But is there more to it than it would seem?

John Amos shows up, helpin' solve some crimes
But the plot's pretty fucken far from GOOD TIMES

Watch for Savini, blink and you'll miss 'im, gettin' arrested by the police
and if you're paying attention, his character's taken from Poe's Berenice

I don't mean to dwell
But this segment's all about Keitel
Oh the rapture it impels
of the Keitels tells tells

The cat begins driving dear Keitel mad
And so he resolves to do something bad

He begins choking the cat beyond hope of resurrection
(Yikes- I really hope Keitel didn't have an erection)

But what the hells who can really tells
After all, we're dealing with Keitels
(The Keitels tells tells)



At least it's set to smooth sax jazzytown
Nothin' set to that can ever make me frown

Amongst animal lovers, nausea it may induce
BUT DON'T WORRY MY FRIENDS THERE WAS NO ABUSE!!!


And check out this bar
I really hope it's not far

Sure, it ain't the Oak Room or the Ritz
But I'll bet you can pick up a cold sixer of Schlitz

Then Martin Balsam (from PSYCHO!) walks toward the stair
which'll give any true horror lover a nice fuzzy scare


Oh, how the danger sinks and swells
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of Keitels

Of the Keitels
Of the Keitels tells tells tells
Tells tells tells
In the clamor and the clangor of the Keitels!

Tequila for breakfast– er make mine a Mezcal
It's merely a warm-up for Keitel's zany Grand Mal

For the Keitels tells tells
Oh how he tells tells tells


"IT'S... A... FUCKING CAT!!!! MEOW!!!! MEOWWWW!!"

MEOWWWW!!!

Keitel must have his say
We only do things his way

That Keitels tells tells
The Keitels tells tells

Oh the little lady's not too impressed, but how about now:


MEOW!!!!

MEOWWWW!!!

MEOWWWWW!!!!



-Sean Gill

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