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MIDNIGHT IN PARIS - Aka...You Like Me...You Really Like Me!!


By Old Dan Cedar - Posted on 21 July 2011

Don’t hold me to my drug-addled mis-rememberings, but some of you old fucks may remember when Sally Field gave that speech at the Emmy’s after she beat out Susan Lucci for the ‘Best Actress’ award for her stellar portrayal of a nun that could fly. The show’s name escapes me for the moment…but that’s really not the point.

My point is that of course…Old Dan likes you Sally. You’re a cute Gidgetish, coquettish nun that can fucking fly while teasing the likes of a Young Dan Cedar. What is there not to like?

And better yet, she’s got a bad girl side. The kind of girl that a comedic genius on the order of Burt Reynolds could barely keep his KY-Jelled mitts off of Sally’s mystery hips while simultaneously dating the, Sexy Sultan of Hip 70’s Rock and Roll – The semi-anorexic, quasi-pock-faced Jan Smithers from WKRP in Cincinnati.

Then Ms. Field follows that up with the late-night Cinemax drenched, soft-core Cannon Balls 2. And that is when it got a little creepy for me. Or maybe my buzz just wore off.

Kind of like Midnight in Paris.

We middle-aged folk tend to want to relive our youth or usually, at the very most, 10-20 years prior to our birth. Our personal “Age of Innocence”. Our “Wonder Years”.

Take me - your humble reviewer, Old Dan. I would like to be on the grassy knoll in Dallas or in The Cavern Club in Liverpool. Those were my Wonder Years and yes, it just seems natural to me to have fantasies of fucking nun flying around in outer space.

I don’t have much of a desire to go back 100 years or so and see the Japanese scientists invent methamphetamines. It’s beyond Old Dan’s scope of pining for a different, more romantic time.

But not for Owen.

Owen Wilson, our protagonist in Paris, is an early forty-something tormented writer that, during midnight walks, begins experiencing transport to the romantic1920s roaring, literary days and lays. Flappers and speakeasy’s abound. As do a bunch of artists, most of whom I only vaguely have a clue as to their place in history. Wilson seems smitten.

Actually it seems more like something an Octogenarian, like, say Woody Allen might have romanticized. But it seems a tad askew for a forty-something-type, like say, Owen Wilson. Yeah, the same Owen Wilson that was dry humping everything in a skirt in Wedding Crashers. I have to hand it to the guy for going in a different direction. And he’s pretty good.

But it just doesn’t feel right. Maybe if I hadn’t known that Woody wrote the movie, then I wouldn’t have so quickly pre-judged it’s longing for a time so long gone. Like 50 years before Owen Fucking Wilson was even born.

I give the movie credit for trying to not be a dumbed-down Transformers 3D, Jackass 3D or Rocky XII pile of excrement. But Midnight in Paris may be a little too pretentious for all but the EXTREMELY LITERATE World War I veterans in the audience.

Hell, I admit it. My mind sometimes does wonder if that little Soon Yi would’ve posed uncovered for my nekkid photographing. And I am more than a little intrigued to see if she carries an 8 ball of trailer-cooked crank with her - just to get my dopamine flowing even if it rots my teeth, gives me acne and kills both my erection and my memory.

Yeah, I know she’s Korean – not Japanese. But my guess is, either way, this Charlie is holding. And the dark side of Dan Cedar wonders about Soon Yi’s virtuosity on MY jazz clarinet.

And when I think about it – even a little too much – I don’t even need my Mexican Viagra.My Woody just spontaneously pops out - as if my tiny periscope were just peaking across the 38th Parallel for a quick pic of the nubile, young future Woody Wife.. Even if it makes me feel old and dirty.

And then I snap out of it. I put in my DVD of season 5 of The Flying Nun, pull out the Vaseline, re-live MY Wonder Years and become Fred Savage all over again.

To paraphrase James Earl Jones from 1989’s Field of Dreams: “And they'll watch the DVD and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. Mostly old guys from the 70s"

And, again, it got a little creepy for me.

Yeah Damn Right – I really DO like you, Sally.

I would like to fill up that cute little sixty-something nose of yours up with some ground up meth.

Snort it off of Old Dan’s pecker, Sister!!

I will watch your eyes roll in the back of your head while your endorphins soar.

Putting aside my constant agonizing over whether our love grinding on your tender button might break your osteoporotic pelvis in pieces.

I would love to lay you down Sally – and rest you in my arms.

When you wake up and discern the wrongs of your lay. You’ll want someone to talk to.

Meet me in the confessional. Give me three “Our Father’s”. And YOUR Dark Lord Cedar will grant mercy on your dirty, bad habit.

Another generation. Lost in Space. And time...

Old Dan Cedar

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