NEW YORK CITY TRILOGY: Part III

Not a Strong Formatting Choice

We have good reason to hate trilogies. Sure they start out promising, and sure, we can always count on the second installment to up the ante and sustain our interest, but Part III always succumbs to the following paradox: Give audiences more of the same, and risk boring them, because they've seen it already. Twice. Give audiences something new, and risk alienating them, because the very spirit of the first two installments has been violated. Yes, Part III is that special part of a trilogy where the "Happy Bus" plows headlong into the residents of

Nine times out of ten, the whole trilogy is built around a premise that's so paper thin it can't sustain a three-part series anyway. Murray James would have known better than to make such a poor formatting choice, if he wasn't so hopelessly incompetent.

Trilogies are terrible. Do you remember Scream 3, starring Neve Campbell and John Corigliano as two renegade cops trying to stop the assasination of quality entertainment, except they fail and the Hollywood movie industry takes a bullet right between the eyes? It's in the horror section, because it sucks so bad. Or how about The Matrix Revolutions, where one of the screenwriters ate his Introduction to Philosophy textbook for dinner and accidentally vomited it all over the script? The movie could only be partially salvaged by inserting 129 minutes of Keanu Reeves standing around, looking like an idiot.

And how can we forget Star Wars: Return of the Jedi? Everybody loves this film because there are a lot of good shots of Mark Hamill's messed-up hand, but they forget about the Ewoks, who are so annoying, they make Jar Jar Binks look like an action hero heartthrob.

Not a Nice Guy Murray James has a reputation for being a nice guy, but trust me: nothing could be further from the truth. This guy is a Grade D jerk, the kind that McDonald's uses for their jerk patties on the McBlockhead Deluxe. I first met him at the San Diego Zoo. He was standing beside me, when all of a sudden, he reached into the aquarium, pulled out a three-foot long sea bass, and shoved it in my face. "Hey, do you like fish?" he asked. "No, I'm allergic," I replied, already beginning to feel my eyes puffing up. "Oh. Do you want to have dinner, then?" My first inclination was to say no, but his brazen confidence and utter disregard for the rules of the zoo and my physical well-being won me over. "Sure," I responded, hesitantly. "Great. Let's say eight o'clock. Is Red Lobster OK?"

Not a Pleasant Experience

Murray James and I hung out off and on over the next few weeks. I never had a good time when I was with him, partly because he's such an insensitive jerk, and partly because he continued to upset my allergies by shoving sea bass in my face. On some days, my mouth and nose would be so swollen, I could barely breathe. I would still spend time with him though, watching him train for the Oregon Trail Olympics by shooting cattle with guns. He was a bad shot.

Once, he offered me a tour of what he called "the vanguard of journalistic excellence." So he took me to the offices of the NT Daily, the campus newspaper at the University of North Texas. Murray James introduced me to various student employees, but as we were leaving, the editor said, "It was nice to meet you, Jerold." At first, I was mad he didn't remember my name, but I later found out the entire staff was mentally retarded, so it wasn't a big deal.

This other time, Murray James purchased a franchise in this Reverse-Affirmative Action coffee shop, and invited me to the grand opening. When I arrived, all these white males were buying double expressos for a quarter. I asked for a Mocha Frappuccino, but because I'm Austrian, and because I'm a woman, he charged me so much I needed to take up a second mortgage on my house to pay for the coffee. Then I started crying, and Murray James stood over me and yelled "Anschluss!" for close to an hour.

Being with Murray James was not a positive experience. My friends told me he was all wrong for me, but I wouldn't believe them at first. Eventually I had to, because Murray James Morrison is, in the final analysis, a tremendous jerk. And what's with his build? Does the man eat? He's obviously emaciated; he's practically wasting away! I've seen more meat on a buffalo wing! Seriously. That's been on my mind for months. I just had to get it out there. Sorry.


Not a Solemn, True Account of Things

Now, for the real New York City story. What you've read in the previous two parts of the trilogy is nothing more than misdirection, lies, and unfettered sarcasm. I am Jillian Coker, and as the real author of these words, I testify that what follows is a solemn, true account of things. My story is not like the other writing on this website, a bizarre marriage of cynicism and creative self-congratulation. Just so we're all clear. Murray James knew I was fascinated by modern art and once-popular TV game shows, but I figured he didn't care. Imagine my surprise when he told me about a special Piet Mondrian edition of Hollywood Squares. He had two tickets to the show. Was I interested in a taking a road trip to New York City with him to watch the screening? You bet I was. He needed a couple days to consult his travel agent, Ian Stapp, for the best routes. I didn't think anything of it. So we left. The trip was progressing nicely until we passed something on the highway that was out of place: an Oregon road sign. I'm all for recycling and stuff, but I instinctively knew something was amiss, especially considering we started our trip in Connecticut. I was confused, and tried to get some information:

JC: Uh, Murray James? Are we in Oregon? MJM: We could be, Jillian... maybe... it's hard to say. JC: [agitated] Are we Oregon? MJM: Yeah, probably. JC: What are we doing in Oregon?!? MJM: Ian Stapp said this was the best way, and I trust him. JC: [very angry] The best way to get where? I thought we were going to New York!!! MJM: You're so silly. We're going to the Oregon Trail Olympics, just like we talked about, remember? JC: WHAT? JUST LIKE WE TALKED ABOUT??? WE TALKED ABOUT GOING TO NEW YORK CITY TO SEE A GAME SHOW!!! WE'VE NEVER TALKED ABOUT GOING TO THE OREGON TRAIL OLYMPICS! EVER!!! WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM??? I HATE YOU!!! YOU ARE A TWISTED PIG OF A MAN!!! At this point, Murray James jerked the steering wheel and floored the gas pedal. The car spun out. I regained my bearings after a few moments and noticed we were headed full speed toward a large body of water. I freaked out. JC: [terrified] SLOW DOWN!!! MURRAY JAMES, WHAT ARE YOU DOING??? MJM: We're going to ford the river. JC: OH, GOD... STOP THE CAR!!! STOP THE CAR!!! MJM: No, I can do this. I know I can.

Eventually we ran out of ground to drive on. The car roared off the riverbank, flew all of ten feet, and crashed into a tree. The crumpled mass of metal fell into the river and started rapidly filling with water. I was scared for my life, but somehow managed to escape the sinking car. When I got to the surface, I noticed a figure in front of me. It was Murray James. He was bleeding badly, could barely stand straight, and was muttering something about Bridgette having cholera and how he would never be an airplane pilot.

Everybody has their breaking point. I definitely reached mine. I could feel my body teeming with rage — Murray James had to die. So I pushed him underwater and stepped on his face to drown him. He struggled; I noticed him reaching for something with his left hand. I grabbed him by his long hair and pulled him out of the water. "Any last words?" I snarled. "Yeah," he answered, thrusting a three-foot long sea bass in my face. "Do you want to have dinner tonight?"

See? The trilogy is a poor formatting choice. I told you so.

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