Remember that time we went to the dance and left early because Kevin and his little rich bitch showed up, then we ran into Tony the pimp and scored some overpriced pot and went back to Lucy’s place and you hatched out your plan to turn your failing grades into straight A’s by screwing all of your teachers? And remember how well you caught on, so much so that you began selling your ass out of the back of Tony’s van to seemingly endless lines of construction workers? Remember?
As our fledgling heroine brushes her hair and smokes a cigarette topless in front of the bedroom mirror, traces of buried sadness, compulsive hostility and unbridled self-righteousness flash before our wearied gaze. Kim, it seems, doesn’t have much going for her and she knows it, but in her vast, irrational contempt and indignation lies the vigor and composure of a gal who simply doesn’t give a shit anymore. Whether at school or play, she’s hell-bent on sullying everything in her path with a foul disposition.
|Kim- "You got any stuff?" Tony- "Is Raquel Welch stacked?"|
Strutting through the school’s parking lot like an alley cat on the prowl, Kim catches Kevin’s attention, which in turn catches Annette’s… “Come on, Kevin, let’s go. Can’t you get your eyes off of that slut?!” “That’s right, Kevin, You’d better hurry up. Before she takes away your allowance.” The resulting brew-ha would forever go down as the “The Battle of the Blathering Bombshells”, ending abruptly with Kim dropping the much daintier Annette with a well deserved (if not exactly well placed) cheap-shot.
I mention “not exactly well placed” for good reason. The contentious nature of “the punch”--still a hot-button issue so many bad hair days later--would serve to echo and re-echo the infamous “phantom punch” Muhammad Ali used to fell former champion Sonny Liston in their much debated 1965 heavyweight title rematch. For the record (in my humble opinion, at least), Ali crisply landed that right. Kim, however, isn’t fooling anyone.
|Somewhere, a stunned Norman Mailer spits his scotch.|
Before they can seal the deal, though, he demands to sample the merchandise, setting up (for my money) the most engrossing 30 seconds that MALIBU HIGH has to offer. “Well look honey, I gotta know what yer action’s like--if it’s no good, I can’t sell a bad piece of ass.” Reluctantly, begrudgingly, she begins removing her clothing (as does he), taking a page from ma’s book and scowling all the while. For his part, Tony laps it up in style, meeting her scorn with all the quiet complacency of a well-seated card shark. What I guess I mean to say is this is as close to a Mexican standoff as I’ve ever witnessed preceding sex.