Ep 8 Recap: Hola y Adios!
Hola, and do not be alarmed. That was just me extending to you a greeting in another language. Foreign words hold no more power than regular words. They will not cast a spell on you, leaving you chained to a pirate ship at the bottom of the sea.
After all, is this not the international edition of Ze Busketbol Wives where they travel on holiday to Madrid looking to, how you say, get zheir grooves back? Come. Let me tell you of their adventures.
First though let me make a big deal about Royce being sick: ROYCE IS SICK! There. It’s the theme of tonight’s episode. She has a fever or something? I don’t really care. The point is she has the nerve to be sick in Spain. None of the other girls are sick, or amused. Evelyn, Jennifer, and Shaunie make fun of Royce on their way to the plane, while they’re on the plane, getting off of the plane, in the taxi to the hotel, at the hotel, at the restaurant after the hotel, and on the way back from the restaurant to the hotel.
Tami is especially fed up. She hates all of Royce’s “pill taking” and “fever having,” but vows not to let Royce’s deformity, I mean fever, affect the trip. You might think that would be easy. After all, Tami and Royce are two different human beings, encased inside separate bodies, granted freedom of thought and movement; to my knowledge they do not share emotions telepathically like Cylons. Well you thought wrong. Nothing is that easy on… Ze Busketbol Wives!
Boring Fashion Week montage.
At a runway show the girls meet a hip designer who invites them to an exclusive after-party. All spontaneous, I’m sure. Meanwhile I am bored out of my synonym for head that rhymes with bored. Nothing is happening. No one is yelling at a tapas restaurant. Clearly the girls are holding back. They want to keep up appearances in front of all these fash-eon types. Lets hope Anthony Mason is at this after-party humping Charlize Theron on the dance floor like in that Woody Allen movie.
A square jawed man invites the girls to be on local Spanish television. One catch: he can only take three women. Who will be Sawyer and jump from the helicopter? The answer is no one. So he chooses to put Shaunie, Jennifer, and Evelyn on the show. Tami lights either a cigarette or a joint, it’s tough to say, and sicky icky Royce pouts like she’s one of the runway models.
Jennifer gets hit on by a man named Marcel who sells watches, and looks like John Locke (another Lost reference: take a shot). Marcel is a smooth customer. He presents her with a large wristwatch and the tagline: “the bigger, the better.” He means his genitals. They flirt like Tracy and Hepburn in one of those movies I’ve never seen; one of those movies where Spencer Tracy invites Katherine Hepburn to stare at his junk.
Royce wakes up the next morning and makes a horrible discovery. Overnight she turned into Rudy Huxtable! Wait no— she’s just still sick. The rest of the girls go try on clothes for famous fash-eon designer Juana Martin. They take turns trying on size 2 dresses— everyone except for Tami. Uh-oh.
I’ve seen the previews of this episode. I know Tami eventually gets ghetto mad about something and starts screaming, and this must be it. It’s like watching the still moments before a volcanic explosion, except the volcano is stewing in the background during a Sex & the City montage. Said volcano is also chugging down high proof European wine.
When the girls leave the store Tami posts up against a wall, lights a cigarette and/or J, and strikes a pose like she’s Richard Pryor’s mom in Jo Jo Dancer. “Let me tell you about me,” she says to absolutely no one, but ABSOLUTELY to Evelyn.
“I am not a fake ass bitch, and I do not like fake ass bitches in my midst,” she goes on. Tami accuses Evelyn of showing off then Evelyn calls Tami a crazy, insecure bitch. Then Tami says the one thing you don’t say when you want to prove you’re not crazy. She’s says she’s not crazy.
“All of these girls try to make me think I’m crazy. That I’m hearing things that nobody said. (dramatic pause) And I don’t like that.”
Afterwards, Tami and Shaunie stroll through the gardens of Campo del Moro outside the Royal Palace of Madrid. Cool! I’ve been there! They don’t seem to be as impressed. I guess I didn’t have the hassle of dealing with “fake bitches” while I was contemplating how, nine centuries ago, Muslims made camp in those very same gardens before their desperate gamble to recapture Madrid from the Christians at the close of Europe’s First Crusades. Now it’s being used as a background prop on a VH1 reality show. We’ve come a long way.
Next up, the girls share appropriate levels of outrage watching a bullfight. Tami is the lone exception. She embraces its charms. Her eyes grow wide and wild in anticipation of the bull. Every second that passes is a moment closer to an inevitable end for either the bull or the matador.
The corners of her mouth crawl upward slowly as the matador brings down banderilla after banderilla into the bull’s muscled shoulders. There is then the familiar flash of red, a series of passes. We are here now. This is the closing chapter; the faena. The matador’s aggrieved face hides no emotion. This will be his final blade. His strike makes fortune, piercing the bull’s neck until its raging heart. Tami cranes forward. She is oblivious yet completely aware. She has tasted excitement; this beasts death but a quenching bite.
I read a lot of Hemingway.
Next week, the girls get grossed out by a roasted pigs head. Adios!