Original subtitles

[♪♪♪]

- Yeah, uh-uh.

Yeah, well, Steph, I know you've only been in Newport a few days,

but being Apartsville is killing me.

Without you by my side, life has no meaning.

You're right, I am droning on and on about myself.

How are you holding up, Cuppers?

That much fun, huh?

I thought baby showers were just a lot of women

yacking it up about--

Your dad hired musicians?

Well, sure, they were okay once, but, without John,

they're just another Liverpool garage band.

Don't worry about me, Cuppers, I'll bear up.

You just keep having the best time of your life.

No, no, I do not want to talk to Yoko.

Okay, bye.

It's not fair.

Steph's off hobnobbing at a baby shower

with the Fab Three and I'm stuck here with you.

- Tragedy strikes some people so young.

- Michael, you know showers are for women only.

- So are Sweet 16 parties

but it didn't stop me from having one.

- Michael, what do you want us to do?

Throw--throw a shower for you?

- Would you, oh, would you? Could you, could you!

- No! - Oh, thanks, Dick.

Set me up just to knock me down.

- Well, you know, why shouldn't the father-to-be have a party?

It might be fun.

I could make my famous potato salad.

- Uh, ix-nay, Mrs. ick-Day.

There'll be no skirts at this soiree, right, Dick?

- Yeah, you know, let a woman into a-a baby shower

and the--the next thing you know,

they're crashing our swim-nastic classes.

- So true. Okay, let's divvy it up.

I'll do the guest list and you provide the rest.

And serve whatever you like.

You know, quiche, finger sandwiches.

- Artichoke hearts in a-a creamy vinaigrette?

- You sly dog, you've thrown one of these before.

Adios!

I'm having a shower!

- So? I've had four today and I still feel dirty.

Hello, Dick, Joanna.

- Miss Goddard. - How are things at the library?

- Quiet!

Ha-ha!

That joke never fails to yield a hearty laugh.

- It's your delivery.

- Anyway, as you know, I wear two hats.

The hat of head librarian,

and the toque of president of the local pastry club.

Today I'm in the latter guise to extend a rare honor.

- "The pastry club proudly presents

"an evening of poetry and pasties."

- That can't be right. That should say "pastries."

- Either way, it sounds like a fun evening.

- You said something about an honor?

- Well, as you know, every other poetry competition

is judged by Talcott Harding,

the town's reclusive poet laureate.

- Honey, you've seen Talcott.

You know, that sweet little old man

with the long white hair.

- Oh yeah, I met him at the market once.

He--he bit me when I took the last bottle

of herbal conditioner.

- Ordinarily, Talcott would jump at the chance

to judge the contest again.

- What--what's stopping him from jumping?

- He's dead.

- That--that would make it dicey.

- So, who will be judging this year?

- Dick, we feel the next logical choice would be you.

- No, thanks. I-I hate poetry.

- So did Talcott Harding, but he showed up.

- Look, I-I can't tell a-a good poem from--from a bad one.

- Well, you won't have to, I win every year.

- Well, that'll certainly make it easier.

- Then you'll do it?

- No, like I said-- - Good.

I hope that we won't have

another unattractive display of tears

when you lose again this year.

Well, see you Saturday.

- Gee, honey, if I win this year,

I hope people won't think

you gave me preferential treatment.

- Well, you--you won't be winning.

- Why not? Don't you think my poems are good enough?

- Good is, you know, such a... subjective term.

You know, while most people like what William Shakespeare wrote,

I'm sure there are some people that...

you know, that don't.

- So, you're saying that even though

you don't care for my poetry, some people might.

- Yeah, right.

- How can you stand there and criticize my poetry

when you just admitted

you can't tell a good poem from a bad one?

- Well, you make it easy, sweetheart.

- Well, love of my life, how kind and sensitive

and compassionate you are to tell me my poems are stupid.

- You see, stupid is, I mean, you know, it's such a...

a subjective term.

- Invite for the innkeep.

And you'll note each is hand-painted

and numbered by the artist.

- This must've set you back a small fortune.

- Well, not me, you're the host of this baby bash.

Figured you'd be proud to pop for this poppa-to-be.

Not to worry, Dickums, let me explain

the Circus of Stationary's easy monthly billing plan.

Thirty-six low, low monthly installments

followed by a modest balloon payment.

- I'm not footing the bill for--for your shower.

Besides, I have to judge a corny poetry contest Saturday.

- Pardon, but perhaps you can persuade

those pentameter-pushers to postpone.

- Michael, I'd rather turn you down than Miss Goddard.

I've seen her bench press over 200 at the Y.

- Well, fine, go listen to your sissy poetry.

I'll be bonding with the boys over watercress sandwiches.

- Oh, you're still here.

- Yeah, I was just going to go the lobby to get, uh...

no.

- Well, then you'd better uh...

hurry.

- All right.

- Where you going?

- To, uh...

get the...

nah, no.

- Don't let me, uh...

keep you.

Morning, Joanna.

If you're doing your crossword,

I can help you with "Fiddler on the blank."

- Actually, George, I'm working on a poem.

- Oh, for the contest.

I can't help you with that.

But if you want, I could hot-glue the tassels

on your pasties.

- George, they're pastries.

Besides, I'm not entering this year.

- Why not?

Now that Talcott Harding's passed away,

Miss Goddard isn't a shoe-in anymore.

Unless she's carrying on with the new judge.

- Dick is the new judge.

- Uh-oh.

And he uses the same herbal conditioner Talcott used.

The kind that gets Miss Goddard all hotted up.

"The Big Hurt."

Gee, I tried to write a poem once called "The Big Hurt."

Did you drop an engine block on your foot too?

- This isn't about a physical hurt.

It's about my personal feelings.

- Can I read it?

- Well, it's not really polished yet.

I mean, the imagery might be a little off.

Also, the rhymes are a bit forced.

- It's beautiful. - I thought so too.

- This is even better than that poem

Miss Goddard wrote last year.

"Ode to a Glistening Ploughman."

You've got to enter this poem.

- With Dick judging,

it'd be like spitting in the wind.

- But, this should be shared with the world.

And if it means taking a facefull of spit, I'm your man.

- "Take thy beak from out my heart,

"and take thy form from off my door.

"Quoth the bluebird

"'Nevermore.'"

[CLAPPING]

- That was absolutely haunting.

- And I thought he peaked last year

with his "Tracy at the Bat."

- Mr. Rusnak, are you sure you actually wrote that poem?

- What are you implying, judge?

- Well, it's just that your poem is, you know...

reminiscent of, uh, Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven."

- My poem is about a bluebird.

Anybody hear me say anything about a raven?

CLUB MEMBERS: No.

- I don't think Dick knows any more about birds

than he does about poetry.

- Our next piece is a collaborative effort

by Jim Dixon and Chester Wanamaker.

- Isn't it unusual for two people to write a poem?

- Not when they share the same poetic soul.

- Yeah, we're two bodies with but one mind.

- Well, whoever is using it tonight,

will you please begin?

- "Pals."

A poem by Jim Dixon...

- and Chester Wanamaker.

- "As kids, we too shared everything

"from baseball bats to gals.

"And from that time,

"we've always been the very best of..."

- "Friends."

- "Years later, we played poker at our next-door neighbor Hal's.

"And helped each other win because you always help your..."

- Friends.

- "If you want to know the secret of our very high morales.

"It's I've got him and he's got me

"and that's what makes us..."

- Friends.

[CLAPPING]

- Excuse me, fellas, but I couldn't help but notice

you--you never used the word, uh, "pals."

- That's poetic license, Dick.

- Come to think of it, Jim,

the word "pals" would have rhymed here.

- Oh yeah.

- And here. And here.

Why didn't you think of that?

- Well, why didn't you?

- Because you made me do all the typing.

- That's because you kept making me add

wheat Chex to the party mix.

- That's only because you kept taking them out.

- Well, you should've let me eat them straight from the box,

like I wanted to.

- Jim Dixon, you're really pushing my angry button.

- Fellas, fellas.

All right, our--our last contestant is Miss Goddard.

Miss Goddard?

- Thank you, Judge Loudon.

Might I add that your hair

smells particularly herbal this evening.

- I...

wondered why you were sniffing me before.

- "The Entwinement," by Prudence Goddard.

[CLEARS HER THROAT]

"Weaving and churning and heaving, they went

"until they were spent and filled with

"the scent of passion and moisture and fever.

"Swooning and sighing and crooning they lay

"for most of the day, they rolled in the hay

"while he swore that he'd never deceive her.

"Groaning and gasping and moaning,

"they shrieked until their loins creaked.

"The two lovers peaked.

"How ironic that soon he would leave her."

[CLAPPING]

- Thank you. Thank you, Miss--Miss Goddard.

- I've got a better idea of what killed Talcott Harding.

- Well, I think...

I think that's about all we have.

I know...

I know I've heard enough.

- Wait, Dick, I've got one.

- Well, looks like we have a surprise entry from George--

George Utley.

- I hope it's a haiku, I'm hungry.

- "The Big Hurt."

"My hurt comes from a flame no one can see.

"It's seared away the hope inside of me.

"Time heals most things.

"I'll scar where I've been burned.

"But what I've lost can never be returned."

[CLAPPING]

- George, I-I had no idea you were so--were so p-profound.

- Joanna's the profound one.

She wrote this poem.

[LAUGHTER]

- Profound?

This is the woman who holds the town record

for the number of times she's checked out

60 Days to a Tighter Tummy .

[LAUGHTER]

- I thought I held that record.

- I wrote that poem. Doesn't anyone believe me?

CLUB MEMBERS: No.

- Well, you believe me, don't you, Dick?

- I-I--I don't don't--I don't know about you folks,

but I sure w-wouldn't mind hearing " Pals" again.

[CLAPPING]

- "And he's got me and that's what makes us..."

- "Friends."

[CLAPPING]

- So, do you believe I wrote my poem?

- Honey, I-I'd like to.

But that--that poem, it just isn't...

your style.

It's so, um...

good.

- And I tried so hard to make it bad.

George, tell these people that I wrote that poem.

- She sure did. I was there.

- Did you actually see her write it?

- No, but I did see her read it.

- Maybe the judge's wife is not aware of the difference

between reading a poem and writing one.

- But it's mine, I swear it.

- Give it up, woman, that ship has sailed!

- This is so damn stupid!

- Oh dear, profanity in a public library!

I wonder what commandment she'll be breaking next.

- I don't think we're treating Joanna very fairly.

- Thank you, George. For your sole support.

- Why don't we let her write another poem,

while we sit here and watch?

- George is right.

Our opinion of Joanna should be based on her ability,

and not on her gutter mouth.

- This is appalling.

Dick, don't you think this is ridiculous?

- Well, you know...I'm...

you know, ridiculous is such a subjective term.

- Well, I guess rational thinking

has no place in this room.

CLUB MEMBERS: No [indistinct].

- Nobody can just sit down and write a poem

without any inspiration.

- I can. - So can I.

- We weren't inspired at all when we wrote "Pals."

- Come on honey, dash one off

and we can all get out of here.

- With all these people sitting here staring at me?

- Seems Little Miss Inexperienced

needs her privacy.

Everyone, turn your backs on the Loudon woman.

- You might want to steer clear of your usual stuff

about clowns crying the saddest tears of all.

- Now that our backs are turned,

she'll probably just have George knock off another one for her.

- All right. That's it.

- Took you long enough.

- Okay, Joanna, lay it on us.

- I refuse to be degraded by some small-minded people

who get some perverse joy in passing judgement

just so they can fill up their own empty lives.

- Well, I don't like it, it doesn't even rhyme.

- It's not a poem!

It's what I'm feeling.

Angry.

Hurt.

Like what I felt when I wrote that poem.

- So, all--all that burning and searing was because of our...

our little--little tiff.

- Tiff?

Sounds like you were branding her.

- I feel another poem coming on.

- So, the reason that your--

that your poem was good w-was be-because of me.

- Get a load of this guy.

First, he humiliates his wife,

now he's trying to take credit for her beautiful poetry.

- What a disgrace!

- A damn disgrace.

- Damn damn disgrace.

[CLUB MEMBERS CHATTER]

- Here. A little bedtime reading.

- Dick, make a decision. Who's the winner?

- Well, it's a--it's a tough call,

but the winner is my--my lovely and talented wife, Joanna.

[JOANNA SHRIEKS]

- I can't believe it.

After all these years of never even coming close,

the one year my husband is the judge

is the year that I finally win this prestigious honor,

and I am just about the happiest--

- Jo-Jo-Joanna, you're babbling.

- --girl in the world.

- Well, that--that puts an end to our--

- Not so fast.

You still have to judge the pastry competition.

- The--the pastry competition?

- Poetry counts for 10%. Pastry for 90.

- It's a biathlon.

- You mean--you mean all this--this poetry crap

w-was just a-a-a warmup for a pastry competition?

- Well, why do you think the pastry club hosts it?

- Wait until you sink your teeth into my hot sticky buns.

- Don't listen to her.

I made my cranberry crisp.

- What's that?

- Dick, it's your favorite.

You know how much you love my cranberry crisp

with a big cup of coffee.

- How else am I going to worship Don?

- No, I understand. Yeah, sure.

Same thing happened to, uh, a few of the other guys.

Yeah, well, I'm sure the pressure really cooks

when you're boning up for a bar mitzvah.

Sure. Bye, Mohammed.

- Honey, I'm sorry Miss Goddard won, but you know,

your cranberry crisp was a-a touch on--on the dry side.

- Well, it wouldn't have been dry

if you hadn't taken so long judging the poetry.

- Joanna, th-there's no shame in--in coming in dead last.

- I prefer to think of it as a distant ninth, Judge Loudon.

- Is it just me,

or does this shower seem kind of slow?

- I guess the concept of an all-boys shower

was just too New Age for this one-Porsche town.

At least you dudes showed up.

- Well, around here, George and I are the vanguard

of everything hip and trendy.

- Anybody got their name on this bowl of sauerkraut?

- It says George Utley now.

- Oh boy.

- Don't you want to consume that kraut with your cronies?

- If you don't mind, I'd rather party hearty alone in my room.

I've got some late-night reading to do.

"The Branded Handyman."

- Well, goodnight.

- You're leaving too? Don't you feel sorry for me?

- No more than usual.

- Oh, I get it. You'd rather be with Joanna.

- Anybody got their name on those cocktail wieners?

- Those dogs say Dick!

- Great shower. - Thanks.

Care for a white wine spritzer?

- No.

- Bite of baklava? Baked it myself.

- No.

- So, where's my shower gift?

- I didn't get you any. - Oh.

- Well, 'night, Dick.

- I wonder if his poetry is this good.

[♪♪♪]

- Meow.