Saturday, January 17, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
Hip Hop Soulcrusher Plus
Just when the Notorious movie's soundtrack had reinvigorated my rap-lover's side a bit, I open up a package today at the office and inside is a six-song sampler from these douchebags, which has brought me back to the reality of Rap 2009:
Get it? "C-Lean," as in, he's clean! Go jump off a bridge.
Sample song titles include:
"Backpack Fulla Gunz"
"U-Turn (Bullet In Your Head)"
and
"Psycho Maniac"
These three look like kids who would've caught hours of insults and ridicule at the high school I went to, which was ultra-suburbs shit. So I'm expected to, for even one millisecond, believe that these assholes pack guns in their Jansports, and unload in kids' skulls? Fuck. Outta. Here. Looking about as hard as a gay man inside Hooters. The only things these wanksters pack is fudge. Or lunch.
Where's the "King of the Burbs" when you really need him?
And people ask me why I don't talk about hip-hop that much anymore. If you received some shit like that in the mail, would you want to?
This could be grounds for the deletion of any and all Geto Boys material in my possession. Good one, Willie D.
If these dudes even land a song on national radio, let alone score a hit, I may auction off my entire rap CD collection, and ask my mom to dub me that Daughtry record.
Get it? "C-Lean," as in, he's clean! Go jump off a bridge.
Sample song titles include:
"Backpack Fulla Gunz"
"U-Turn (Bullet In Your Head)"
and
"Psycho Maniac"
These three look like kids who would've caught hours of insults and ridicule at the high school I went to, which was ultra-suburbs shit. So I'm expected to, for even one millisecond, believe that these assholes pack guns in their Jansports, and unload in kids' skulls? Fuck. Outta. Here. Looking about as hard as a gay man inside Hooters. The only things these wanksters pack is fudge. Or lunch.
Where's the "King of the Burbs" when you really need him?
And people ask me why I don't talk about hip-hop that much anymore. If you received some shit like that in the mail, would you want to?
This could be grounds for the deletion of any and all Geto Boys material in my possession. Good one, Willie D.
If these dudes even land a song on national radio, let alone score a hit, I may auction off my entire rap CD collection, and ask my mom to dub me that Daughtry record.
Joaquin Phoenix is becoming a rapper......I shit you not
My better judgment wants to write this one off as an inventive joke, but, ummm, nope. I've read it on a bunch of different websites, all credible and reliable. So this seems legit, unfortunately.
Joaquin Phoenix, the highly talented actor that he is, announced his "retirement" from acting like a month or so ago. But having been jaded by a slew of celebs' pseudo-retirements in the past, I chalked it up to bullshit. Phoenix is one of the more eccentric cats in Hollywood, no doubt, and always gives interviews bordering on the line of "druggie trying to piece together at least one rational thought." But damn if I never saw this one coming. I'll just let the reporters at JoBlo tell it, which is where I found the picture below, as well:
"Uhh okay pardon me if this doesn't make any sense but I just did a whole lot of LSD and drank 3 gallons of Tide, so I may not be thinking straight.
We all know that Joaquin Phoenix quit the acting biz, and we all saw those photos of him recently that have us thinking that man is stark, raving mad. But did we all know that dude is cutting a rap record? And that P Diddy is producing it? And that his first performance is in a few days in Las Vegas? Is this real, or is this the Tide taking effect? Please tell me it's the Tide.
Joaquin's good buddy Casey Affleck is intent on proving that all this is actually going down, and has decided to document it with a camera--an endeavor that will eventually lead to a documentary, that will eventually lead to a standing ovation at Sundance, that will finally lead to Phoenix winning the second posthumous Oscar in as many years (Go Heath!).
Hey Casey: You're a bad friend."
So yeah, this is apparently happening. Casey Affleck has become one of the more exciting actors around, and I'd much rather he film his starring role in The Killer Inside Me (an adaptation of a pretty great, dark book) than follow the drugged-out exploits of MC Joaquin. But I'll at least hope that the resulting documentary (if one ever does come out of this bizarre turn of events) provides delirious laughter, which all signs are pointing to "yes" for at the moment.
See, this is why I love the entertainment business. Just when you're starting to feel like things are getting too predictable, Joaquin Phoenix begins a rap career overseen by Diddy. You know who must be pissed, though? That white dude Kain, remember him? Signed to Bad Boy, got on that one Dream single, and then faded into obscurity. I'd imagine Phoenix, if he were to sign to Bad Boy (fingers crossed) would catch a better one than that.
The name of his debut album: Walk the Cocaine Line
In stores Nevuary 34th
Joaquin Phoenix, the highly talented actor that he is, announced his "retirement" from acting like a month or so ago. But having been jaded by a slew of celebs' pseudo-retirements in the past, I chalked it up to bullshit. Phoenix is one of the more eccentric cats in Hollywood, no doubt, and always gives interviews bordering on the line of "druggie trying to piece together at least one rational thought." But damn if I never saw this one coming. I'll just let the reporters at JoBlo tell it, which is where I found the picture below, as well:
"Uhh okay pardon me if this doesn't make any sense but I just did a whole lot of LSD and drank 3 gallons of Tide, so I may not be thinking straight.
We all know that Joaquin Phoenix quit the acting biz, and we all saw those photos of him recently that have us thinking that man is stark, raving mad. But did we all know that dude is cutting a rap record? And that P Diddy is producing it? And that his first performance is in a few days in Las Vegas? Is this real, or is this the Tide taking effect? Please tell me it's the Tide.
Joaquin's good buddy Casey Affleck is intent on proving that all this is actually going down, and has decided to document it with a camera--an endeavor that will eventually lead to a documentary, that will eventually lead to a standing ovation at Sundance, that will finally lead to Phoenix winning the second posthumous Oscar in as many years (Go Heath!).
Hey Casey: You're a bad friend."
So yeah, this is apparently happening. Casey Affleck has become one of the more exciting actors around, and I'd much rather he film his starring role in The Killer Inside Me (an adaptation of a pretty great, dark book) than follow the drugged-out exploits of MC Joaquin. But I'll at least hope that the resulting documentary (if one ever does come out of this bizarre turn of events) provides delirious laughter, which all signs are pointing to "yes" for at the moment.
See, this is why I love the entertainment business. Just when you're starting to feel like things are getting too predictable, Joaquin Phoenix begins a rap career overseen by Diddy. You know who must be pissed, though? That white dude Kain, remember him? Signed to Bad Boy, got on that one Dream single, and then faded into obscurity. I'd imagine Phoenix, if he were to sign to Bad Boy (fingers crossed) would catch a better one than that.
The name of his debut album: Walk the Cocaine Line
In stores Nevuary 34th
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Thrill me, motherfuckers!....A Tom Atkins Tutorial
For those, such as myself, planning on seeing My Bloody Valentine 3D this weekend, here's a fair warning: there's a decent-sized chance that you'll be in a theater with late-20-to-early-50-year-old horror diehards who are going to clap and howl at the sight of an older, unimpressive looking man with white hair and a white 'stache.
Before you shout "Shut the fuck up!" or any other annoyed obscenities their way(s), here's a heads up: they're reacting like teenage girls at the sight of Twilight's Edward Cullen because My Bloody Valentine 3D is the first time in over 20-some-odd years that sir Tom Atkins has graced the big screen, and he's kind of a big deal.
Or, as they'd refer to him....Tom motherfuckin' Atkins!
In a bit of seriously-inspired casting on the part of Valentine's filmmakers, they've cast him as the sheriff, or police chief, whichever he's considered. The most schooled of genre heads know the man, and they know him well. The pissed-off father who gets his come-uppance something fierce during the thread-tying tales of Creepshow; the tired, seasoned, hard-as-nails cops in the forgotten gem Night of the Creeps; the doctor turned young-girl-smasher in Halloween III: Season of the Witch; and the trucker who beds a young fit Jamie Lee Curtis in John Carpenter's great The Fog (don't even think of that putrid remake with that Smallville clown). The man is an '80s horror icon, simply put.
Not only did he kick undead and evil ass like none other, Atkins was notorious for using his older-man game to sleep with much younger women, sometimes within hours of meeting them. He's just the fuckin' man, and word has it that he basically steals the show, acting wise, in My Bloody Valentine 3D. Which is to be expected, since I've been reading the film's reviews on horror-specific websites, who hail the man as if he's Clint Eastwood II. Bias, of course. But fuck it, horror fans hold on their own dearly, and Atkins has more than earned such cradling.
No more talking on my end, though. Just know that the old sheriff you'll be watching get his jaw ripped off by Valentine's Harry Warden (A Too-Late Spoiler Alert? like it matters, really; it's a bloody slasher film!) this weekend is a horror icon. So show the man some respect, will ya? As a primer, here's some vintage Tom Atkins, from Night of the Creeps:
Before you shout "Shut the fuck up!" or any other annoyed obscenities their way(s), here's a heads up: they're reacting like teenage girls at the sight of Twilight's Edward Cullen because My Bloody Valentine 3D is the first time in over 20-some-odd years that sir Tom Atkins has graced the big screen, and he's kind of a big deal.
Or, as they'd refer to him....Tom motherfuckin' Atkins!
In a bit of seriously-inspired casting on the part of Valentine's filmmakers, they've cast him as the sheriff, or police chief, whichever he's considered. The most schooled of genre heads know the man, and they know him well. The pissed-off father who gets his come-uppance something fierce during the thread-tying tales of Creepshow; the tired, seasoned, hard-as-nails cops in the forgotten gem Night of the Creeps; the doctor turned young-girl-smasher in Halloween III: Season of the Witch; and the trucker who beds a young fit Jamie Lee Curtis in John Carpenter's great The Fog (don't even think of that putrid remake with that Smallville clown). The man is an '80s horror icon, simply put.
Not only did he kick undead and evil ass like none other, Atkins was notorious for using his older-man game to sleep with much younger women, sometimes within hours of meeting them. He's just the fuckin' man, and word has it that he basically steals the show, acting wise, in My Bloody Valentine 3D. Which is to be expected, since I've been reading the film's reviews on horror-specific websites, who hail the man as if he's Clint Eastwood II. Bias, of course. But fuck it, horror fans hold on their own dearly, and Atkins has more than earned such cradling.
No more talking on my end, though. Just know that the old sheriff you'll be watching get his jaw ripped off by Valentine's Harry Warden (A Too-Late Spoiler Alert? like it matters, really; it's a bloody slasher film!) this weekend is a horror icon. So show the man some respect, will ya? As a primer, here's some vintage Tom Atkins, from Night of the Creeps:
Confessions of a Twentysomething Entertainment Addict, Part 1
Though I'm proud enough of my taste in the finer arts, I'm not the eyes-shut type of guy who wont admit to some pretty heinous follies in judgment. There was that Tony Yayo album I gave a pretty strong review in print, but then realized how derivative and laughably cliche the entire thing is once I actually had the disc in my possession and wasn't confined to a G-Unit office and a sound system that could make a Sade album bump hardcore. Or, the way I proclaimed to those around me that George Romero's long-awaited Land of the Dead would blow their minds, but then we all saw it and there was no epic climax of "zombies swarm, attack, and then devour the jerkoff villains," with the undead instead being given the sympathetic washover.
Plenty more examples I could cite, but for overdoing-it's sake, I'll stop with this next one.
For whatever reason, probably a cruel joke on the part of the cinematic gods to beat over my head how much of a dumbass I was to actually recommend this movie at one point, The Wicker Man remake has been popping up in various movie blogs and sites of the such in recent days. Mainly to hurl further bile its way, deservedly. Under any other circumstance, it'd be an unnecessary redo that I'd see once and then totally forget about, focusing energy on more important things, like how those gorgeous-yet-soulless Ikki twins on MTV's Double Shot at Love were in Hoboken during one episode, or what I'll have for dinner tonight (Lean Pockets last night, the night before, and the night before that....Lean Pockets it is).
But Nicolas Cage's Wicker Man got me upon initial viewing, and fuck if I can really explain. The old British original is a film I both admire and own on DVD, so all signs pointed to me hating this new one, but I didn't (at first). Sad as it may be, I saw it twice in theaters, and knowingly bypassed its many flaws to give it a thumbs-up pass. But then it came out on DVD, and I rented it. And it sucked balls the size of watermelons. And I wondered, "What the fuck was I thinking?" Having revisited it a few more times since on cable, I can say with a straight-face that it's not too far behind The Happening in the space of "Films That Have Absolutely Nothing Going For Them," and I'm still quite ashamed at myself for needing three exposures to understand.
I'm sure there's not many out there who'd voluntarily watch a movie that everybody else with a pulse has deemed "utter shit," so I'll just post this well-edited compilation of The Wicker Man's worst scenes. It's a movie filled with nothing but bad moments, so you know these must really be barrel-bottom material. Why do people keep casting Nicolas Cage, again? If you like those Da Vinci Code-but-not-really National Treasure turds, then you have no business coming down on me for ever enjoying The Wicker Man. Those movies a truly rape-for-the-senses.
The highlight here: Cage in a bearsuit, going all WWE Divas on these bitches:
Plenty more examples I could cite, but for overdoing-it's sake, I'll stop with this next one.
For whatever reason, probably a cruel joke on the part of the cinematic gods to beat over my head how much of a dumbass I was to actually recommend this movie at one point, The Wicker Man remake has been popping up in various movie blogs and sites of the such in recent days. Mainly to hurl further bile its way, deservedly. Under any other circumstance, it'd be an unnecessary redo that I'd see once and then totally forget about, focusing energy on more important things, like how those gorgeous-yet-soulless Ikki twins on MTV's Double Shot at Love were in Hoboken during one episode, or what I'll have for dinner tonight (Lean Pockets last night, the night before, and the night before that....Lean Pockets it is).
But Nicolas Cage's Wicker Man got me upon initial viewing, and fuck if I can really explain. The old British original is a film I both admire and own on DVD, so all signs pointed to me hating this new one, but I didn't (at first). Sad as it may be, I saw it twice in theaters, and knowingly bypassed its many flaws to give it a thumbs-up pass. But then it came out on DVD, and I rented it. And it sucked balls the size of watermelons. And I wondered, "What the fuck was I thinking?" Having revisited it a few more times since on cable, I can say with a straight-face that it's not too far behind The Happening in the space of "Films That Have Absolutely Nothing Going For Them," and I'm still quite ashamed at myself for needing three exposures to understand.
I'm sure there's not many out there who'd voluntarily watch a movie that everybody else with a pulse has deemed "utter shit," so I'll just post this well-edited compilation of The Wicker Man's worst scenes. It's a movie filled with nothing but bad moments, so you know these must really be barrel-bottom material. Why do people keep casting Nicolas Cage, again? If you like those Da Vinci Code-but-not-really National Treasure turds, then you have no business coming down on me for ever enjoying The Wicker Man. Those movies a truly rape-for-the-senses.
The highlight here: Cage in a bearsuit, going all WWE Divas on these bitches:
Favorite song of the moment is....
Trey Songz w/ Fabolous - "In Ya Phone"
There's always room for some uptempo, feel-good music around here. And this one's tough to grease out of the ears once embedded.
Awaiting the first time I hear this in a girls'-bodies-shaking, poured-drinks setting, while extra-intoxicated off that coffee-flavored Petron. Clear the dancefloor.
You can pass this Blunt my way any time.....
I know, I know. An easy double entendre is a terrible thing to waste, though....
The Devil Wears Prada is one of those flicks that gets the immediate attention-paid whenever its on the tube. Not ashamed to admit it, despite it being a pure "chick flick." The whole magazine publishing aspect of the thing, mixed with my ever-growing appreciation of Anne Hathaway (looking the other way, Bride Wars....just disappear, for the love of Christ), Meryl Streep's ice-queen pristine, and the generally pleasant nature. I've seen it a good ten times, and it maintains its charms every go-round.
Best guilty-pleasure chick flick in years? Could very well be. Though, I still consider flicks like The Descent, High Tension, and even Kill Bill to be women-friendly, but I've been met with heavy amounts of ridicule for such beliefs. Whatever.
The Devil Wears Prada has one hell of a secret weapon, though; a magnetic beauty queen who's on the verge of bigger and more recognizable things: Emily Blunt.
From right out under Hathaway's pale-but-sexy frame, Blunt pilfered scenes left and right as the paranoid, overworked girl being eclipsed by Hathaway's new assistant character, and actually left me wishing that she'd be the film's lead, not the unfortunate future star of Bride Wars. She's from London, and has that ear-massaging accent (which is surprising, 'cause typically English tongue-sounds grate). And great news poked its head last year when she got cast as the female lead in Benicio Del Toro's upcoming The Wolf Man, which rests next to Inglourious Basterds at the tippy of my 2009 Must List.
No more dreck the caliber of that shitty ghosts-on-the-open-road disaster Wind Chill for her. Good thing, too, because I'd give anybody a crisp $10 bill if they can sit through Wind Chill from beginning to end credits.
And now, word is that she's about to join the increasingly fierce cast of Iron Man 2 (which already houses Robert Downey Jr., Don Cheadle, Gwyneth Paltrow, and if all goes well Mickey Rourke, Sam Rockwell, and Tim Robbins). If Blunt gets down, she'll play Black Widow, known by her non-suited friends as "Natasha." Black Widow is a Russian spy who sports skintight black leather, and always looks hot while cocking state-of-the-art weaponry. Yes, please.
Jon Favreau and Marvel aren't playing around with Iron Man 2. And why should they, really? Thanks to The Dark Knight, superhero cinema is in a whole new realm, one where the scope of pursuable actors is pretty limitless, and respected chicks like Ms. Blunt are within reach. No more settling for Alicia Silverstone types (go rewatch Batman & Robin some time, btw....even more astonishingly awful than ever before).
Expect much more Emily Blunt love coming from yours truly from here on out. In fact, how about one more pic? Sure.
That's nice.
The Devil Wears Prada is one of those flicks that gets the immediate attention-paid whenever its on the tube. Not ashamed to admit it, despite it being a pure "chick flick." The whole magazine publishing aspect of the thing, mixed with my ever-growing appreciation of Anne Hathaway (looking the other way, Bride Wars....just disappear, for the love of Christ), Meryl Streep's ice-queen pristine, and the generally pleasant nature. I've seen it a good ten times, and it maintains its charms every go-round.
Best guilty-pleasure chick flick in years? Could very well be. Though, I still consider flicks like The Descent, High Tension, and even Kill Bill to be women-friendly, but I've been met with heavy amounts of ridicule for such beliefs. Whatever.
The Devil Wears Prada has one hell of a secret weapon, though; a magnetic beauty queen who's on the verge of bigger and more recognizable things: Emily Blunt.
From right out under Hathaway's pale-but-sexy frame, Blunt pilfered scenes left and right as the paranoid, overworked girl being eclipsed by Hathaway's new assistant character, and actually left me wishing that she'd be the film's lead, not the unfortunate future star of Bride Wars. She's from London, and has that ear-massaging accent (which is surprising, 'cause typically English tongue-sounds grate). And great news poked its head last year when she got cast as the female lead in Benicio Del Toro's upcoming The Wolf Man, which rests next to Inglourious Basterds at the tippy of my 2009 Must List.
No more dreck the caliber of that shitty ghosts-on-the-open-road disaster Wind Chill for her. Good thing, too, because I'd give anybody a crisp $10 bill if they can sit through Wind Chill from beginning to end credits.
And now, word is that she's about to join the increasingly fierce cast of Iron Man 2 (which already houses Robert Downey Jr., Don Cheadle, Gwyneth Paltrow, and if all goes well Mickey Rourke, Sam Rockwell, and Tim Robbins). If Blunt gets down, she'll play Black Widow, known by her non-suited friends as "Natasha." Black Widow is a Russian spy who sports skintight black leather, and always looks hot while cocking state-of-the-art weaponry. Yes, please.
Jon Favreau and Marvel aren't playing around with Iron Man 2. And why should they, really? Thanks to The Dark Knight, superhero cinema is in a whole new realm, one where the scope of pursuable actors is pretty limitless, and respected chicks like Ms. Blunt are within reach. No more settling for Alicia Silverstone types (go rewatch Batman & Robin some time, btw....even more astonishingly awful than ever before).
Expect much more Emily Blunt love coming from yours truly from here on out. In fact, how about one more pic? Sure.
That's nice.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
They had me at "A modern-day Clockwork Orange"
They also say that this is the hot ticket out at the Sundance Film Festival this year, and that the few journalists who've been fortunate to see it early have gone bonkers over it.
I say it looks pretty great, and then I also say that I'm sure I won't get to see it for quite some time. Then, I become equal parts sad and frustrated.
So goes the cycle, again and again.
Bronson
I say it looks pretty great, and then I also say that I'm sure I won't get to see it for quite some time. Then, I become equal parts sad and frustrated.
So goes the cycle, again and again.
Bronson
Dust off that old Nintendo.....
....because The Dark Knight has been given a retro 8-bit makeover.
Spotted over at: JoBlo
And it's spot-on. The person(s) who made this have way too much time on their plate(s), yet still deserve a round of applause. Everything from the sound effects to the brightness of the pixels is pure NES, or any other now-dated gaming system of that era.
I was born in 1982, so obviously I owned a Nintendo. That's where it ended, however; I never owned a Super Nintendo, though I played it regularly at friends' houses and my cousins' basement. Mario Kart was the fix. Sega Genesis was more my speed (Streets of Rage 2 = most enjoyable game to play, ever? Me thinks so). I even had Sega CD....remember that? The Genesis attachment that featured games with live-action actors and gameplay, only grainy as hell and of Troma-movie level performances. I was souped as all hell when I finally got my mitts on Sega CD, but of course, being me, the luck quickly ran out, a dream rapidly evaporated. Literally like two weeks after I got the thing, the sadistic brass at Sega halted all production on Sega CD games, leaving me with four games and nothing more, never again.
Fuckin' waste of cash, that was. Although, zombie shoot-em-up Corpse Killer, Double Switch (with Corey Haim, seriously) and alien invasion epic Ground Zero Texas (the first video game that included women who actually got me excited in those special areas....hey, these were real people, not animated characters. Relax) still hold fastened positions in my heart.
And then there was the painfully-elusive Night Trap, a game I searched for far and wide, but was rendered "missing in action" thanks to the censors condemning its "girls in lingerie being stalked and killed" asthetic.....and why was that improper for little kids to play, again?
(Scene from Night Trap)
Slam City with Scottie Pippen and Prize Fighter, though, were absolutely impossible, and caused a couple bloody knuckles from me pounding the dresser in uproars. Ahh, the good ol' days.
Spotted over at: JoBlo
And it's spot-on. The person(s) who made this have way too much time on their plate(s), yet still deserve a round of applause. Everything from the sound effects to the brightness of the pixels is pure NES, or any other now-dated gaming system of that era.
I was born in 1982, so obviously I owned a Nintendo. That's where it ended, however; I never owned a Super Nintendo, though I played it regularly at friends' houses and my cousins' basement. Mario Kart was the fix. Sega Genesis was more my speed (Streets of Rage 2 = most enjoyable game to play, ever? Me thinks so). I even had Sega CD....remember that? The Genesis attachment that featured games with live-action actors and gameplay, only grainy as hell and of Troma-movie level performances. I was souped as all hell when I finally got my mitts on Sega CD, but of course, being me, the luck quickly ran out, a dream rapidly evaporated. Literally like two weeks after I got the thing, the sadistic brass at Sega halted all production on Sega CD games, leaving me with four games and nothing more, never again.
Fuckin' waste of cash, that was. Although, zombie shoot-em-up Corpse Killer, Double Switch (with Corey Haim, seriously) and alien invasion epic Ground Zero Texas (the first video game that included women who actually got me excited in those special areas....hey, these were real people, not animated characters. Relax) still hold fastened positions in my heart.
And then there was the painfully-elusive Night Trap, a game I searched for far and wide, but was rendered "missing in action" thanks to the censors condemning its "girls in lingerie being stalked and killed" asthetic.....and why was that improper for little kids to play, again?
(Scene from Night Trap)
Slam City with Scottie Pippen and Prize Fighter, though, were absolutely impossible, and caused a couple bloody knuckles from me pounding the dresser in uproars. Ahh, the good ol' days.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
HBO's original winning blend of blood, scares, and guilty pleasure kicks (sorry, True Blood)
It pales in comparison to Monsters HD, sure, but, still, this new Chiller channel isn't without an abundance of goodies. Most notable of all being a daily hour block of Tales From The Crypt episodes. The show that I used to have to sneak up into my parents' bedroom to watch, lest they catch me and bring their elder fury down upon my adolescent daring. Never a spanking; just that dreaded look of disappointment and anger. Stung much worse than any backhand to the ass would've, I assure.
Tales From The Crypt used to scare the shit out of me back in those days. Gruesome while earning its late night scheduling slot, it left an impressionable mark on my then-still-forming horror partiality. Which plays into the biggest joy I've been having while watching the reruns on Chiller---the realization that Tales From The Crypt was nothing more than shamelessly campy, tongue-in-cheek, ironic, "bad guys get it in the end" fun. Even the darkest of episodes never abandoned the general conceit, a mixture of scares and humor.
Of course, there's plenty of episodes that are laughably awful. And noticeably dated in their visual effects and C-level of star power (it originally ran on HBO from 1989to 1996, and it goes without saying that the Tom Cruises, Tom Hanks-es, and Sigourney Weavers of the them-game never got down...though, the future Brad Pitts, as in a young Pitt himself, did show up). And in reality, the entries that impress on all levels are in the minority. But like the best of horror's worst, the inferior Tales are still good for some feces and giggles.
The episodes that stick out in my head the most: "Dead Right," with Demi Moore (okay, maybe it did have some decent stars, my apologies) as sexy gold digger who marries an obese dude so she can kill him and pocket his inheritance; "Television Terror," a pretty scary one that puts a Geraldo Rivera-ish tabloid TV host into a haunted retirement home, on air; "The Thing from the Grave," which had a young, fine-as-hell Teri Hatcher and dealt with marital affairs gone to Hell; "Fitting Punishment," about an old miserly funeral parlor owner who murders his unassuming nephew; "What's Cookin'," where Judd Nelson gives struggling diner owners a new recipe that'd have Hannibal Lecter visiting nightly; and "You, Murderer," a visually stellar entry that brought Humphrey Bogart back from the grave to star in a horror-tinged crime noir.
Besides, how can you not absolutely love this sick bastard?
The hostest with the grossest: The Cryptkeeper, a skeletal wiseass I'd love to knock back some marga-bleed-as with, before finding a poppin' nightclub so we could g-rave and body-bag some ladies to bring them back to my apartment for some killing in the bedroom, while my man Cryptkeeper did his thing in the un-living room. Thought those morbid puns were lame, eh? Keep it moving then, because that's exactly how the Cryptkeeper spoke, and I love(d) it.
If I had to pick one storytelling format as my ultimate fix, from here to eternity, it'd be the "horror anthology" approach, without hesitation. The Twilight Zone. Those old British flicks like Asylum. Night Gallery. Hammer's House of Horror. Creepshow. And, now that I'm revisiting it on a daily basis, HBO's Tales From The Crypt. They're like orgies of 30 minute to two hour orgies for horror heads, where the other participants do all the nasty work and viewers can just sit back, relax, and feel the pleasures. Free of effort. Fantastic.
Oh, and how about those Tales From The Crypt branded movies? Demon Knight, kicks ass. Bordello of Blood, though, reeks of foul odors.
Tales From The Crypt used to scare the shit out of me back in those days. Gruesome while earning its late night scheduling slot, it left an impressionable mark on my then-still-forming horror partiality. Which plays into the biggest joy I've been having while watching the reruns on Chiller---the realization that Tales From The Crypt was nothing more than shamelessly campy, tongue-in-cheek, ironic, "bad guys get it in the end" fun. Even the darkest of episodes never abandoned the general conceit, a mixture of scares and humor.
Of course, there's plenty of episodes that are laughably awful. And noticeably dated in their visual effects and C-level of star power (it originally ran on HBO from 1989to 1996, and it goes without saying that the Tom Cruises, Tom Hanks-es, and Sigourney Weavers of the them-game never got down...though, the future Brad Pitts, as in a young Pitt himself, did show up). And in reality, the entries that impress on all levels are in the minority. But like the best of horror's worst, the inferior Tales are still good for some feces and giggles.
The episodes that stick out in my head the most: "Dead Right," with Demi Moore (okay, maybe it did have some decent stars, my apologies) as sexy gold digger who marries an obese dude so she can kill him and pocket his inheritance; "Television Terror," a pretty scary one that puts a Geraldo Rivera-ish tabloid TV host into a haunted retirement home, on air; "The Thing from the Grave," which had a young, fine-as-hell Teri Hatcher and dealt with marital affairs gone to Hell; "Fitting Punishment," about an old miserly funeral parlor owner who murders his unassuming nephew; "What's Cookin'," where Judd Nelson gives struggling diner owners a new recipe that'd have Hannibal Lecter visiting nightly; and "You, Murderer," a visually stellar entry that brought Humphrey Bogart back from the grave to star in a horror-tinged crime noir.
Besides, how can you not absolutely love this sick bastard?
The hostest with the grossest: The Cryptkeeper, a skeletal wiseass I'd love to knock back some marga-bleed-as with, before finding a poppin' nightclub so we could g-rave and body-bag some ladies to bring them back to my apartment for some killing in the bedroom, while my man Cryptkeeper did his thing in the un-living room. Thought those morbid puns were lame, eh? Keep it moving then, because that's exactly how the Cryptkeeper spoke, and I love(d) it.
If I had to pick one storytelling format as my ultimate fix, from here to eternity, it'd be the "horror anthology" approach, without hesitation. The Twilight Zone. Those old British flicks like Asylum. Night Gallery. Hammer's House of Horror. Creepshow. And, now that I'm revisiting it on a daily basis, HBO's Tales From The Crypt. They're like orgies of 30 minute to two hour orgies for horror heads, where the other participants do all the nasty work and viewers can just sit back, relax, and feel the pleasures. Free of effort. Fantastic.
Oh, and how about those Tales From The Crypt branded movies? Demon Knight, kicks ass. Bordello of Blood, though, reeks of foul odors.
Another new Mickey Rourke film, finally seeing light of day....
....now, thanks to The Wrestler. Never a bad thing.
The Informers, based off a book by Bret Easton Ellis, the celebrated scribe behind the demented pair of American Psycho and The Rules of Attraction. He's one for rampant sex, excessive drug use, and not-so-standard debauchery. A witches brew of seediness. Guilty pleasures given a credible twist.
Tons of noteworthy names in this one, which seems to be a multi-character trip through the underbelly of Los Angeles, circa 1983. It's premiering at the Sundance Film Festival this month (one year, I'll get to attend Sundance...when company's money gets right, so basically no year in the near future). Looks pretty intriguing. I'm certifiably on board.
I should probably grab Bret Easton Ellis' books at some point. Feels like I'd be right there with him.
And, just because....some more Amber Heard for the eyes, never unwelcome. I hear she's practically naked this entire film. As it should be.
The Informers, based off a book by Bret Easton Ellis, the celebrated scribe behind the demented pair of American Psycho and The Rules of Attraction. He's one for rampant sex, excessive drug use, and not-so-standard debauchery. A witches brew of seediness. Guilty pleasures given a credible twist.
Tons of noteworthy names in this one, which seems to be a multi-character trip through the underbelly of Los Angeles, circa 1983. It's premiering at the Sundance Film Festival this month (one year, I'll get to attend Sundance...when company's money gets right, so basically no year in the near future). Looks pretty intriguing. I'm certifiably on board.
I should probably grab Bret Easton Ellis' books at some point. Feels like I'd be right there with him.
And, just because....some more Amber Heard for the eyes, never unwelcome. I hear she's practically naked this entire film. As it should be.
for Danielle Harris, the hottest actress you've never heard of
At the risk of pissing off any horror diehards who happen across this site, I have a confession to make: I'm a fan of Rob Zombie's Halloween. ***ducks proverbial axes, daggers, tomatoes, insults, hisses*** I totally understand and even agree with the common attacks against it---how it squanders a very strong first half by in-rushed-fashion remaking John Carpenter's original during the final 35 minutes; how it basically turns suburban Haddonfield into a typically Zombie-esque area of hillbillies and profanity-spewing rednecks; and the basic stupidity with Michael Myers growing up to be a WWE-wrestler-sized behemoth even though his entire life has been spent in an insane asylum.
All valid. I just can't help but love the film's sporadic great moments, like the kid-on-kid brutality in the woods via stick, or adolescent Mike going apeshit on his family wearing the oversized, classic Myers mask. I also love the stuff with Danielle Harris, who plays one of Laurie Strode's friends in the film's latter portion.
Which is/was a nice treat for horror heads. Harris, for the uninitiated, is a genre vet, first seen as Myers' little psychic little niece in a couple of the older Halloween sequels, and then later in Urban Legend (another flick I hesitantly show love to) and several other low-budget scare affairs. A true "Scream Queen," and one of those adorable and talented specialty actress you wish would break out bigger, swipe roles from the lesser-able hands of lames the likes of Jennifer Love Hewitt.
Well, its far from her big mainstream break, but Harris has just officially signed on to Zombie's Halloween sequel, cleverly-titled H2 and set for August dropping. And rejoice for that. [SPOILER WARNING] She made it through the first flick, surviving a particularly-intense and brave scene where she's fending off Myers topless, so her presence in the follow-up seems right. Not sure whether I'm that excited about H2 on the whole, but Harris' return is a step in the positive path. She best not get the kill-treatment early on, or I'll damn well walk out. It's like that, yes.
Because, if you haven't gathered from this fawning post, I'm more than a bit smitten by one Danielle Harris. Have been since first seeing in Halloweens 4 and 5. She was only about eleven years old in those, but, see, I was merely about ten when I initially watched those, so at that point she was already the hot older chick. Which she still is, though now she's the excruciatingly-hot older chick. A Hall of Famer in my mental museum. Here's to casting agents waking the fuck up and upgrading their flicks with her.....see for yourselves:
This one's for you, Ms. Harris.....showing you singled-out love because, really, somebody's gotta do it.
Can't call me a liar, can you? Didn't think so. How about a moving picture?
Indeed.
News spotted over at: Bloody Disgusting
All valid. I just can't help but love the film's sporadic great moments, like the kid-on-kid brutality in the woods via stick, or adolescent Mike going apeshit on his family wearing the oversized, classic Myers mask. I also love the stuff with Danielle Harris, who plays one of Laurie Strode's friends in the film's latter portion.
Which is/was a nice treat for horror heads. Harris, for the uninitiated, is a genre vet, first seen as Myers' little psychic little niece in a couple of the older Halloween sequels, and then later in Urban Legend (another flick I hesitantly show love to) and several other low-budget scare affairs. A true "Scream Queen," and one of those adorable and talented specialty actress you wish would break out bigger, swipe roles from the lesser-able hands of lames the likes of Jennifer Love Hewitt.
Well, its far from her big mainstream break, but Harris has just officially signed on to Zombie's Halloween sequel, cleverly-titled H2 and set for August dropping. And rejoice for that. [SPOILER WARNING] She made it through the first flick, surviving a particularly-intense and brave scene where she's fending off Myers topless, so her presence in the follow-up seems right. Not sure whether I'm that excited about H2 on the whole, but Harris' return is a step in the positive path. She best not get the kill-treatment early on, or I'll damn well walk out. It's like that, yes.
Because, if you haven't gathered from this fawning post, I'm more than a bit smitten by one Danielle Harris. Have been since first seeing in Halloweens 4 and 5. She was only about eleven years old in those, but, see, I was merely about ten when I initially watched those, so at that point she was already the hot older chick. Which she still is, though now she's the excruciatingly-hot older chick. A Hall of Famer in my mental museum. Here's to casting agents waking the fuck up and upgrading their flicks with her.....see for yourselves:
This one's for you, Ms. Harris.....showing you singled-out love because, really, somebody's gotta do it.
Can't call me a liar, can you? Didn't think so. How about a moving picture?
Indeed.
News spotted over at: Bloody Disgusting
Monday, January 12, 2009
I'm right there with you, Sir Rourke
Two Mickey Rourke-related posts in a row, I notice. Whatever. The dude's killin 'em right now. It makes sense.
I was watching Access Hollywood earlier (isn't Billy Bush the biggest tool in showbiz? He should be contestant number one on VH1's latest reality TV soul-drainer Tool Academy, which I do award points to for having a seriously-spot-on name and a great conceit), and skill-less starfucker Bush asked Rourke about the deserved Best Actor winner at last night's Golden Globes thanking his dogs during his acceptance speech. As if, it's really that unbelievable that a guy would show love to his pooches at a time such as that.
Pish tosh, if you found Rourke's doggy-style praise to be goofy or lame. I would've done the same in his position. Hell, my life hasn't even been one-tenth as dramatic and difficult as Rourke's, yet I still thank my lucky constellation-decorations for Zoey, my beloved German Shepherd BFF. So imagine how much Rourke must love his chihuahuas, both living and deceased. Practically all of Hollywood wrote the man off more than once over the last 20 years. When his chips were not only down but fossilized, I'm sure his canine shotgun-riders were the only ones who consistently showed him genuine support and adoration. So shit yeah, go ahead and thank you dogs, man. They deserve it.
Zoey is getting old and brittle, so sadly, and I realize that she won't be around forever. But I also realize that without her presence during my awkward and challenging high school years, I very well could've sunk into fits of depression, or at least potent melancholy. Quiet and insecure, high-school-era Me had some great friends, but I never really understood why. Why would these kids want to hang out with a guy like me? I'd constantly inquire to self. With Zoey, though, I never felt such doubt. Same goes for relations with the opposite sex (chill with any "pause" bullshit, concerning any beastiality jokes, you sick fucks)--- whenever I was rejected by chicks or just left silent and intimidated to tears by showy and louder dames, Zoey was always there by the front door, wagging her tail and loving her "brother" as if I were the coolest kid in school.
Dogs are invaluable, and the only way to comprehend this fact is to have had one as a household pal at some point in your life. If not, if you've been a pussy-loving pussy or a fishtank-filling square, you won't get it.
Rourke gets it. As I'm sure many other celebs do. It's time the rest of the lot acknowledged their dogs when the time comes to salute the loved ones.
Now, excuse me while I pre-order a ticket for this weekend's Hotel for Dogs. Kidding, kidding...my love for the canine community is exactly why I'm resisting that flick. Out of respect. Similarly to my avoidance of Beverly Hills Chihuahua, and Twilight (out of horror devotion).
I was watching Access Hollywood earlier (isn't Billy Bush the biggest tool in showbiz? He should be contestant number one on VH1's latest reality TV soul-drainer Tool Academy, which I do award points to for having a seriously-spot-on name and a great conceit), and skill-less starfucker Bush asked Rourke about the deserved Best Actor winner at last night's Golden Globes thanking his dogs during his acceptance speech. As if, it's really that unbelievable that a guy would show love to his pooches at a time such as that.
Pish tosh, if you found Rourke's doggy-style praise to be goofy or lame. I would've done the same in his position. Hell, my life hasn't even been one-tenth as dramatic and difficult as Rourke's, yet I still thank my lucky constellation-decorations for Zoey, my beloved German Shepherd BFF. So imagine how much Rourke must love his chihuahuas, both living and deceased. Practically all of Hollywood wrote the man off more than once over the last 20 years. When his chips were not only down but fossilized, I'm sure his canine shotgun-riders were the only ones who consistently showed him genuine support and adoration. So shit yeah, go ahead and thank you dogs, man. They deserve it.
Zoey is getting old and brittle, so sadly, and I realize that she won't be around forever. But I also realize that without her presence during my awkward and challenging high school years, I very well could've sunk into fits of depression, or at least potent melancholy. Quiet and insecure, high-school-era Me had some great friends, but I never really understood why. Why would these kids want to hang out with a guy like me? I'd constantly inquire to self. With Zoey, though, I never felt such doubt. Same goes for relations with the opposite sex (chill with any "pause" bullshit, concerning any beastiality jokes, you sick fucks)--- whenever I was rejected by chicks or just left silent and intimidated to tears by showy and louder dames, Zoey was always there by the front door, wagging her tail and loving her "brother" as if I were the coolest kid in school.
Dogs are invaluable, and the only way to comprehend this fact is to have had one as a household pal at some point in your life. If not, if you've been a pussy-loving pussy or a fishtank-filling square, you won't get it.
Rourke gets it. As I'm sure many other celebs do. It's time the rest of the lot acknowledged their dogs when the time comes to salute the loved ones.
Now, excuse me while I pre-order a ticket for this weekend's Hotel for Dogs. Kidding, kidding...my love for the canine community is exactly why I'm resisting that flick. Out of respect. Similarly to my avoidance of Beverly Hills Chihuahua, and Twilight (out of horror devotion).
Killshot, a (possibly) fine film, stricken to January's dumping ground
Typical Weinstein Company bullshit here, unfortunately. Their "pick up unique, quality films and hold them indefinitely only to drop them into theaters with little press, ultimately leading to early money-making death" tactics usually apply to great international horror flicks, so this one's a bit of a change, at least.
Killshot, a film that was made two years ago and held captive in their web of cinematic purgatory. Its being plopped into theaters on January 23 (yes, less than two weeks), it seems, and the first trailer is making its debut today, January 12. Talk about buzzer-beating.
I wouldn't even care, truthfully, if it wasn't for the cast at work here: the great Mickey Rourke (whose current rebirth buzz is clearly the reason why Killshot is even seeing this current dumping-ground release); the young and infinitely promising Joseph Gordon-Levitt; Diane Lane, a beautiful cougar if I've ever seen one; and Thomas Jane, a good actor who'll forever be in my cool-side thanks to leading The Mist, aka 2007's Best Movie That Audiences Overlooked Like Close-Minded Douchebags; and Rosario Dawson, the sexiest fangirl around. A top-shelf assemblance of performers here.
Give this trailer a look. I think it'll be a good-to-go sleeper. We shall see (for disclosure's sake, I've yet to see this):
Killshot, a film that was made two years ago and held captive in their web of cinematic purgatory. Its being plopped into theaters on January 23 (yes, less than two weeks), it seems, and the first trailer is making its debut today, January 12. Talk about buzzer-beating.
I wouldn't even care, truthfully, if it wasn't for the cast at work here: the great Mickey Rourke (whose current rebirth buzz is clearly the reason why Killshot is even seeing this current dumping-ground release); the young and infinitely promising Joseph Gordon-Levitt; Diane Lane, a beautiful cougar if I've ever seen one; and Thomas Jane, a good actor who'll forever be in my cool-side thanks to leading The Mist, aka 2007's Best Movie That Audiences Overlooked Like Close-Minded Douchebags; and Rosario Dawson, the sexiest fangirl around. A top-shelf assemblance of performers here.
Give this trailer a look. I think it'll be a good-to-go sleeper. We shall see (for disclosure's sake, I've yet to see this):
Matt Versus His Cell Phone....or, Bury My Ears Under My Wounded Mobile Device
There's a sickness in the air, floating above the clouds and dripping its negative stimulants atop our heads on a second-by-second basis. The way it seeps into the mind is quite clever, really. Whoever the creator above is deserves some sort of Unholy Relationship Destroyer prize or something, because his/her potion has caused thick layers of friction between myself and many friends who I've shown firsthand symptoms to, unceremoniously.
I wish I knew when exactly I first caught the germ. If even a roughly-estimated date were available, perhaps I could retrace the steps that fate pointed me toward and remedy myself. It's not a disease I'm partial to in any way, shape, or form. But, still, one I've never been able to shake off. Even when I'm fully aware that its getting the best of my better judgment, I'm powerless. Stricken under submission. Tied down, stripped bare of any resolve, and under its spell. If this disease could take a physical form, it'd be a dominatrix who resembles Katy Perry (she's my current eye-pleasing fix), ordering me to carry out her dastardly plan, and using brutally physical force to both intimidate and overpower.
Oh, yeah, I should probably divulge what this disease is exactly, right? In ley-Matt's terms, its the sheer awfulness to which I handle "calling people back on my cell phone." I'm no dummy; I know that I'm far from alone. In fact, many of my own friends and associates are equally, if not more so, guilty. But I can't worry about their deteriorating relationships at the hands of this powerful affliction. It's a dog-eat-dog world out here, and in this respect I'm wearing milkbone underwear (cite to Norm from Cheers on that one). Looking out for self is priority.
I truly hope that those who've called me and expectedly met my voicemail more times than not don't take this shunning personal. It's quite the opposite. I'm under the impression that anybody who actually takes the time and effort to ring me up is worthy of respect and appreciation; why waste time out of their precious days to chat with little ol' me, you know?
The only explanation I can offer in my defense here is the following---I'm a pretty moody person. Not in the sense of bipolar tendencies, or apt-to-go-Bruce-Banner-on-a-bitch ways. Rather, I largely operate according to where my head's at during any given moment. If something is stressing me out or requires immediate dissection within my ever-churning cabeza, then I must tend to it right away, and any phone conversation, whether crucial or small-talky, would distract. And then there's the frequent instance when I'm just not in a particularly social mood, and again it's nothing personal to whomever feels the brunt of my cold-shoulder.
I understand, trust me. Friendships and other close relationships are two-way streets, sure. But they're roads that are best navigated with any self-centered detours blocked, cleared out of the way like a ten-car pileup on the highway during rush hour gridlock hell. So for me to only answer when I feel up to talking is complete bullshit. Grounds for angry chums and compadres. But it's the truth, dammit. Take it or shake it.
I need a drug. One that'll slowly but surely rid me of this "terrible cell phone user" disease. I've actually lost a few tight bonds as a result, to which I'm seriously ashamed. With others, I've pissed off. Let down. Saddened. Infuriated. Left indifferent after repeat offenses. To those who've stuck by me despite this problem, I salute and embrace you more than you'll ever know. Two Blackberrys up.
"Knowing is half the battle," Hallmark or some other inevitable-cliche-birthing wise-person once said. The war rages on, but at least I'm an active combatant. Firing tireless shots at the opposition.
It's M.B. vs. Himself. One dude's very own Civil War. In matters of the romantic and/or instantly-sexually-gratifying variety, the South side's pistol-packing regime always reigns supreme. For all others, however, the North side's braintrust has the edge.
"The Battle of the Cellular" has been christened with its own nifty play-off-words nickname: The Call of Duty. I'm enlisted. Hammers cocked. Let's rock.
I wish I knew when exactly I first caught the germ. If even a roughly-estimated date were available, perhaps I could retrace the steps that fate pointed me toward and remedy myself. It's not a disease I'm partial to in any way, shape, or form. But, still, one I've never been able to shake off. Even when I'm fully aware that its getting the best of my better judgment, I'm powerless. Stricken under submission. Tied down, stripped bare of any resolve, and under its spell. If this disease could take a physical form, it'd be a dominatrix who resembles Katy Perry (she's my current eye-pleasing fix), ordering me to carry out her dastardly plan, and using brutally physical force to both intimidate and overpower.
Oh, yeah, I should probably divulge what this disease is exactly, right? In ley-Matt's terms, its the sheer awfulness to which I handle "calling people back on my cell phone." I'm no dummy; I know that I'm far from alone. In fact, many of my own friends and associates are equally, if not more so, guilty. But I can't worry about their deteriorating relationships at the hands of this powerful affliction. It's a dog-eat-dog world out here, and in this respect I'm wearing milkbone underwear (cite to Norm from Cheers on that one). Looking out for self is priority.
I truly hope that those who've called me and expectedly met my voicemail more times than not don't take this shunning personal. It's quite the opposite. I'm under the impression that anybody who actually takes the time and effort to ring me up is worthy of respect and appreciation; why waste time out of their precious days to chat with little ol' me, you know?
The only explanation I can offer in my defense here is the following---I'm a pretty moody person. Not in the sense of bipolar tendencies, or apt-to-go-Bruce-Banner-on-a-bitch ways. Rather, I largely operate according to where my head's at during any given moment. If something is stressing me out or requires immediate dissection within my ever-churning cabeza, then I must tend to it right away, and any phone conversation, whether crucial or small-talky, would distract. And then there's the frequent instance when I'm just not in a particularly social mood, and again it's nothing personal to whomever feels the brunt of my cold-shoulder.
I understand, trust me. Friendships and other close relationships are two-way streets, sure. But they're roads that are best navigated with any self-centered detours blocked, cleared out of the way like a ten-car pileup on the highway during rush hour gridlock hell. So for me to only answer when I feel up to talking is complete bullshit. Grounds for angry chums and compadres. But it's the truth, dammit. Take it or shake it.
I need a drug. One that'll slowly but surely rid me of this "terrible cell phone user" disease. I've actually lost a few tight bonds as a result, to which I'm seriously ashamed. With others, I've pissed off. Let down. Saddened. Infuriated. Left indifferent after repeat offenses. To those who've stuck by me despite this problem, I salute and embrace you more than you'll ever know. Two Blackberrys up.
"Knowing is half the battle," Hallmark or some other inevitable-cliche-birthing wise-person once said. The war rages on, but at least I'm an active combatant. Firing tireless shots at the opposition.
It's M.B. vs. Himself. One dude's very own Civil War. In matters of the romantic and/or instantly-sexually-gratifying variety, the South side's pistol-packing regime always reigns supreme. For all others, however, the North side's braintrust has the edge.
"The Battle of the Cellular" has been christened with its own nifty play-off-words nickname: The Call of Duty. I'm enlisted. Hammers cocked. Let's rock.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Where's Roberta "Grandma Death" Sparrow when you really need her, huh?
"Somebody should write that bitch."
I'm scared to shit.
If time travel were a reality and not simply storytelling fodder for science fiictions scribes, I'd rob a bank right now simply to score enough cash to hurl myself ten years into my future. To see if I'm in the position I sit up at night now hoping for. To know if everything I've done and undone throughout my first 27 years hasn't been in vain.
I'm not even exactly sure what I'd do or feel once I'd see myself in 2019. If 2019-me isn't the successful storyteller and Hollywood-centric scribe that I one day aspire to be, would I throw in the proverbial towel back here in the present, then crawl into some hole and check out? Or would I still go about my dreamchasing, intending to buck the revelation and rewrite my own path? How about if I saw myself indeed in the place I want to be? On the stage of the Golden Globe awards, which I'm writing right now as I type (Mickey Rourke just won the Best Actor award....fuck yeah, that just makes me happy), accepting a trophy for some darkly twisted and multi-layered film and/or television series that I put finger-to-keyboard to dream up and send out into the world, reluctantly. Meeting filmmakers such as Danny Boyle and Darren Aronofsky and having them commission me to author their next project, on spec or however else they may desire.
Not even on a Hollywood stage, on second thought. That'd be great, of course, but I wouldn't even mind being atop the New York Times best-sellers list with a striking and haunting piece of genre fiction. "Matt Barone is the new Jack Ketchum" would be the most flattering and accomplished front-cover quote I could hope for, provided by a fan named Stephen King. Imagine that.
I'm a prisoner of my own insecurities, doubts, holdings-back. I know there's an endless arsenal of stories and characters and conflicts buried deep within my head, that just need something to jossle them to the surface. Because every night I put head-to-pillow in a bit of fear ("I'm scared to shit," now making sense). When will that first big story idea hit me? I want to start banging out a whopper of a tale, but how can I when the tale is being a stubborn mule and won't show itself just yet?
I want Rod Serling to watch over me and feel pride from above, knowing that he's inspired some normal Joe from New Jersey to challenge his mind and imagine worlds and realms that others either neglected to share themselves or had never knew could exist in fiction. I'd love for Richard Matheson to send me a hand-written letter showing some love. Shit, I wouldn't even mind if Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg reached out to toss compliments and big-ups.
Others share similar worries and doubts, I know. Many who currently work in the same field/industry as I. And I know that the truly talented, and driven, and passionate about the art of storytelling ones will thrive (myself included, I hope). And I'm keeping fingers crossed that those who have entered our profession for all the wrong reasons (star-fucking, free giveaways, celeb-jocking, etc, etc) see their careers crumble under the weight of falsehood.
Will I make it? Do I even need a time travel machine to show me the truth? Of course not. I'm enjoying the ride, and wouldn't allow it to be tainted by deleting "chance" and "fate" from its mix.
So, to those who know me: When I constantly ramble on and on about some new movie I've seen, or some great book I can't brush out of my thoughts, know that I'm not merely shooting the shit. In no way indulging in basic entertainment appreciation. Its me pushing myself one millimeter closer to the ultimate dream. Learning and anazlyzing the craft of narrative expression through firsthand exposure.
Its tireless. Absorbing.
And neverending in its rapture.
My story never concludes. Constant climax, ever-evolving conflict. Page-turning unknowns, copious comic relief.
Choosing my own adventure, until the end credits roll.
I'm scared to shit.
If time travel were a reality and not simply storytelling fodder for science fiictions scribes, I'd rob a bank right now simply to score enough cash to hurl myself ten years into my future. To see if I'm in the position I sit up at night now hoping for. To know if everything I've done and undone throughout my first 27 years hasn't been in vain.
I'm not even exactly sure what I'd do or feel once I'd see myself in 2019. If 2019-me isn't the successful storyteller and Hollywood-centric scribe that I one day aspire to be, would I throw in the proverbial towel back here in the present, then crawl into some hole and check out? Or would I still go about my dreamchasing, intending to buck the revelation and rewrite my own path? How about if I saw myself indeed in the place I want to be? On the stage of the Golden Globe awards, which I'm writing right now as I type (Mickey Rourke just won the Best Actor award....fuck yeah, that just makes me happy), accepting a trophy for some darkly twisted and multi-layered film and/or television series that I put finger-to-keyboard to dream up and send out into the world, reluctantly. Meeting filmmakers such as Danny Boyle and Darren Aronofsky and having them commission me to author their next project, on spec or however else they may desire.
Not even on a Hollywood stage, on second thought. That'd be great, of course, but I wouldn't even mind being atop the New York Times best-sellers list with a striking and haunting piece of genre fiction. "Matt Barone is the new Jack Ketchum" would be the most flattering and accomplished front-cover quote I could hope for, provided by a fan named Stephen King. Imagine that.
I'm a prisoner of my own insecurities, doubts, holdings-back. I know there's an endless arsenal of stories and characters and conflicts buried deep within my head, that just need something to jossle them to the surface. Because every night I put head-to-pillow in a bit of fear ("I'm scared to shit," now making sense). When will that first big story idea hit me? I want to start banging out a whopper of a tale, but how can I when the tale is being a stubborn mule and won't show itself just yet?
I want Rod Serling to watch over me and feel pride from above, knowing that he's inspired some normal Joe from New Jersey to challenge his mind and imagine worlds and realms that others either neglected to share themselves or had never knew could exist in fiction. I'd love for Richard Matheson to send me a hand-written letter showing some love. Shit, I wouldn't even mind if Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg reached out to toss compliments and big-ups.
Others share similar worries and doubts, I know. Many who currently work in the same field/industry as I. And I know that the truly talented, and driven, and passionate about the art of storytelling ones will thrive (myself included, I hope). And I'm keeping fingers crossed that those who have entered our profession for all the wrong reasons (star-fucking, free giveaways, celeb-jocking, etc, etc) see their careers crumble under the weight of falsehood.
Will I make it? Do I even need a time travel machine to show me the truth? Of course not. I'm enjoying the ride, and wouldn't allow it to be tainted by deleting "chance" and "fate" from its mix.
So, to those who know me: When I constantly ramble on and on about some new movie I've seen, or some great book I can't brush out of my thoughts, know that I'm not merely shooting the shit. In no way indulging in basic entertainment appreciation. Its me pushing myself one millimeter closer to the ultimate dream. Learning and anazlyzing the craft of narrative expression through firsthand exposure.
Its tireless. Absorbing.
And neverending in its rapture.
My story never concludes. Constant climax, ever-evolving conflict. Page-turning unknowns, copious comic relief.
Choosing my own adventure, until the end credits roll.
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