Remember The Goonies? Of course you do. Get a load of this.....

London's Empire Magazine, aka my favorite magazine out there that rapes my wallet with that damn $10 import price, has given those in my generation a reason to transport back to more innocent, and frankly better, days in their current 20th Anniversary issue, guest edited by none other than Steven Spielberg. Since Spielberg was one of the film's executive producers (as well as the guy who came up with the film's original story), 1985's kids classic The Goonies seemed like prime reunion material for the folks at Empire to attempt to pull off, and holy shit did they do it: Corey "Mouth" Feldman, Sean "Mikey" Astin, Josh "Brand" Brolin, Jeff "Chunk" Cohen, Kerri "Andy" Green, Martha "Stef" Plimpton, Jonathan "Data" Ke Quan, and the film's director, Richard Donner. All in one room, reminiscing and genuinely have a great time.

I dare any of you to watch this video, courtesy of Empire (yet again....damn those guys are good), and not wish you were a young'n again and that you could see The Goonies for the first time. One-Eyed Willie, Sloth, and all. [By the way, if you've never seen The Goonies, I don't think I want to know you. That's just sad]



Worth noting: Did Sean Astin and Jeff Cohen trade bodies or something? Chunk is no longer chunky, and Mikey looks like he ate too much Life cereal with 2% milk.

Also Worth Noting: Kerri Green is still sexy as hell.

Much respect goes to (for executing this wonderful reunion): Empire

The latest remake is.......Drop Dead Fred. Somebody pass the booze.

You could've asked me, "Guess what forgotten kids' comedy from the '90s is being remade?" and then given me 100 guesses to come up with the right answer, and I still would've never hit you with this correct response. Especially since it's a film that was both a box office abortion and a critical punching bag. Ain't It Cool News is reporting, via The Hollywood Reporter, that 1991's Drop Dead Fred, the heartwarming tale of a little girl's booger-picking, farting, recklessly wild imaginary friend who stays with her through adulthood, is next on the redo block in Universal Pictures' system. What the fuck?!



Perhaps the original's reviled nature is what makes Drop Dead Fred so surprisingly acceptable as a remake. Unexpected, but partially sensical. It's far from a sacred property, and there's really nowhere to go but up in quality. Drop Dead Fred holds a dear place in the hearts of many, though, including yours truly. Why else would I even be commenting on it here? My first experience with the film was back in my pre-teen years, when my mother rented it for me at the local Dollar Video (a competitor of Blockbuster Video that didn't last very long, yet was always my preferred rental destination). I was home sick from school and needed some lowbrow entertainment. Mom nailed her selection, and I found myself loving Drop Dead Fred. The film had everything my 12-year-old brain could ever ask for: an imaginary friend to prove that I wasn't crazy for having my own (what's good, Joe?), cutie deluxe Phoebe Cates, and immature jokes and crude sight gags. Slam dunk.

A few years back, Drop Dead Fred randomly played on a cable movie channel. I watched, hoping for an enjoyable trip down Nostalgia Lane. Only, I was met with a detour down Wow, How Could I Have Liked This Drive. Right up there with Transylvania 6-5000 in the pantheon of films I once loved but now can't sit through without wincing. Some charms remain, but overall it's a poor film that ultimately makes sense as a remake. The central plot (imaginary friend sticks around even when the kid is an adult) is clever, and the reported casting of Russell Brand (Forgetting Sarah Marshall) in the title role, originally played a fella named Rik Mayall, seems spot-on. A role that Brand was born to play.


Fred himself....As a kid, I thought this character was hilarious. Now, though, he could be the most annoying, unbearable, somebody-off-him-immediately creation ever.///Russell Brand, your new "Drop Dead Fred"

Phoebe Cates' shoes are tougher to fill, though. If I were able to toss my five cents in, the nominee would be Diora Baird. Why such an unestablished actress, you ask? It's simple, really: I'm all for fresh faces getting big breaks. Not convincing enough? Just look at her, then.....



Okay, okay. My real nominee is Mila Kunis. I just came across that new Diora Baird pic yesterday and couldn't let it pass me by.

News learned over at: Ain't It Cool News

Some closure to the Trick 'r Treat saga?

Letting that one great girl slip through my fingertips due to my uncertainty of "Am I ready to invest total energy into a relationship right now?"? Nope. Not bailing out of my workplace early enough to jump on open positions elsewhere, pre-industry-wide-hiring-freeze? Close, but not quite. Each of those personal follies had no definite resolution if I had chosen the other path. Romance could've flourished for months with her, but it could've just as easily faded away without warning. And that industry was/is so fucked that the same outcome from my former spot could've happened anywhere else. Those are mistakes that I can't dwell on much.

My biggest fuck-up of 2008, however, did present itself with a neat, closure-offering endgame, and I blew it. I would've been one of the lucky few to catch an early look at one of the most anticipated and critically-beloved American-made horror films of the last decade. But, no.

Through Fangoria magazine's website, I got myself on a list for a free Trick 'r Treat screening in downtown Manhattan back in October, and I was ecstatic. Impatiently awaited the big day for over a month. Kept re-reading every early review of the Michael Dougherty-written/directed horror anthology, smiling and giddily reacting to every fawning ounce of praise and declaration that Trick 'r Treat is "the best Halloween movie of all time." Better than John Carpenter's Halloween, they say, and a better anthology film than Creepshow. Add on the fact that pussyfooted Warner Bros. has held the film captive for about two years now, unsure how to release and market the thing when they should've just released it in one of the last two Octobers and called it a day, and everything surrounding this film had me mega-amped to see the thing.


Notice the release date on the poster: October 2007.....yeah, not quite.

On the long-awaited day (October 13, 2008), I exited the office early. Hopped on the 1 train. Arrived in the theater's neighborhood with an hour to spare before showtime. Nobody waiting outside the theater in tightly-packed procession yet. Should I be the first, front and center? Snag the best seat in the house? Would've been brilliant. I was starving, though, so the sight of a Subway prompted me to feed the beast. I figured, "There won't be that many people at this screening, so I can get there 20 minutes beforehand, no problem." There was a long line at Subway, of course, so by the time I ordered and consumed my 'grilled chicken breast on whole wheat bread, with chipotle dressing" dinner, it was 25 minutes until the movie started. Fuck, I thought, I better hustle. I turned the corner, and my mouth dropped-----there was a line down the block about 60-people deep to see the shit, and they had already started letting people into the venue. My balls were kicked. Hopes, dashed. There wasn't a chance in Hades that I was getting in ("first come, first seated"). My one chance to see Trick R Treat with a crowded audience, the way it's meant to be experienced, was botched. All because I was hungry and couldn't resist the allure of a $5 footlong. Fuck you, Jared.

At first, I was ready to bring the fury down on the douchebags at Fangoria who confirmed RSVPs for upwards of 100 people when the theater only seated about 60. But then I only blamed myself. I've never looked at a bread guest-starring-meat sandwich" Subway sandwich the same again.

Until now, when I, or any other horror/film fan in the know, would ever get to see Trick 'r Treat was uncertain. Warner Bros. press releases repeatedly flirted with the notion of a straight-to-DVD release, only to then renig and tease with a possible theatrical run. The latest news, though, feels somewhat locked-in, and that's the semi-announcement this week that Warner Bros. will release Trick 'r Treat on DVD/Blu-Ray this October. A theatrical release to coincide with? Doubtful, but you never know.

Here's the new trailer:



October can't come soon enough. And please believe, I'll be checking Fangoria's website on a daily basis to see if another free screening is scheduled. Second time's a charm.

Trailer and news from: Shock Til You Drop

Thousands of patient, loyal fans are about to get their just due.....

It's about damn time, huh? Finally, after years of false release dates, widespread fanboy blue balls, bittersweet nostalgia, and a ever-growing support base, MTV's cult sketch comedy series The State is hitting shelves in DVD format on July 14. A five disc set bringing Louis and his gold balls, Barry and Levon, the Prodigal Toothbrush, and every other hilarious skit together, at last. This overlooked gem of a comedy show only aired for two years (1993-1995), but has slowly built a faithful legion of lovers over the course of 14 years. No easy feat there. .



The State's alumni members have gone on to quietly strongarm modern-day comedy: directing the films Wet Hot American Summer and Role Models (David Wain), creating and starring in Comedy Central's Reno 911! (Thomas Lennon, Ben Garant, and Kerri Kenney), writing Night at the Museum and its upcoming sequel (Lennon and Garant, again), starring in Starz' new hands-down winner of a show Party Down (Ken Marino), stealing every one of VH1's "I Love the Whichever Decade" specials (Michael Ian Black), and a slew of other accomplishments. Who doesn't love Joe Lo Truglio in Superbad ("The tiger got outta the cage, man!"), or even Pineapple Express? Yup, he's also from The State.




Any time one of these post-State jobs is discussed amongst friends, I namedrop the respective funny-person's original home, but I'm routinely met with blank stares and disinterest. Save for some cousins and one of my friends (Ms. Cendra, if you're out there reading this), not one person I know can cite their favorite skit, and that's a shame. Will this new DVD set change that? Can a new crop of viewers be won over? I'd like to think so, but the end result is ultimately meaningless around here. I'm just happy that I'll have the entire series in my possession, rather than strolling down memory lane in Youtube's clip-heavy car.

My fondest memory of The State: staying up late with my Uncle Greg to watch the episodes in their first runs, his disregarding whatever babysitter rules he should've been following ("Put the kid to bed by 11pm, the latest") so we could watch Louis interrupt the Last Supper to dip his balls into something, to laugh our asses off as a grade school staring contest is ante-upped with the presence of a dude in full clown makeup. One of the happier memories of my adolescence, no doubt.

Here's a sketch that the cousins and I used to quote like we were being paid to do so:


True story, I actually did own a "Best of" The State VHS back in high school, but I gave it to the girl-of-my-high-school-dreams, a gift of personal romance. I figured, what better way to leave a permanent impression on this girl for when after our blossoming thing evaporates than to bestow her with something we mutually find hilarious despite our friends' lack of mutual enjoyment? Her heart went a-flutter, then she broke mine, and I was never able to watch "Porcupine Racetrack" again. Talk about your all-time backfires.

Come July 14, though, it'll be full-circle time.

First learned over at: Chud

The Pain I Felt (While Watching Adventureland)

There's a scene towards the end of Greg Mottola's Adventureland that rampaged my gut harder than I ever expected the film to, and I've been grappling with "why" since I saw this last week.



It's a heartbreaking moment clearly staged with every intention to ring a few tears from the audience, though let's be clear that I didn't cry, at all (I'm a man, dammit! Actually, that defense is moot, since I recently nearly shed some eye water while watching Dear Zachary, thus proving movies can do it to your boy at times). James Brennan, the film's curly-haired, cool customer despite his somewhat dweebish demeanor (played to the nice tee by Jesse Eisenberg), has learned some world-shattering secrets that bring his summer love Em Lewin (Twilight's Kristen Stewart, here proving that she's a solid actress and much more than what that shitty vampire series makes her out to be). Crumbling inside despite his best efforts to hide the exterior pain, James confronts Em on the street in front of her side-guy's house. The scene, lasting no more than a minute, features some wonderful non-verbal emoting by Stewart, her face cringing and contorting in shame and sadness, while Eisenberg rips into her with PG-13-compatible force.

And then it's over, and I was left in a state of sorrowful confusion. As if, I was James, and I was experiencing the first catastrophic heartbreak of my freshly-in-post-college-stage life. A week removed from seeing Adventureland now, I'm pretty sure I know why the scene slugged me as harshly as it did, and the answer lies in Mottola's Superbad follow-up's overall success---how he captures that cliched, rarely executed properly "real life" aesthetic. There's no doubt that Mottola himself (he wrote Adventureland, as well as directed) went through a painfully similar emotion-devastation in his younger years, probably not unlike the scene that plays out between his James and Em characters. Every note rings true. So much good will has been earned for the characters up until this point of collision that watching their blooming love crack is akin to helplessly seeing a best friend go through the relationship ringer. James needs a beer, that you'd gladly buy for him, but that's not a possibility. You're stuck in the theater, and he's trapped in that damaging big screen scene.



On the whole, Adventureland is a pleasant surprise. In no way as hilarious as Superbad, but that's the film's biggest attribute, how it goes for the natural laughs over the sophomoric, sight gag types. How the central romance between James and Em tries with very little effort yet is ultimately better and more believably-plotted than any on-screen romance I've seen in recent times. Sure, the great duo of Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig is totally underused, and that juvenile "Tommy Frigo" friend of James' brings nothing more than obvious "sight gags" that are thankfully minimal but always tone-trivializing. Adventureland isn't without its flaws, and those who fall victim to the "from the guy who brought you Superbad" marketing campaign may leave the film a bit peeved that they weren't served any penis drawings or McLovin-like larger than life characters (though Martin Starr's incredibly awkward "Joel" does try his damndest to be that guy). If you go into the film with an open mind and a a willingness to ride shotgun with Mottola down his memory lane, you'll exit with those warm, fuzzy stomach-knots, reminded of that first or second love and all the ups and downs he/she brought with him/her.

As for that breakup scene in the street, I can't help but be reminded of a certain Senior Year high-school heartache of my own. Mine took place on the phone, while lying on the floor of my bedroom, so it wasn't as publicly vulnerable as that in Adventureland. But it sliced my arteries just as much, if not more, for reasons I'll leave to myself, for now. I'm guessing that those who see the film will have love-less, sucky memory of their own drudged up.

You'll have Greg Mottola, Kristen Stewart, and Jesse Eisenberg to thank for that therapy bill.

Dan Akroyd: "Hey, do you wanna see something really scary?" Me: Yes, dammit!

The odds of this new The Haunting in Connecticut scaring me in any way, shape, or shriek are slimmer than Nicole Richie's waist, yet I'm still seeing it later tonight. When it comes to horror flicks that my better judgment says will be mediocre at best, I'm a total masochist. Minus the ball strapped into my mouth, or hands tied behind my back. Instead, overpriced fountain soda in hand, significantly leaner wallet in pocket. The main problem I have with modern-day "haunted house films" is that they never, ever steer clear of convention, jacking scenes and set-ups from the infinitely superior classics. It's best to accept that no film of this ilk will ever come within a peachfuzz-hair-strand of Stanley Kubrick's The Shining, or 1963's The Haunting---both stellar in all facets. Hell, these new flicks don't even stand a chance of topping the original, not-as-good-as-those-two-greats Amityville Horror, even when they're blatant moving-photocopies (see The Haunting in Connecticut).



Yet, I'll continue to spend hours upon hours in darkly lit theaters watching these latest attempts, because I'm sucker for horror-love. I can't help but feel pounds of inner sadness, though, at the dreadful feeling that it's become nearly impossible for a new ghost story to give me the shivers. Have me frozen in my seat, overpriced fountain soda poking at my bladder in a state of "Let me out, man! This shit is freaking me out, too! And I'm liquid nothingness!" Maybe I'm too seasoned of a viewer. Or perhaps I'm putting too much stake in a film's necessity of at least bringing fond memories of The Shining to mind for all the right, effective, successful reasons. It's not even a matter of a PG-13 rating, either. Initially, I cringe at that teeny-bopper-targeted rating for a horror flick, but when I sit back and think clear of prejudice, I realize that something as wonderful and simple as The Haunting, if released today, would very well earn a mere PG rating, no 13 required. Scares can be scored without gore or wanton violence; it's all about the execution.

Which brings me to a little rarely-seen-by-most United Kingdom TV movie from 1989, The Woman in Black. I forget which cable channel it was that I first saw this film on, back when I was barely out of grammar school. But boy, did it treat my mind like a cow's ass being branded.

IMDB'S plot synopsis: "When a friendless old widow dies in the seaside town of Crythin, a young solicitor is sent by his firm to settle the estate. The lawyer finds the townspeople reluctant to talk about or go near the woman's dreary home and no one will explain or even acknowledge the menacing woman in black he keeps seeing. Ignoring the towns-people's cryptic warnings, he goes to the house where he discovers its horrible history and becomes ensnared in its even more horrible legacy."

A couple years ago, I came across it for cheap on Amazon.com and immediately threw it into my DVD arsenal, and wouldn't you know it.....The Woman in Black still scares the piss out of me. I've long tried putting my finger on exactly why it frightens me on par with The Shining and those classics, maybe even more so in ways. There's no question that the Woman in Black herself carries the lion's share of the blame; speechless, motionless and with those piercingly-dead eyes, she's the epitome of "scary old lady." Pad her presence with the film's overall bleak Gothic tone (courtesy of director Herbert Wise), and you have a recipe for minimalist success that today's filmmakers wish they could pull off.



Two scenes in particular have done wonders for my insomnia over the years. The first is something of an infamous "Oh shit!" moment amongst horror heads in the know, deservedly so----the lawyer is shuffling about restless in bed, standard nocturnal practice. Like most of us do, he concedes defeat and sits up, but unlike all of us, he is met with the Woman in Black hovering over his bed. A shock moment if there ever was one. The second is the film's final moment, a denouement that bleeds with tragic macabre----not to entirely spoil it (though, chances are none of you will have the opportunity to see this flick unless it's on my watch, which is unfortunate), but it's the unhappiest of endings, taking place on a lake after the lawyer thinks he's escaped the Woman in Black's clutches forever. While on a little rowboat with his wife and infant child, he learns that the scary old bitch isn't done with him yet. I remember distinctly just how bruised and gut-punched this final scene left me the first time I watched. Just devastating.


watch the picture behind him at the 1:02 mark

Part of me thinks that I should just go home and re-watch The Woman in Black tonight, rather than drop coin on The Haunting in Connecticut. I'd surely fulfill my want-to-be-scared-this-evening quota. For free, too. That's not going to happen, of course, and I'll soon be exiting the 34th Street AMC theater with equals droplets of annoyance and frustrations.

Despite the fact that I neglected to bring an extra pair of clean underwear with me today, I'd totally pay an extra $10 for the Woman in Black to appear as a theater usher tonight. While the attention-deficit, manufactured-Hollywood-crap-garbling audience around me wouldn't even bat an eyelash, I'd be intensely shook.

Dear Matt: A Letter to a Friend from a Friend

Just reread that last post. This one right here is the definition of a much more "sober" state-of-mind.

Offering thoughts that even blink at a "review" about something like Dear Zachary: A Letter to a Son about His Father seems wrong. Unfair. Foolish. High-horse douchebaggery. How can any critic/writer ponder the faults of a documentary that's totally rooted in the filmmaker's personal tragedy, constructed from a brutally heartfelt place, and intended for a grieving family member? Fuck out of here. All you should ever do with something like this film is experience it and allow it to move you in ways that its balance of pain and love could only execute.



Fortunately for the critical world's sake, though, Dear Zachary has received universal acclaim and adoration. I'd read about the flick all of last year, but was never able to check it out until today, courtesy of trusty Netflix. And wow, I lost count as to how many times I was on the verge of tears. Filmmaker Kurt Kuenne pulls off such a well-rounded, flawless study of a beloved friend and the aftermath of his murder at the hands of a mentally-unstable older-lady lover that you leave the flick with a "I feel like I now actually know this Andrew Bagby fella, and what a great guy he was" sensation. Kuenne travels cross country and up into Newfoundland to interview practically every person Bagby came into contact with throughout his 28-year life, and through these candid, fearless sitdowns I immediately realized just how cherished he was by everybody in his life.

And then, the way Kuenne shifts the tone from happy retrospective to a dread-soaked murder recount is so sudden, so effective. I'm opting not to dissect Dear Zachary here, simply because I think it's a film that deserves to be seen firsthand, rather than relayed from my eyes.



While watching, I was reminded of something that happened to me back after my college graduation. One of the top five most amazing things that anybody has ever done for me, and easily the greatest graduation gift a dude could ask for. I'm not currently in the mood to write the page into a tizzy with an all-encompassing "college experience" account, though, so I'll just drop you into the days surrounding graduation from St. John's University, out in Jamaica, Queens, which I really do miss a bunch. When I look back on that four-year saga, there are many people who stand out for good reasons---friends I've sadly lost touch with, friends I'm still close with, and friends I wish I could've gotten to know more.

The one person who truly left her mark, however, was Ms. Day (which I'll keep referring to her here as, to keep identities somewhat disclosed to those who don't who I'm talking about). Nearly three years of some the biggest heartbreaks I've ever experience. Some of the closest feelings to "love" that I've ever been met with. Some of the toughest life-changing, eye-opening happenings I'll ever endure. I wouldn't take back or change a thing, though. She and I grew up so much together that all of the good and bad feels necessary to this day. Lessons ranging from racial acceptance and awareness to basic dating-ritual rights and wrongs were mutually absorbed. It was a hell of a relationship.


Ms. Day isn't in this pic, but it's still fitting. SJU, circa 2004.

The "She's truly something special" deal was sealed the moment she gave me my graduation gift: my very own "Matt DVD," which is this documentary-styled short film she and one of our on-campus co-workers put together by interviewing a slew of my closest friends and associates at St. John's. Asking each person all about me, capturing their kindest words and funniest memories. Due to time constraints and the general flakiness of mankind, they weren't able to interview everybody that mattered to me, but I'd say they managed to compile an impressive 70%.

The first time I watched the Matt DVD, I actually shed a few tears. Facial raindrops. One thing about myself that I hardly ever share with people is just how insecure and self-conscious I can be, a truth that has recently faded away piece by piece thanks to my successess and realizations of just how fortunate I am. But back in college, shit wasn't as sweet. Nowhere near. I can specifically recall times when I'd cry alone in my room, asking myself What was wrong with me? Why is it so difficult to look in a mirror? So to have somebody go through the efforts to make a multi-person testimonial in my honor was mind-blowing. Unbelievable. Therapeutic. Amazing. Life-changing (there it is again). I'd never realized that people at SJU really fucked with me on a respect-level. Heads who you would've considered to be the "big men on campus," or the "ladykillers," and even the "hot chicks."



I'm confident in saying that the Matt DVD was my first real step toward self-acceptance, and I have Ms. Day to thank for that.

Time to time, I toss the Matt DVD back into my DVD player and go back to Queens, in spirit. People looked so much younger. Things were much more innocent. I just finished watching it again, promptly as Dear Zachary came to its conclusion, and that knot in my throat, the jiggling of the eyelids returned. The Matt DVD is completely positive, and in no way on par with Dear Zachary's profound impact. But in a way, the two "documentaries" are kindred entities. Both were made out of love and appreciation, and both are intended to serve as letters to their focal subject(s).

And both do chin-ups on my heart.

Though I've been trying my hardest to avoid jumping on the pre-release-hype bandwagon....

.....I've now officially succumbed. "Spike Jonze tackling a surreal, wonderful children's book that I loved back in the early grammar school days" can no longer be ignored.



Loving this poster. Word is that the first full-length trailer for Where The Wild Things Are will show itself in a couple of weeks. I'll save a post for it. Of course.

Saluting an old, true friend.

Last night, Tobe Hooper's The Funhouse (1981) failed to live up to expectations set upon it by critical write-ups and general secondhand nostalgic appreciation, so I went into tonight's '80s-makeup-of-lost-time-watching, Stuart Gordon's Dolls (1987), with a palpable dose of apprehension.



Dolls struck me as a kindred spirit to The Funhouse, from its trapped-in-a-scarehouse setup (this time, motorists stranded at the home of a couple psychotic geezers who make killer toys) to its director, Stuart Gordon, a second-string horror giant with an uneven resume, a la Funhouse's Hooper. Glad to report, however, that Dolls is superior in nearly every way. Much more fun, balancing self-awareness with gleeful macabre. Still has its hefty share of faults, mainly in its lack of any pure tension despite its good ideas and too much goofiness, whether intentional or not. But in all, Dolls is slightly-more-than-passable entertainment on a quiet Monday night.

Unsurprisingly, Dolls has registered on a much more personal reflection level than any degree of cinematic stimulation. The reason: as a kid, I had tons of dolls. Action figures galore, from scattered G.I. Joes and Star Wars' (and I'm not even a Star Wars "fan," per say) "men" to every single Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles figurine visible to man's eye. Stuffed animals ranging from a Super Grover (silver cape and all) to Teddy Ruxpin (Teddy was my man...wanna fight about it?).

The cream of my toy closet's crop, though, was none other than the coolest doll of them all: My Pet Monster



My Pet Monster and I went to hell and back together. For as long as my imagination could sustain at any given time, the two of us fought off zombies, hung out with my imaginary friend Tim (who died in a house fire in Fair Lawn, fake story; I could even show the exact house that my childish mind pegged as his charcoal tomb), tormented my family's house-cats. Wherever I went, My Pet Monster traveled shotgun. Up until about age ten or eleven, I'm pretty sure that My Pet Monster ate with me at the dinner table, much to my parents' raised eyebrows. But public opinion meant nathan to me, because My Pet Monster was my co-defendant. See, I didn't get a dog until the first day of high school, freshman year, so My Pet Monster was really all I had when social interactions petrified me, or immature insecurities reigned triumphant over my adolescent subconscious. Shit, who knows where I'd be without MPM.



These days, he's lyin dormant at my parents' house. Resting comfortably in the top shelf of my bedroom's closet, all shoddy and worn down. Faded, some stitching having come undone. I remember a couple years back, I went to Toys 'R' Us to get my niece a Christmas gift. What an awesome, never-wanted-it-to-end experience that was. Aisle after aisle of melancholy memories, wishing I could be a little kid again, realizing that those days will never be again. And then, as some sort of cruel joke from up above, there it was. A new and improved My Pet Monster, a bit more gray than blue in coloring, but still with the same physical build and orange chain. I stood there in the aisle, frozen in happiness, for a solid two minutes straight. Pondering, Should I just buy this for myself? Would my own elder My Pet Monster be jealous?

Ultimately, I decided to save the $25 and put it toward an extra gift for Baby G. I figured, The MPM that's been nothing buy loyal to me all of these years is all I need. To get by. Byyyyyy. A slicker, modernized model couldn't offer anything worth shaming my old dude.



My Pet Monster was my original BFF, and I now have Stuart Gordon's Dolls to thank for bringing those fond recollections back into my mind's forefront. Indirectly. The namesake porcelain protagonists in Gordon's films are nothing like My Pet Monster, really. It just goes back to a line voiced by the evil old man character, something to the effect of (and I'm paraphrasing here), "Your toys never forget. They're always with you." Like MPM is surely smiling back at the 'rents', happy that his mans and them is doing well. Living life. Healthy and all that.



If I had more time on my hands, I'd now go into my other childhood partner-in-crime, Billy Baloney. The Pee Wee's Playhouse character that my parents brought into my world during the MPM years, and who battled through mutual jealousy with the Pet Monster before shaking hands and mutually accepting similar BFF duties in my life.



One of these days, I'll opine over Mr. Baloney. For now, though, this is My Pet Monster's moment. Time to let him stand under the streetlight.

Garbage Pail Kids, brought back into the forefront (momentarily)

Most New Jersey lifers associate the Jersey Shore with meathead/guido-filled clubs such as Temps or Merge; others dream of eating sloppy cheesesteaks while walking the boardwalks with family. Oh, please don't associate the Jersey Shore with that loser Tommy Cheeseballs from MTV's True Life special, out-of-staters. Yes, most of the dudes down there in the summer are as lame as your boy Tommy, but that doesn't mean its a bad place. He's about as piss-poor a tourism advocate as a Cancer-Grabbing Crane Machine in an arcade. I, on the other hand, distinctly recall the days of exiting my grandfather's oceanside trailer with my brother to hit the local convenience store, where packs of Garbage Pail Kids trading cards awaited us, in bulk. My parents, the supportive types that they've forever been, shelled over bills voluntarily, and without argument, even though they were fully aware that my bro and I were about to purchase little pieces of tree-carcus designed with pics of kids in nasty predicament, the likes of "Disgusting Justin" or "Intense Payne." Such juvenile absurdity made us happy, though, which was the important part.



Over some Indian cuisine last night amongst friends, the topic of Garbage Pail Kids came up. Courtesy of yours truly, naturally. Turned out that three out of our four-head dinner party had collected these as kids, a higher ratio than I was anticipating. Seeing a green light, I went on to tell the sadly-true story of one particular Garbage Pail Kid, the name of which escapes me at the moment, but whose image is still stained onto my brain. It was of this little kid being sucked into the drain at the foot of his bathtub, and it looked more horrifying than any scare film I've ever watched. I was somewhere in between eight and eleven years old at the time, so my pussy-footed ways were excusable, but fuck was I petrified to take a bath after first seeing that card. Feet never touched the bath drain ever since, even to this day. Any time my big-toe inches near the drain, visions of a vacuum-like force pulling my body in surface mentally, bringing to mind that scene from the Creepshow 2 (best of all within that overall-meh flick) installment "The Raft," when the jock-y dude Deke is pulled underneath the raft, his left leg violently snapping upward, by that oil-slick monster. Not a good mental look.



Less than 24 hours after our dinnertime chat, coincidentally, Topless Robot (the best nerd site on the 'Net) has posted a list of the 13 best Garbage Pail Kids of all time. Debatable and lacking that bathtub-set one, it's still great to see others paying as much close-eye to the wonderfully-sick children's card series. The least you could do is visit Topless Robot and see for yourselves, then:

Full List: Topless Robot's "13 Greatest Garbage Pail Kids"

Show Your Face: Marla Sokoloff

Thinking about making "Show Your Face" a re-appearing column here, assuming this first one doesn't come off too stalkerish/loser-like. Very well could. Fuck it, 'tis what 'tis.

When I tell people that I rarely fall asleep before 1am on weeknights, I'm usually met with either screwfaces or rants about how unhealthy that is or how I need to stop watching bullshit television and get some rest. Both valid points, facts that I consider every night as I sit in bed flipping through cable looking a flick to captivate me long enough for my eyes to grow too-heavy. it's a terrible routine, but one I'm a bit too weak-minded to conquer.

The other night, at around 1:30am, I was met with the throwaway teen comedy Whatever It Takes (2000), which is one of the many lowest-common-denominator "nerdy teen wins over popular looker" flicks that hit in the wake of She's All That's success. Perhaps the one redeeming quality for those flicks was that virtually every one co-starred a young on-the-riser who'd go on to bigger, more credible things: Entourage's Adrian Grenier was in the god-awful Drive Me Crazy, for instance. In Whatever It Takes, James Franco (whose career is hotter than Paris Hilton's fire-crotch these days) played the douchebag jock, and he actually exuded "moronic masculinity" much better than the film deserved.



"Why would you put myself at the mercy of only five hours of sleep just to watch Whatever It Takes in its wholeness?," you may ask. Two excuses: 1) shamefully, I'm a fan. For my cheddar, it's actually the best of its kind, full of enough asinine sight gags, occasionally snappy dialogue, and young character actors with talent to win me over without much effort. But 2), and this brings me to the "essence" of this post, seeing it on the tube the other night reignited my once-potent eyes for Marla Sokoloff, who steams up the screen with her half smiles, gaze-into-us-baby eyes, and utterly underrated frame.



And now, the true point to all of this: where in the hell is Marla Sokoloff? Somebody get me a milk carton, because she's been missing in action for far too long.

To give a full picture of my longtime love for this chick, I have to confess one of my darkest secrets, one that I've foolishly shared with a select few over the years.....I'm a closet Full House junkie. Actually own one of the season sets on DVD, which I conveniently bury under stacks so it's left unseen by the naked eye. Will watch from start to finish whenever a rerun airs. Have been the butt of endless insults spewed by my parents and brother as a result. Couldn't give a fuck less that Blender magazine once rated it as the "gayest" show ever, or some shit like that. It was, and remains, the ultimate guilty pleasure.

Full House was a show I watched religiously back when it was first airing, so I was around the same age as Stephanie Tanner, grew up alongside her. Initially had a thing for her, Miss "Future Druggie" Jodie Sweetin, but that all evaporated the moment badass Gia, played by---you guessed it---Marla Sokoloff, stepped foot on the screen to coax Stephanie into doing drugs in the girl's bathroom. Love struck, and was thankfully allowed to grow as her character hung around, given an expanded presence as Stephanie's best friend in later seasons.



So when I first saw Sokoloff in Whatever It Takes back in 2000, you can imagine the joy. She'd grown up into one of the more intriguingly attractive actresses in the game, and I was pleased. Shit, I even tuned into a few episodes of The Practice just to check her in action, and I loathe hourlong lawyer shows. She dated James Franco for a short time, I recall, but other than that she kept a low profile, making it that much tougher to stay abreast. No surprise that she stayed out of the lights; her most recognizable facial expression was that disinterested, cold, you-gotta-work-for-this scowl.



Perhaps I should've watched more of The Practice, though, because that's pretty much the last notable thing she did, and that ish ended in 2004. So, again, I'll lather the question into pop culture: where the hell is Marla Sokoloff, and why isn't she working? It's most likely a voluntary decision to exile herself from the entertainment industry. Whatever the case, I demand answers.

The Battle of the Bootleg E.T.s

Last weekend, by chance, or divine intervention if you're like me and view such things as positive, I basked in the sheer awfulness of a forgotten '80s piece-of-shit film, Ghoulies 2 (1987). Yes, that much-needed, plothole-filling sequel to 1985's Ghoulies, that for some odd reason took place at some cheap-ass local carnival and neglected the cardinal rule of a horror film: at least attempt to create some tension.


Never before, or after, has a movie's poster image been so metaphorical.

My friends who were also watching knew all about the film, yet ironically enough I, Mr. Movie Junkie, knew nothing other than a basic knowledge gained by having seen its predecessor. As Ghoulies 2 plodded forward, though, I realized just how fortunate I'd been. Truly one of the worst movies I've ever seen. One of those flicks that has me wondering throughout, "How in all that's mighty did this even get made?" Of course, the bar was set much lower for genre cinema back in the glorious 1980s, but still. I wish Youtube had the entire carnival-set climax, one of the most overlong, tension-free, all-around-botches setpieces imaginable, 15 minutes of the ghoulies (who are more cuddly than creepy) causing little more than slapsticky mischief throughout the premises. Making people fall off of rides, have refreshments splatter all over their clothes. Stuff that'd make you laugh, not shriek. It turns into a Farrelly Brothers horror film, and, yes, that's as horrible as it sounds written out.

That hungover afternoon, Ghoulies 2 was a total fuck-off of time. An hour and a half I shouldve dedicated to reading, or eating, or bashing my head into a wall. Now, though, a full two weeks removed from that debacle, I see the fateful purpose of that viewing nightmare. Earlier today at work, I brought Ghoulies 2 up to a co-worker who also appreciates a good piece of schlock moviemaking, in hopes that he'd share my angry sentiment. Much to my shock, he actually sang the film's praises; apparently, he has a higher tolerance for feces than I. But right as I was about to toss insults and bile his way for such an unjustifiable opinion, he hit me with the nostalgic A-bomb: "That reminds me, have you ever seen Muchies, or Munchie Strikes Back?"



My mind was blown. No, I thought, I've never even heard of those. Do tell. Rather than depending on his gift of gab to do his dude Munchie justice, he kept it at, "The first one was a Gremlins ripoff, but then the sequel brought it into some shitty E.T. ripoff territory for no apparent rhyme or reason. But the sequel is awesome." He then expressed his love of all things Gremlins-esque, meaning those Ghoulies flicks, the Critters series, and the Munch. "Those movies are all great, but Munchie is still the ultimate badass."



And then he advised that I consult Youtube for some clips of Munchie in action. After watching these following two clips, I realized the divine reason behind that Ghoulies 2 experience:




Leather jacket and a varsity sweater? Munchie had style, son. How was he not a bigger genre icon back in the '90s? Oh, right, because his movies were atrocious abortions. Yet, I can't deny the power of Munchie, and how badly I need to see Munchie Strikes Back (1994) while drunk and/or stoned. Do they even sell it on DVD? If so, should I buy it right now, or wait 'til tomorrow?

After meeting Munchie, I figured I'd try putting my co-working friend on to another E.T. jackoff that I watched whenever on cable back in the day: Meathead, that Big Mac-loving alien who charmed his way through Meatballs 2 (1984), another sequel that, like Munchie Strikes Back, totally diregarded anything and everything about its namesake original.



Check Meathead out in live action, and decide which extraterrestrial/creature BFF you'd rather chase some tail with....Munchie, or this guy---Meathead:

The Arrival and Discovery of Meathead


I'm going with Munchie, only because he'd be much better for my rap. Meathead is more the dude you confide in after Munchie's arrogant, smooth-talking ways grind your gears thin.

In conclusion ..... Munchie > Meathead (but only by a slim margin)



Congrats, Munch.

Mama says....

Let's give the movie stuff a rest for a second, shall we? Good.

Nothing much to say about this video. It's star is a clone of Spuds Mackenzie, that old beer spokesdog that I loved so much as a kid that my mom sent me a birthday card from Spuds himself, signed by him and everything. Of course, I wasn't even past the 2nd grade yet so I assumed that Spuds had in fact figured out how to hold a pen and neatly, legibly sign a birthday card for some little loser in suburban New Jersey that he didn't even know existed. Was 2nd grade a bit too old to believe such a thing, you ask? Wanna fight about it? And this Spuds doppelganger has a unique bark that sounds an awful lot like it's saying "Mama," and then some weird Euro trance beats kick in, and you're ready to put a leash on this bitch and take it to Pacha for some dancing.



Come to think of it, there actually is a way I can relate to this film.

The way this pooch says "Mama" instantly reminded me of the enigmatic '80s horror turd Spookies, specifically the beginning of the nonsensical end climax where that pudgy zombie pops up in front of our heroine and calls her "Mommma! Mommma! Maaaaaaaa!" See for yourselves at the 1:50 point of this Spookies ending clip, and compare/contrast:



God what a piece of feces Spookies is. But oh how I do love it.

Dog video spotted over at: Film Drunk

The VHS Days -- Hysterical (1983)

Rather than flub this post and act like I'm some kind of expert on these guys, I'll just be Frank (like my dad's first name): I know nothing about the Hudson Brothers other than their work in this film. My parents have said that they were a reasonably funny trio of comedic siblings, also reasonable in their level of fame at that time. I guess, think the Caucasian, lesser-numbered '80s equivalent to the Wayans Brothers, this being their Scary Movie. (Imagine if they'd made an '80s equivalent to White Chicks? It would've been called Black Girls, I'd fear to assume, and would've made C. Thomas Howell's racially-sketchy Soul Man seem like a NAACP-film-production.)

As far as I know, and/or really care, however, they're the shameless dudes behind 1983's pretty-much-forgotten Hysterical, an uneven-at-best horror spoof that'll forever hold a warm place in my heart, even if its universally deemed a $5-footlong shit sandwich.



Oddly enough, I can't even recall how or why I initially watched Hysterical. If I had to guess, my dad must've put me on to it back in my grammar school days, knowing my fanatical love for the rated-R Night of the Living Dead and thinking that the PG (I believe) Hysterical featured a final setpiece full of zombies, yet it had the right hint of comedy so that he could watch it with me. Whether that was the case or not is meaningless here, anyway, because I fell in love with the grated-cheese that is Hysterical and frequently watched the final 20 minutes like an addict getting his zombie horror fix. No wonder I adored Shaun of the Dead from the moment I first set eyes on it alone in a theater on opening night, when none of my friends would expand their minds enough to tag long. Lames.



The story concerns a writer who moves into a spooky lighthouse, hoping the peace and scenic quiet will spark his next great novel. Of course, it doesn't, and instead the spirit of a ghost-lady takes over his body. Two knucklehead drifters, who resemble poor-man's-Indiana-Jones-wannabes, stumble onto the situation and try to exorcise the writer's demon, but all hell breaks loose and soon the townsfolk all turn into poorly-made-up zombies. In the process, tons of horror in-jokes pop up: you get the Friday the 13th-like creepy hobo elder who repeatedly warns the protagonists "You're doomed!" at every chance he gets; a slapstick exorcism straight out of (you guessed it) The Exorcist; a stubborn mayor willing to conceal a potential disaster in order to secure tourist profits, a la Jaws; and a final act that's equal parts The Fog and Night of the Living Dead. Hell, there's even this totally random, pointless Taxi Driver dig seen in the following clip:



Unfortunately, Hysterical is one of the many deserving films that has yet to receive the DVD treatment (right next to Night of the Creeps and Whiteboyz....yes, I said Whiteboyz; any film that features a scene where a corny-ass wigger gets stomped out for being a corny-ass wigger is worth a purchase). Actually, I think it's actually available on DVD, but only buy-able through used vendors who overcharge for it. "Out of print," in other words. Last year, however, I was able to retrieve the old dubbed VHS from my parents' basement. I watched it, instantly. The laughs just weren't as potent, sadly, and a piece of my childhood died on the spot. I've come to realize, though, that Hysterical's charms were purely products of the time I originally enjoyed them....my pre-teen years.

Back then, my sense of humor was hardly even juvenile. Shit, I found Jeff Goldbum's/Ed Begley Jr.'s Transylvania 6-500 to be comedy gold, and that's a horror-spoof even flimsier than Hysterical. Though, one deserving of a post entry similar to this one in the future, undoubtedly. Hysterical didn't have to genuinely be "funny," or even slightly intelligent. It just needed to include some big zombie setpieces (Check), jokes that even young horror heads could appreciate (Double Check), and not exceed 90 minutes in running time, to meet my immature attention span (Check Cubed).



Not even sure what brought Hysterical to mind tonight. Maybe because I just finished watching Quarantine on DVD, and pseudo-zombie vibe brought the undead to mind. Or, maybe I just need some feelgood laughter, something that early-year memories the likes of Hysterical can always register.

On The Grind: A Trip Back to Sexier TV Times

Excuse me while I indulge my inner 16-year-old boy....

As terrible the statement I'm about to make is, I must go on the record with it: Eric Nies was a godsend during my adolescent years. Not the man himself, exactly; as a dude, he seemed cool enough, but always carried this air of douchebag-ery that was immovable. Like your boy Dan Cortese, who never struck me as the most knowledgeable pseudo-jock yet was deemed by MTV as their say-all, end-all sports man. Nies, though, did have one thing going for him back in the mid-1990s---he came off as a guy who could genuinely bag any female of his choosing. An awesome ability to possess, obviously, and one that came into play conveniently while he was his MTV-serviced "office," a T&A haven better known as "poolside" or "faux-nightclub stage" where he'd act as host. The general housing of either workplace locale being known as MTV's The Grind.

Without The Grind, my early teen years would've been quite dreary. If memory serves me justly, The Grind aired every day at 4:30pm, a perfect window for me to be able to get home from the nervous social anxiety that was school and park my ass on the couch to watch some unbelievably-sexy ladies shake their stuff to the latest beats. Too young to enter a nightclub and too antisocial to care at that point, my daily ritual of watching The Grind met the "must watch women shake that ass" quota nicely, not to mention introducing me to the wonders of "lust" and "longing." Full of dancing beauties and Guido-ish guys (but we'll forget about the male distractions here), it was like forbidden fruit cooked into edible eye candy. Teeny-weeny bikinis, sun-drenched flesh, sweaty hourglass curves. That douche Eric Nies running the whole show, later being replaced by a pillar of sexiness during these years for me, Idalis De Leon. The Grind was 30 minutes of sin, minus having to perform any debauchery myself.



I look back on the scope of females I've found attractive over the years, and dated, or wish I'd dated, and nine times out of then they resemble the type of woman who would've been seen on The Grind. Meaning, I'll say without any shred of doubt that The Grind is hugely responsible for shaping the "type" of girl I go for, attraction-wise. The evolution of the "rap video chick" can be similarly held accountable in this case, but The Grind came first, therefore it's mostly responsible. Funny to think that some disposable piece of hormonal programming fluff could have such a profound impact on one of the more crucial aspects of a guy's life.


A prototypical female-of-interest....made so by The Grind

I remember there being three, maybe even four, specific Grind girls that I'd tune in specifically for, and boy were they forces of sexual nature. One was named Natasha, and she was a lightskinned piece of visual perfection blessed with curly hair and thickness for months. I have no clue what the other three dancers' names were, but, really, it doesn't matter, or mean two shits anyway. That was part of the show's hook---feeling like you're kicking it with some beautiful minx, yet not having to know anything about her other than the facts that she can dance her tight-ass off and that she's yours for 30 minutes a day, five days a week (and sometimes for extended playtime on the weekends, if reruns would allow such additional indulgence).

No strings attached. No questions asked. There was The Grind's one downside, though: tuning in was just foreplay, sadly going nowhere past the point of "the tease." Even worse than a strip club, truthfully, and I'm probably one of the only heterosexual men alive who'll flat out say that strip clubs do nothing for me, other than offer nice things to look at and subsequent "Never Gonna Get It" spins in my head, and not even that fine En Vogue video along with it. Just wasted money, inflated dreams that'll quickly fizzle, and even furter reminders of the caliber of female-sex-machines that are out of your league. Fuck all that.

This past Saturday night, some friends and I were at some club in the Manhattan, called The Imperial. Not a bad spot. Played a good-enough mix of songs, though tragically lacked The Dream's monstrous "Rockin' That Thang Like..." The girls in attendance were looking fetching, and I was intoxicated to a sufficient level. Guard was down, inhibitions mostly scrapped.

As I watched the ladies do their collective thing on the dancefloor, I couldn't help but think back to the days of sitting on that comfy couch, clicking on MTV, and passing 30 minutes by in the company of Natasha and her lady-friends. Only now, I was inches away from the dancers, able to reach and touch some if my nerves felt up to the task. Of course, that'd be grounds for a chick slapping the shit out of me, so I employed my usual approach: wait for eye contact and that "come hither" smile, and slowly move my way toward her before acting out the lyrics to Next's "Too Close."

As per usual, my luck materialized at least once. Ended up behind a curly-black-haired cutie at the urging of her friends. Proceeded to move our bodies simultaneously to the music. Grabbed each other's hands, kinda-passionately guiding the locked digits up and down the front of her body. Bringing things full circle, as if The Grind's Natasha had taken the form of the equally-gorgeous gal I was intertwined with.


She didn't look like this exactly, but I sure wish she did.

The only problem being, this wasn't poolside in Eric Nies' company, or even on the indoor soundstage close to my boo Idalis De Leon. No, this was The Imperial, smack dab in my reality, and the girl I was dancing ever-so-closely with turned out to be merely 18 years old, and was promptly removed from my vicinity by her older sister once they found that I'm nine years the girl's senior. How the fuck did her 18-year-old ass get into the club, anyway? Buzz...killed.

A cot-damn shame. But a necessary wake-up call. It wasn't The Grind; it was real life. Two totally different realms, one vastly superior to the other in its total land-of-make-believe nature.

Where was Eric Nies when I needed him?

And now, I'm ready for my students.

What a waste of dream-space.

Never have I fancied myself as an actor, or at least as somebody who'd ideally make for a talented on-screen-er. If for a second I ever thought I could do it above-average-capably, I totally would enroll in acting classes and give it a go. I mean, turn on any random cable movie channel and you'll see an average of five terrible actors at any given time, any given day. So I'm sure I could pull off a poorly-written character in some shitty straight-to-DVD horror flick that nobody outside of the genre-obsessive world would ever see anyway. Shit, maybe I should look into this a bit more, huh?

Any acting-rooted dreams of mine stop many day-hallucinations before giving an Academy Award acceptance speech, or anything of the want-to-be-acclaimed-as-an-acting-great such. Well, maybe I should retract that, come to think of it. Because the only real dream/goal/wish that I've ever had centered around being an actor is one that does in fact require a bit of greatness, or at least name-prestige.

You see, I've always harbored this secret desire to be interviewed James Lipton on my very own episode of Inside the Actors' Studio.....



....which is a bit surprising, since I absolutely loathe being the center of attention, anywhere. Hate it when all eyes and ears are honed in on me and what I have to say. Would much rather blend into the wallpaper, buzz about like a fly from wall to wall. Enjoy the perks of a certain locale without having to commandeer the bulk of its entertainment value. But there's something so cool to me about Inside the Actors' Studio. Whenever its on Bravo, I immediately cease all other actions and watch, regardless of the interview subject in question. Whether its Conan O'Brien or Matt Damon or Fran Fuckin' Drescher, I can't help but be captivated.

With this one, zero explanation as to why I'd want to watch is necessary:


Much credit should be given to Sir Lipton, for his disarmingly-relaxed demeanor as an interviewer, and the insane amounts of research he and his staff put in to digging into the actor's hidden past. The interview subjects, even if they're the introverted, quiet type (see James Gandolfini's episode), always give off clear degrees of respect and admiration to Lipton; they realize that this glasses-wearing, soft-spoken-yet-sharply-witty, cinema-encyclopeda sitting before them is a consummate professional. They're in great, experienced hands.

Maybe it's because, through my profession, I'm always the one interviewing people that any chance I have of being interviewed myself is one I welcome with enthusiastically-open arms. For whatever reasons, I strangely enjoy answering questions, especially ones about myself. I'm pretty much an open book, so I can answer any and all inquiries with quick honesty. Add in the fact that on Inside the Actors Studio your responses are being closely studied by an extremely-attentive audience, and my always-erratic confidence would be sky-high while seated next to the dude Jimmy Lipton.


Even Hellboy has been given the privilege.

Say that tomorrow Lipton himself hit my cell to request my presence for an experimental Actors' Studio interview. Something for his freshest crop of acting students, like an interview exercise to test their attention-capacities by enduring a two-hour long Q&A session with some anonymous 27-year-old from Jersey who watches weird films like it's his 9-to-5. I'd be armed and dangerous, packing two "me as an actor" childhood stories that I've never shared before. I'll save both in-detail-recollections for later posts here, but two quick teasers (as if these memories are trailers for Tranformers: Revenge of the Fallen and G.I. Joe or some shit...who am I kidding?): 1) My first thespian-ic moment came in the 4th grade, when I was selected by the faculty of St. Catharine's Interparochial School to play Jesus in the school's annual "Stations of the Cross" play in the church. I did it all....carried a paper-mache cross; consoled which ever female classmate of mine played Mary (probably Jen Bressor). It may have been the best Jesus portrayal this side of Jim Caviezel. Kidding, I'm sure I made Pauly Shore seem like Brando.

2) That same year, my class was involved in the D.A.R.E. program, and as part of our "graduation" ceremony, we had to break off into groups and put on five-minute skits that showed the drugs are bad, mmmkay? life lessons we had learned. I was the goodie-two-shoes kid in the class (sad but true, though not shocking in the least), so I had the genius idea that I'd play the druggie in the skit (like if Paris Hilton played a MENSA member). I also had the honor of conceptualizing the skit and developing the characters. My role ended being "T.J.," the bad-seed dude who tries peer-pressuring a couple of kids into buying pot. My wardrobe: a backwards Raiders cap, a black Raiders coat (Starter, of course), and some of the most stereotypically "thug" dialogue imaginable. Sample, off of memory: "Come on, don't be a loser, man! You ain't cool if you're not doing drugs. Word!"


I share the man's hatred of "custom ringtones," btw.

That's about the extent of my acting expertise. Nevertheless, I'll reach my final hour having never let go of my Inside the Actors' Studio dream. Considering that the likelihood of yours truly ever making it onto James Lipton's grand stage rivals the chances of Dubya Bush ever being considered "misunderstood," though, I'll now take part in a self-imposed-interview, through Lipton's infamous final questions (answered just now right off the top of my head):

1. What is your favorite word?
irreversible
2. What is your least favorite word?
swagger
3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
uniqueness
4. What turns you off?
arrogance
5. What is your favorite curse word?
fuck
6. What sound or noise do you love?
Gianna saying "I love you, Matt"
7. What sound or noise do you hate?
my alarm clock
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
fulltime screenwriter
9. What profession would you not like to do?
taxi driver
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"I have a room full of Amerie lookalikes ready to welcome you, Matthew."

Apocalypse Now: My Own Redux

Cinemax, in a wonderful bit of programming, is airing Apocalypse Now Redux, the extended cut of Francis Ford Coppola's flawless 1979 Vietnam War epic. It's a top three film of all time, entering the top two on any given day, flip-flopping with A Clockwork Orange for the reigning-champ slot. All three-and-a-half hours, impossible to turn off once its begun, impressive in infinite ways during every single frame.



The first time I saw Apocalypse Now was in its "redux" form. Super late to the game, and I'm somewhat ashamed to say that the only reason I saw it at that time (early into the Fall semester of my sophomore year at college, late-2001) was because the film class I was taking required me to do so. Professor Brady (a great man, who just so happened to be a large, dead ringer for Col. Sanders...."Something must be wrong with his madula oblangada!"), aware that Redux was playing for a limited time in a Dolby Surround Sound theater in the heart of Times Square, made seeing Apocalypse Now Redux our weekly homework assignment.

So I went with my friend/classmate Alex on an especially-frigid October evening, the wind blowing and howling into freezing bursts of face-punishing air. We bought our tickets, filed into the theater. Noticed that we made up the theater's entire population, a cool Two In Attendance. Of course, we sat many-a-seat away from each other, completely ignorant to the head-smashing experience that was about to rear its profound head. The movie started, the sounds blaring in crisp-force that would've made an IMAX screen jealous. And as the film progressed, I found myself lost in a seriously-warped mindstate. Obviously, I'm way too much of a spring chicken to have any clue as to what being in Vietnam felt like, but it's nearly impossible to not feel a certain "I'm actually there" sensation while watching Apocalypse Now, especially while seated in a dark, lonely cinema.



Coppola should forever be held atop a shrine for the feats he accomplished. Visually, every scene in the film feels brutally authentic, honest. Acting-wise, there's not a one even-teetering-on-mediocre performance in the lot, from the topliners (Martin Sheen, Marlon Brando, Robert Duvall, Laurence Fishburne) down to the nameless soldier who when asked by Sheen's "Captain Willard," "Hey, who's in charge here?" devastatingly responds in a panic: "Ain't you!?"





I won't delve too deeply into the technical astonishments of the film here, mainly because the film holds a much more personal meaning to me. There couldn't have been a better time for me to have seen Apocalypse Now for the first time than that nippy October night back in '01. Take a second to think back to what had just gone down at that time: 9/11. Being a New York City college student, the mood of fear, paranoia, an uncertainty sparked by those Twin Towers attacks held us all in a vice-grip for months. The strongest of fears I felt at that time was the potential "Army draft" that was ready to be reinstated. I love this country, sure, but fuck no; no way I wanted to go fight in any war, let alone one in enigmatic Iraq. How savage is the fighting over there? What good would my dying in combat really do over there? Am I strong enough to withstand the mental tug-of-wars and destruction-in-daily-plain-view?

Endless questions, zero answers. But then, I saw Apocalypse Now, right at the peak of my own nervous self-inquisitions. I saw what could be myself in teenage "Mr. Clean" (played by a young Laurence Fishburne, in his first major film role I believe), specifically during his death scene; as he's listening to a recording made by his mother back in the Bronx, updating him on all of his family's doings and declaring their undying love and support for him, ready for him to come back home after having "avoided those bullets." The boat is lit up with gunfire, and Clean is hit, dying instantly. We see his bloodied corpse sprawled out in the middle of the boat, as the recording keeps playing. I imagined my own mom's voice, telling me how Zoey was getting so big, and that my cousins ask about me on a ritualistic basis: "When is Matt coming back home?" And how she, while thinking about me and looking at pictures of yours truly alongise my pops, would have no clue that I was in fact lying dead inside some tank in the Iraqi slums.

In a movie overflowing with haunting images and surreal realities of a time past, Mr. Clean's death is the one that has since stuck in my head. I often play Clean's final moments back within my thoughts, despite not having seen Apocalypse Now in a couple of years (until today, that is; I own it on DVD, but haven't revisited in quite some time). It's a mental stain, but not a "stain" in that "fuck, I just spilled fruit punch on my sofa, and now it'll never come off" way; it's a "stain" in that the scene is permanent while being totally welcome, acknowledged as something important.

By the time the already-cerebral masterpiece reaches the dark jungles of Cambodia where once-celebrated-Army-titan-and-now-insane-war-criminal Col. Kurtz (played with controlled lunacy by the great Marlon Brando), I'm so lost in a trance that the sights of Dennis Hopper's drug-riddled, "Renfield"-ish madman and the real-as-sin animal slaughter hit like illegal punches after the bell has rung. The film is a reinterpretation of the classic story "Hearts of Darkness," a tale about a sane man who loses his marbles while amidst a primitive, savage society, realizing that his more-advanced ways could be seen as almighty, and proceeds to act as a sort of God for the primitives. That's exactly what has happened to Col. Kurtz in Apocalypse Now, and it's scary to think just how tasty sudden-power can be. So delish that it could shatter a man's sanity, make him forget about his loved ones and any code of ethics he once cherished.




Apocalypse Now....easily the most eye-opening, mentally-lasting film I've ever had the privilege of seeing in a theater. Really, I haven't scratched the surface on the many things I take out of this film, every time I sit down with it. But regardless of my given mood, the death of wee-lad Mr. Clean is the most unavoidably tattoo-ed.

I wanted to end this with a brilliant quote from the flick, but didn't want to go with the obvious ones: "The horror....the horror" or, "I love the smell of Napalm in the morning....it smells like victory." So, I've opted for:

"You see, there are two of you: the one who kills, and the one who loves."

I played this more than Brad Pitt did Miss Aniston

Last week, I did a little post centered on the old video game console of my youth, and ever since I haven't been able to stop dreaming about somehow playing Streets of Rage 2 again. Somehow, someway. It was a game that I could easily conquer in one sitting, yet I'd literally do said conquering once a day, sometimes twice if the schedule was light enough.



Streets of Rage 2 will forever hold the crown as "Best Video Game Ever Made," and those who feel differently, go forth and watch Philosopher Billy Madison debate the merits of Donkey Kong in the cafeteria, and simply insert Streets of Rage 2 in Donkey Kong's place.

Just give me Max Thunder, and watch me barrel through skater punks and trashy bikers; or request that I play with Axel Stone, and prepare to feel the "Grand Upper!"s and atomic force of a baseball hat to the skull. Or, an option that was more my speed back in my more innocent, discovering-the-opposite-sex days, let me play with cutie Blaze (in more ways than one, would've been the preferred scenario....double entendres about video game characters = sad).

You can keep puny, useless Skate, though. Speed and agility gets you nowhere but to "Game Over" land when you have 12 thugs all last-named Signal surrounding you on a pirate ship.




And how about the music here? I hate techno music as much as the next DJ-Premier-loving head, but if this shit came on in a club, I'd knock back some Petron, grab a glowstick, and find the nearest probably-on-drugs chick and watch her "rock that thang like..." (that The-Dream song jams hard, btw).

If Blaze were a real person, she'd be the first on-the-dancefloor dame I'd inch my way over to:


***Okay, this was officially the biggest nerd-post I've done yet. Kinda fun, though. Shall be plenty more like it....

Hoop Spleens/Leg Splints

Was talking about WPIX/Channel 11's old, amazing "Shocktober" ritual with a co-worker before, and I brought up the forgotten Wes Craven flick Deadly Friend, which starred the once-girl-of-my-dreams Kristy Swanson as a girl who dies but is then brought back to life by her BFF. But, being a cheesy horror movie, she of course comes back a bit less normal, a bit more homicidal.

This scene says it all. And if you seriously think this scene needs any real analysis or justification, I don't even wanna know you.




And then there's this fellow "Shocktober" flick, the so-inferior-to-its-predecessor-that-its-scary Creepshow 2. Inferior, yes, but not without its fair share of great moments, this being numero uno (skip to the 5:20 mark). This image fucked up me for years, and still makes me wince like a little bitch:

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.