Quiet, Apt-bound, Politically-Minded Saturday Night Thoughts.....

It's strange, really.

These last few weeks have found me with zero motivation to socialize, at least in a typical bar setting. When I wrote about such feelings before, it was more of a spur-of-the-moment thing, jotting down sentiments as they emerged. But here, I've actually given it some serious thought, having done nothing all night but chill around my apartment in scrubby-clothes, bouncing back-and-forth from this here laptop to research stuff to the DVD player in my bedroom (rewatched Identity earlier, such an underrated gem of twisty suspense and razor-sharp writing; stars John Cusack and Ray Liotta, in case the title alone doesn't jostle any memory. And it'll forever go down in my personal history as one of the only films where I had zero ability to solve the twisting-conclusion. Totally yanked the rug from up under my legs the first time I saw out in a dingy Queens theater on opening weekend back in 2003).



Planning on watching my next Netflix Fix whenever my roommate hits his bed, want to watch it on our big-screen, living room tube, not my tiny bedroom one. It's this classic French suspense joint called Diabolique, made in 1956. I hear its a fucking mind-blower, so my hopes are Yao Ming-high. Just need dude to go to sleep already, so its not like fuckin' 3am by the time I start the 2-hour flick.

I had a chance to go out tonight, when one of my friends sent me a text at like 11:15pm to tell me that he was heading to this spot here in Hoboken called Bahama Mamas, which is like a real tourist trap, the place where all out-of-towners hit first, and has some wannabe-thug dudes cooking up fights on ice-grilles. Really lame. Been there, gotten drunk in that. Numerous times. Besides, hitting me at 11:15?? Come on, man. If you're my friend and you know me, you'd know that I'm pretty much mentally locked in by around 11pm on whether or not I'm partying. Missed my motivation to leave here by about 15 minutes, my dude. Better luck next time. Anyway, all that would've happened if I tossed on some jeans and met up there....I walk in, bobbing and weaving through an overcrowded, loud setting, bumping into dudes by accident who look at me like they're tough, pissing me off, and then I finally get to my friends in the back of the spot, and they're all drunk bastards, to which I'd have to catch up in intoxication lightning-fast, thus wasting upwards of $50 in the process, then leaving the Mamas two hours later with an empty wallet, a headache, and sexual frustration to show for it.

Damn, why didn't I go again? That all seems soooo enticing, doesn't it?

Last night, while enjoying some Papa Johns and Bud Light Limes here, my one friend who came through to participate in the face-stuffing-with-fatty-food extravaganza said some seriously stupid shit that I haven't been able to shake since. We were watching the Presidential Debate, and dude showed his "ignorant Republican" side in spades. I've known that he's pretty conservative, but I never realized how cluelessy-right-wing he is. Scarily so, at that.

Oh, quick sidenote: did anybody else notice how McCain never made eye contact with, or even looked at, Obama once the entire time? Even when they first shook hands? That shit was pissing me off the entire time as a viewer.



So my friend started vocally supporting everything McCain said, as in: "Get'em, Johnny," or, "That's right, you tell 'em, Johnny." And shrugging at everything Obama said. Now, to each his own, I feel, especially with political views. And far be it for me to judge somebody based on politics. I'm light-years-away from being considered "rather political savvy," but at the same time, this particular election has definitely registered with me, and I've caught myself watching CNN more and more. Which is a good thing, perhaps, though it can also be a bit negative, too (a sentiment I'll explore more in a future post).

But anyway, back to my friend. The issue of Sarah Palin was presented to my friend, by yours truly, and he proceeded to salute her and sing her praises. This really grinded my gears. If I pride myself on anything with this election, its seeing right through the total gimmick-selection Palin was by McCain and the crafty Repubs. Sure, sure, Obama isn't the most experienced candidate ever, but at least he can voice his opinions, ideas, and whatever knowledge he has....Palin is a fuckin' moron. Have you watched her interviews? Namely the debacle of a sitdown she had with cutie Katie Couric? I could've answered those questions better than Palin did.

She's 20,000 leagues deep over her head as a VP running mate. And was only selected by McCain to save his ass, add some zest to campaign which could've otherwise evaporated had he selected some other elderly white dude. But Palin invigorated the majority of fucking dumbass Americans who'd rather not be bothered by what a candidates actual stances are; they just love how Palin "looks like one of them," and seems "down to Earth." Fuck that. She's so underqualified that its shocking and, frankly, devastating to me, because it makes me realize that our nation's potential leader is actually willing to put our country into the hands of a know-nothing ploy such as Palin.


[a total MILF, yes, but a terrible VP choice. If she becomes our Vice President, I may request that my family and I move overseas]

You have to remember this: if McCain dies of old age or some shit while in office, Palin is then our President. I repeat, to let it sink in a bit.....Sarah Palin would be our President!! She'd be the one sitting down with foreign leaders. The same lady who couldn't even match wits with Katie Couric respectably. This is one major area where Obama proves himself to be the better choice. Even if he isn't well-versed in international matters, his VP choice, Joe Biden, more than is. Hell, its what he does best.

So think.....who would you feel more safe with as our President, under tragic circumstances: Sarah Palin, or Joe Biden???

Palin.....if I really wanted somebody in office who seems like "an everyday person," I'd push to have Dubya Bush stay in office longer. That himbo airhead definitely seems like a dude I'd have fun knocking some beers back with, doesn't he??

Back to my friend, though....he went on and on about how much he likes Sarah Palin, and how great she seems. So then I asked him what exactly does he about her, or what exact beliefs of her's does he agree with. And guess what his answer was? "I don't know much about her." What in the fuck??? And this is the lady you're basing your entire vote on???!!??!! I nearly fainted, mainly at this thought: my friend, sadly, is representative of a massive portion of this country, meaning, people who'll be voting come early November yet have absolutely no clue about what these running people actually stand for.

I'm certainly not greatly aware, myself. I found myself watching the debate last night in small bits of confusion. Some of the stuff they discussed seemed foreign language to me. But I'm trying to learn, as much as possible. But I know I have enough of an understanding of McCain, Obama, Biden, and Palin to know I'll be voting for the right ticket come November (take a wild guess who I'll be voting for?).

But in this sense, I feel I'm unfortunately in the minority. Truth of the matter is....too many people have immediately ruled out any possibility of voting for Obama simply based on the ignorant disliking of his skin color. It's fact, people, even though we live in 2008, not 1908. And then there's those who think Sarah Palin is cool, or relatable, or sexy, or whatever lame reason other than that she's fully qualified and prepared. Which she's not, sorry people.

In the current issue of Rolling Stone, with Metallica on the cover, there's a great article by their political columnist Matt Taibbi. Basically ripping Palin a new asshole, but all through actual facts, and the facts vs her convention speech's rampant fiction. It's a worthwhile read, especially for those like my friend who like her but don't have any real reason as to why.

Pull Up A Seat......It's Story Time

It makes of sense, when thought about, but I'm a huge fan of conceptual storytelling rap songs....shit like Lupe Fiasco's "The Cool," Slick Rick's "Children's Story," Jay-Z's "Meet The Parents," Nas' "Undying Love," Mos Def's "Ms. Fat Booty," Cage's "Among The Sleep," and El-P's "Stepfather Factory," amongst many others. That seems like a nice and diverse lil example-roster for ya.

I'm a dude who adores a great story, a superb movie, a strong narrative, etc. So when talented lyricists susccessfully take stabs at this artform, I'll gladly listen. Because if done well, these kinds of tracks are good for multiple listens, where I can uncover some new slick detail I may have missed the last ear-focusing.

My current favorite storyteller is Elzhi, who, and I've stated this on this here blog several times before, has one hell of an album out now, The Preface. This track is one of my tops on there, "Hands Up," and it's a great little tale. All told through dialogue, which is really well-handled.

Give it a listen....and additional kudos to Black Milk for the the beat, which pummels the senses into submission as Elzhi weaves his yarn of escalating crime:

Trailer Parkin' - The Spirit

I've decided that one of the many functions this here blog can exist for is to be my very own comingsoon.net, in way. A place where I can post new trailers for flicks that have me either excited, intrigued, or mortified in a worthwhile fashion. Plus, I know the vast majority of my friends and peeps aren't as up on this movie ish as I am, so perhaps it can even serve as a spot for everybody to see the latest trailers before having to see them in theaters. I'm just a nice guy like that, huh? And to think, it's all free of charge.

Next up is Will Eisner's The Spirit, a comic book adapt coming out around Christmas. Eisner isn't the director, though; rather, he's the creator of the original comic book series that came out way, way, back in the '30s. I recently bought a Best of The Spirit graphic novel, and plan on tearing through it in time for this movie's release.

This film version is directed by the legendary comic book wizard Frank Miller, who created the Sin City graphic novel series, as well as the series that the movie 300 was based on. High pedigree, he clearly has. But The Spirit is his first attempt at filmmaking on his own, which makes me a bit nervous, first off. Secondly, this seems to be treading the same waters as Sin City, visually and tonally. And the first teaser trailer I had seen a couple months ago really looked lame as a mug, especially how cheesy and miscast Sam Jackson seemed at the time. And then word came back from Comic-Con that The Spirit's panel was a huge dud, underwhelming as all hell.

So yeah, I was far from convinced. But this newly-dropped, full trailer has restored some, I repeat, "some," excitement. Still looks like it could very well turn out to be a huge shitstorm, but then this trailer also gives it a possibility of escapist glee. Especially reminding me how both Eva Mendes and Scarlett Johansson are vamping it up in this piece, and that can never be a bad thing, now can it?

Plus, this gives me fuzzy memories of the Dick Tracy movie, the one with Warren Beatty and Madonna, which holds a firm place in my childhood's cinematic development. I'll save the "why" for a future posting.

And how about Kevin Arnold's pops himself, Dan Lauria, randomly popping up in this flick? Bring it on, I say. The Wonder Years will forever remain one of the greatest shows, like ever. In my humble opinion, at least. To this day, I still want to kick the ever-living-shit out of that bastard Wayne Arnold. Fucker.

See with your own lookers:

Netflix Fix -- Aftermath

Actually, while I'm here seated in front of the laptop, digesting the Papa Johns goodness, I might as well drop some thoughts quickly on a short film I watched earlier, courtesy of the 'Flix (no real reason to abbreviate Netflix like that, just makes me look like a real corn, but oh well, what's done is done). This isn't going to be one of my usual in-depth reactions, just a quick brainstorm. Watched it like seven hours ago now, but its still fresh in my head, mainly because as I'm thinking about it now, I feel like spewing up some of my pizza. Shit was just plain old filthy, gross, and wrong (the short film, not Big Papa, that is).



Its called Aftermath, and its from Spain. Written and directed by this sick summa-da-bitch named Nacho Cerda, who I've read about being this highly-regarded champ of Spanish horror cinema. So of course, that's all my easily-intrigued ass needed to consult the 'Flix (there it is again) and toss his resume in my Queue (that's how its spelled, right? What the fuck is a "queue" anyway? Is that a word used anywhere else outside of the 'Flix? If so, I must look like a baffoon right now. Oh well. It just seems like a bit of phonetic rubbish to me).

So back to Aftermath....my first experience with Cerda was actually watching a first esxperience of his own---his first full-length feature, this creepy, surreal, largely flawed but ultimately sick-enough-for-me-to-love flick called The Abandoned, which was released in US theaters for like 49 hours early last year, earning a whopping $31.50 or so, I think, my $10.50 being a third of that, with the remainder coming from those two other weirdos in attendance with me. I now own The Abandoned on DVD, and maybe I'll rewatch it soon and write about it here some time. Or maybe not......cliffhanger, bitches?

[poster for The Abandoned, which, by the way, has quite possibly the coolest moment in a horror movie ever that features pigs. I'll have to think back a bit to fact-check such a declaration, but I'm pretty sure its spot-on]


So yes, I greatly enjoyed The Abandoned, so once I joined the 'Flix, Cerda's infamous short flick Aftermath was pushed to the top of Q-word with the quickness. Finally reached it in my list, and perused all 31-nasty-mins of it earlier. And man, what the fuck did I just watch? Like, I've seen plenty of shit that's made me question my own sanity and moral code. But this Aftermath....a whole new level of "maybe I am a sick fuck after all" reached, my friends.

There's no plot, really, or even a semblance of a narrative. At least not one that has any real conflict. Basically, you have these two dudes who work in a mortuary, and one happens to be a necrophiliac who gets off on blood, guts, and all kinds of wrongness. So after his partner leaves, and after our main nutjob cleans out a dead dude who looks like Adrien Brody with an ill mustache, the corpse-cleaner locks the door, and proceeds to go to town, sexually, on a deceased chick. Cutting her open. Jamming a knife into her hoo-hah. Beating his meat while rubbing her intestines. Photographing the gory carcass. And then, in his grand finale, he has intercourse with the slab of no-longer-breathing female meat on the table. And then he wraps her up, files her, goes home, feeds his dog some blood-soaked meat, and reads a paper. The end. Seriously. There may be some hidden shit going on, but not sure if I'm going to rush to watch this one again any time soon.



Now, with all that sick stuff said.....here's the kicker. I actually liked Aftermath. I know, I know. I'm twisted, and many of y'all who read this will look at me in a much darker light now knowing that I enjoyed a movie where a dude slapped the salami to a dead girl (now, we didn't see the salami....that much needs to be emphasized here, for rep's sake, at the very least). But my enjoyment here stems 100% from an artistic standpoint. Yes, there was art at work here. Tons, in fact.

First, Cerda stages this entirely as a silent movie....well, silent in the sense that there's zero dialogue. It's not totally mute, though, being that there is tons of music and score, comprised mostly of classical symphonies and compositions. A really clever and bizarre mish-mash of visual depravity and audible beauty. A slick pairing, for sure. And then, the way Cerda' camera frames every scene is really well done. Close-ups pan out slowly; the focus casually glides across the truly disgusting imagery, not stressing them but rather just treating them as natural things.

But I'll admit: there was a few moments in Aftermath where I nearly shut the DVD off, and simply for the fact of giving me such urges, Aftermath is a winner for me. If it had been "turn this off" in the sense of "because this shit sucks," I'd be typing a different tune. But it was in the sense of "turn this shit off because I'm not sure I can physically take it anymore." And that, kiddies, is quite the Matt Barone "Thumbs Up" if there ever was one.

Check it out, if you can. If you want to toss up your cookies, especially. Not even Famous Amos could withstand the pressure.

Oh, and before I hit the hay tonight, I'm going to peep Cerda's third, and last on my to-endure list, short called Genesis. Doesn't seem as sick as Aftermath, but has potential to be ten times spookier. Shall report back tomorrow.

And yes, I realize that my earlier "this will be a shorter reaction post, blah blah blah" nonsense turned out to be utter fiction. Sue me.

**If you're feeling brave, or just plain foolish, there's a trailer for Aftermath on Youtube that doesn't censor back some of the money shots. It's rough stuff. Not trying to post the video here, just out of respect of my weak-stomach(ed) readers. You know I love y'all too, now. Don't say I never did anything for y'all.

Triumph, one more.....

Thanks to the anonymous phantom commenter who directed me toward NBC's website, where I was able to find this video of the actual aired segment Triumph did on David Blaine, which aired last night. I watched this on air last night (that's three uses of the word "air" in a row....well done, me!), laughed so loud that my dog, who has become a bit hard of hearing in her old age, actually walked into my bedroom (I was back at my parents' last night after hanging with the kiddies) thinking I was crying or something, I guess. Startled her, whatever she was thinking.

But yeah, this is great right here, and is what inspired me to post about my dog Triumph today in the first place. Enjoy:

Triumph the Insult Comic Dog = my dog for life

Been on my multimedia kick here the last couple of days, I know. The brainstorming and opinions will return shortly, but I figure, these videos I'm posting and etc still give a good indication into my brain a bit. This is the exact kind of shit I love and watch regularly.......

........such as one of my all-time fave things ever, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog (on Conan O'Brien's great late night program). So here's a few choice clips from recent Triumph adventures.



Triumph messing with David Blaine during his recent dumbass "illusion," from a fan-video:



Triumph at the nerd heaven, Comic Con, a couple months ago (this one is pretty much genius from top to bottom):



Triumph at the Republican National Convention:



and finally, the last one, Triumph meets Access Hollywood (another personal favorite):





Robert Smigel, you brilliant man, you.

Some Will Ferrell and Co. Goodness

I first watched this back in like May when it first was posted on Movieweb.com, and it still remains the most entertaining and hilarious video interview session I've ever seen.

Promoting the indie gem of comedy, The Foot Fist Way, that more people need to see, especially my friends who appreciate the same cinematic humor as I (you know who you all are). Will Ferrell and his partner-in-crime Adam McKay put money behind the small indie flick and got it distribution, so the two of them are here with the director (Jody Hill), the hilarious star (Danny McBride) and the co-writer/star (Ben Best).

Two parts, both equally hilarious. Enjoy:

PART 1




PART 2



"That's my dad, by the way."

Preach on, Sexy Monster. Preach on.

Spotted over at The Superficial:

While doing press for her new movie Battle in Seattle, Charlize Theron told Josh Horowitz of MTV.com that she can't figure out why the hell people watch The Hills:

Theron: [Long pause, laughs.] So I watched a couple episodes. I was doing a world tour at the time, so I watched them in a couple languages. I realized that this f---ing show is huge. Now I'm going to ask you a question: Why?
MTV: Why what?
Theron: Why is it so big? It's about nothing! This is a free country. Freedom of speech! You can tell me right now to my face that "Reindeer Games" was a piece of sh--. That's totally fine. But "The Hills" is about nothing. I think the girls are beautiful and when they cry their mascara runs and that's real, but I don't get it!

So let me get this straight.....Charlize Theron is drop-dead-gorgeous, one damn amazing actress, and is totally confused as to why people actually watch and obsess over a pointless piece of drivel called The Hills????

I may just have a new "number one spot" holder atop my Celeb Chicks list. I mean, we clearly share the same amount of common sense and intelligence, right? The above quotes point to "yes" on the matter.

Can The Joker save our economy????

Watch this and decide for yourselves......the crazy clown has my vote, for sure:

Attention, My Fellow Blogspotters

I regret to inform whoever reads this blog frequently that I'll be suspending my daily writing exercises in order to shift my attention to the economic crisis.....

I keed, I keed!

What kind of lame desperation ish is that? This McCain fella seems like a straight up shook one lately.

David Letterman concurs (this is some funny and true stuff right here):

Makin' Me Say "Leflaur Leflah Eshkoshka" Again.....

I realize that there's been a major lack of hip hop on this here personalized-website lately. Mainly because music has been boring me, sadly, and cinema, literature and my own soul-searching issues have been much more compelling to mull through.

But thankfully, a few albums have been surfacing that have put a smile, and a head-noddin' screwface, on my mug....Madlib, Termanology, the new Black Milk, Planet Asia vs. DJ Muggs, Murs' major label debut, and this new Heltah Skeltah record. All underground, of course, but its no secret that I'd largely rather piss in the mainstream than concentrate on it, musically.

Here's a choice cut from the new Heltah Skeltah album....aside from Wu-Tang and Gang Starr, the Boot Camp Clik was formative as all hell in my defining days of becoming a "rap obsessive and lover." So to hear Ruck and Rock get down with Smif-N-Wessun over a simply-hardcore beat, its a slice of heaven for my lobes. Peep:



As long as shit like this still comes out every once in a while, I'll remain a hip hop head 'til my dying days. Keep it coming, por favor.

**Note: that pic in the video clip is their new album cover....its a bit of genius, if you ask me. Heltah Skeltah has always been the foul-mouthed, cold-hearted comedians of hardcore, and, really, what could be better than that?

Un-fuckin'-believable

A month or so ago, I did a little writing here about this amazing horror/fantasy/subtle-romance flick from Sweden called Let The Right One In. And how I saw it during the Tribeca Film Festival, where it won the overall top prize. And how it'll easily make my year-end top ten films of 2008 list. And how its this truly-stunning blend of scares, thrills, drama, and heartfelt love developing between two little kids, no older than 12 years old, one being an undead vampire.



[how awesome is this poster, by the way. I love it]

So, that being reminded, read this crock of shit:

---from Shock Til You Drop:
"Cloverfield's Matt Reeves has been hired by Overture Films and Hammer Films to write and direct a remake of Let the Right One In.

Tomas Alfredson's original film, hailing from Sweden and opening on U.S. shores in limited release October 24th, tells of a young boy who befriends a young vampire pal. Hammer acquired the English-language remake rights when Alfredson's picture won rave reviews at the Tribeca Film Festival.

Overture will release the redo sometime in 2009."
---

This isn't exactly news to me; I did hear about Hammer buying the American remake rights immediately following the flick's Tribeca triumph. But I guess I'd just pushed it out of my mind in hopes that the talk would die down, or that the news would end up being a bit of a farce.

But nope, its legit as shit. "Shit" being the operative word there. But my question is, why in the fuck? Let The Right One In is such a unique and uncompromising film, pretty much flawless already, so how in the hell will an American remake possibly top it? I understand how allowing the Swedish version to stand on its own two here is far from a financial smash-of-an-idea, because US audiences are fucking lame sheep who can't "take" subtitles, whether in a theater or on DVD. So instead, this'll now become an inferior English-language waste of time. Great.

I'm not a full-blown hater of remakes, now. Quarantine, a flick I've been geeked about for months now, is an Americanized version of a stellar foreign flick itself, but what makes [Rec] different than Let The Right One In is that [Rec]'s central plot and tricks aren't incredibly fresh or unique; they're just done really well. And seeing how an American filmmaker can spin the standard story is somewhat welcome to me.

Let The Right One In, though, is different beast altogether, a strikingly original piece of Gothic cinema. The way it is shot....the performances from the little kids....the way it touches your heart one moment and then shock your system the next. Just so many little gems of details on their job in the film, and I'm nowhere near convinced that the dude behind Cloverfield is partially, let alone fully, capable of bettering it. I loved Cloverfield, mind you, but Let The Right One In couldn't be further from Cloverfield in excellence.



Do yourselves a favor....scratch, claw, and dig through showtimes to find a theater playing Let The Right One In when its released for a limited run in late October. Hell, I'll see it with you, if that's inspiration at all.

Feel Like Losing Some Brain Cells?? Have At It, Then!

Not saying that I think this is even that funny, though I did shamefully chuckle a little. But just basking in its stupidity is an experience in and of itself:

The Genesis

For all I know, I'm some sort of government project designed from birth to endure heartbreak after heartache. Of the romantic, female-delivered variety, that is. I can count on one hand, with three fingers bent downward, how many times I've felt whatever the opposite feeling is---any distinction other than love will suffice. I've never been in love, never even been close as far as I can tell. There's been several times where I felt that the seeds of love were being planted, and if allowed to grow out of the deep, deep soil of dating, could blossom into some beautiful plummage. The kind that Bob Ross would paint. "Happy trees." "A fun little bush."

R.I.P. Bob Ross. You'll forever be that dude.

Back to that whole conspiracy theorist bullshit I opened with, the "government project blah blah" ish. If Ray Bradbury or a breathing Rod Serling were to conduct a therapy session with me, delving into my many failed attempts at "love," they'd probably come to some conclusion that'd go a lil' somethin' like this: Your parents made a deal with a secret government branch, the same one behind the Roswell cover-ups, and for a large lump sum, they paid for a genetically-engineered newborn. Inside this newborn was implanted a chip that acts as a magnet, pulling women towards it who'll inevitably crush his heart into bits like a Tyrannosaurus clutching a bag full of twigs. The purpose: to test how much heartache one growing, maturing human male can endure before giving up on love altogether. Good luck, Mr. and Mrs. Barone.

Of course, that's total bullshit because my parents would never have done that, and I'm clearly theirs. Besides, look at pictures of my mom as a kid alongside pics of me as a kid---resemblance is uncanny.

To fully understand and combat my unintentional penchant for romantic failure, let's travel back in time, to a setting known as St. Catharine's Interparochial School, a Catholic grammar school in Glen Rock, New Jersey, where yours truly evolved through kindergarten-8th grade. The year: 1993. The 5th grade, in Mrs. Demers' homeroom. The straight-A student that I was, I was pretty well-known amongst our quaint, 19-or-so-kid class. Kids either wanted to cheat off of me or use my assistance to enhance their academic performances. And I, being rather shy and insecure, figured that doing so would make me seem "cooler," or at least more desirable to the girlies whom I'd help.

One in particular, Diana, sent my immature heart aflutter. She also lived in Fair Lawn, and would take the same bus home that I did, getting off two stops before I. In my inexperience, wide 11-year-old eyes, she was the Christina Milian of our class, a petite yet developmentally-curvy Latina with an addictive smile and just enough sass to give her a "bad girl" edge. Much to my frustration, though, I was more Nick Cannon in Underclassmen than lying-in-Mariah-Carey's-bed-smoking-a-zig-zag-after-laying-the-pipe Nick Cannon.



[A pic of Christina Milian isn't really needed here, but any chance to post a pic like this would be criminal to pass up. God, she's slammin']

I tried and I so willfully tried to win her over. In gym class, I'd challenge her to some one-on-one hoops and let her win, but just by a point or two, hoping this wouldn give the impression of not totally being the chump who lets the girl have the upper sports hand, but offers somewhat of a worthy opposition. One time I even dropped $4 on an all-Immature fanzine at 7-11 just so I could give it to her best friend Alana, who was a huge potential-groupie for the trio of pre-pubescent R&B balladeers (Batman, Romeo, and whatever the fuck the third dude's name was...who gives a shit, Immature sucked balls. Probably not even a "pause" needed her, either). Watching her face as Alana ran over to show her what "nice guy Matt" had given her without warning, Diana cracked a sweet smile in my direction. I remember getting knobby-kneed at the sight, butterflies zooming around like fighter jets under attack in my stomach.

But for all my subtle efforts to make her mine, none ever seemed to work. You see, she was more smitten by a pal of mine, Kevin, who was my co-MVP on the basketball team every year (he was the John Stockton to my Karl Malone). He was much more suave and confident on his darkest day than I ever would be even on my fucking birthday. All the girls were sweating him harder than Urkel jocked Laura Winslow. Made me furious. But back then, at such a young age as it is in our older years, females are attracted to confidence and swag, neither of which I had much of in those awkward days. I was much chubbier then....well, not chubby, but just lacking any body tone or definition, and my hair was this excruciatingly-lame bowl cut (think Moe from the Three Stooges). What in the bloody double-fuck were my parents even thinking? There's some pictures from that era where my hair isn't even combed. Just flapping around to and fro, looking like a mane attraction at some stylistic sideshow. And this was while posing for pictures. Actual snapshots! WTF!

On one fateful, suddenly-balls-had-been-grown day, however, all of my prior misfires were put to the side. I saw my moment of truth, and clarity, at hand. See, Alana and I were pretty chummy. She seemed to genuinely think I was the bees-knees of her male classmates....yes, even back then I had girls who championed me hardcore, yet never showed any interets themselves in seizing the great-guy in front of their eyes. But knowing that she vouched for me, I did what any insecure and chickenshit young boy would do in the situation---asked her to find out whether Diana would ever go on a date with me for me, rather than I doing it myself. Such chump style, man. But that was I.

We're in the parking lot playground area, during God's little gift to all grade-school attendees worldwide, a little slice of heaven called "recess." I work up the nerve:

ME: "Hi Alana. I know this is like weird, but I really like Diana. She's really pretty, and I want to ask her to go see a movie with me. Do you think she ever would? You can be honest."

ALANA: "Awwww! I knew it! I always knew you liked Diana. If I were her, I totally would go out with you [Blogger's note: this was a total crock-of-shit lie, of course]."

ME: "Thanks. But do you think Diana would?"

ALANA: "I don't know. Why don't you ask her?"

ME: [Me, thinking to myself: "Because I'm a huge pussy concealing a coward."] "I don't know. I guess I kinda wanna know for sure before I ask her, you know?"

ALANA: "Gotcha. You know what? I'll ask her, see what she says."

ME: Really? Wow, that's so cool! Thanks, Alana."

Alana then proceeded to run over to where Diana was sitting, on the curb where the sidedoor of the school spilled out into the parking lot. Me? I was standing against the wall of the convent, watching from far enough where it wouldn't seem obvious. But what my eyes witnessed was akin to Jason Voorhees jamming a crimson-colored-liquid-soaked machete straight into my chest, and then twisting the blade counter-clockwise until it carved out a softball-sized hole in my upper-body-frame, and yanking the machete back toward his own body, resulting in a waterfall of blood seeping onto the surface, followed by my still-beating heart. And then there'd be Jason, adding insult to injury by stomping on the disattached heart with his workboot. Spllatt!!

After Alana was done whispering into Diana's left ear, Diana glanced over at me, and let out a hearty laugh, capped off by the nodding of her now-might-as-well-have-Devil's-horns-sticking-out head side to side. And then Alana looked over in my direction with puppydog eyes, clearly signaling, "I'm so sorry, Matt."

The pain that coursed through my bod was unlike anything I'd ever experience before. I couldn't figure out what it was at the time, but looking back on that shitty afternoon, it was my first-ever breaking of heart. And man did it suck.

Needless to say, things were never back to co-existing normalcy between Diana and I. I acted all weird around her for the next two-and-a-half years at St. Catharine's. I actually super-randomly bumped into her a couple years back while on vacation in South Beach, her current homeland. It was one of those, "Holy shit, Matt/Diana??!!" moments. Recognizing each other wasn easy, being that we had innocently Myspaced messages back and forth, the generic "How have you been?" kind, accompanied by our page's picture folders. She still looked good, even more so like Christina Milian now that her thickness had hit just the right notes of shape. But aside from the mere physical Diana, she was much uglier to me than she must've been to my friends.

And that was because you never really get over your first real heartbreak, myself being no exception. The person responsible never really regains that aura of high-horse-seating you once placed he or she upon. And if that horse weren't metaphorical, even, you'd surely unload a full clip into its equestrian skull like some Mr. Ed-loathing, NRA-card-carrying game hunter. Or at least I would.



= Fuck you, Ed!

**ehhhh.......fuck it, why not:



"Azucar," indeed!!!! That means "hot," right???

You're Nobody ('Til Somebody Films You)

Yes, for those who aren't aware, Hollywood has up and made a Notorious B.I.G. biopic, called Notorious, coming in mid-January. Since day one, I've been torn on whether to anticipate or dread this. On one end, there's some commendable talent involved---actors like Derek Luke and Anthony Mackie, an accomplished veteran named Angela Bassett as Volletta Wallace (Biggie's mom), and one of the screenwriters is a highly-respected journalist, one of my favorite entertainment and hip-hop reporters, actually, named Cheo Hodari Coker. So that's all promising.

But then, there's this....it's a Biggie biopic. Something about "a Biggie biopic" just smells of disaster to my overly-sensitive nostrils. Damn everybody besides Biggie and 2Pac seen in the film is still alive, most still prominent even (Diddy being the prime example). It could be more than jarring to see actors embodying these people on a big screen, though that same issue seems to actually be a saving grace for Oliver Stone's George "Dubya" Bush biopic W. that's on the horizon. So maybe my negative intuition regarding Notorious is a but unfair.

We'll see come January.....but, though, this teaser trailer is doing little to convert to full-on believer status. The beginning portion of it, with the voiceover and still-life imagery, is incredibly cheesy and cheap-looking, like something from a straight-to-DVD offering. And though Jamal "Gravy" Woolard does have the backstory to play Biggie (from Brooklyn, a rapper, bordering on obese), I can't imagine him being that solid of a thespian. He pretty much sucks as a rapper, so that's one strike right off the bat if you ask me.

See for yourselves, as little as there is to see here:

Netflix Fix -- Man Bites Dog

Now here's a classic case of "right movie, wrong time." If I had seen Man Bites Dog back when it was originally released in 1993 (having been made in '92), I'm sure it would've flipped my wig something fierce. By that point, there really hadn't been a film like it, one that shines the sunlight on media and its role within violence and cruelty. How it indirectly is a cause, rather than a deterrent. And the unrepentable things that transpire in the flick would've certainly caused my jaw to drop a bit, and had me leaving the movie in a sense of anger and repulsion.

But alas, it's 15 years after the fact, and tons of "media is an accomplice to evil, not a well-intended broadcaster" films have been made in Man Bites Dog's corpse-ridden wake. Just off the top of my dome, there's Serial Mom and Natural Born Killers, and I know there's tons more if I dug deeper into the noggin here. Surely, these subsequent films were inspired by Man Bites Dog, even if the filmmakers won't admit it. Hell, Natural Born Killers turns out to be a pretty straightforward jacking of this film, with the whole plotline of Robert Downey Jr.'s reporter's obsession with Mickey and Mallory and his devotion to recording their crimes on camera.

That leads me to the plot, and point, of Man Bites Dog, a "found footage"/first-person-shot film made in Belgium, spoken in French, and all shot in stark black-and-white. For added effect, I'm sure. This ragtag team of low-budget-operating, ill-intentioned documentarians---Andre, Remy, and Patrick---are shooting a docu about Benoit, a ruthless and ice-cold-blooded serial killer. The filmmakers' intentions of doing so aren't really explained, which didn't bother me. At first. As the flick progresses, Benoit is revealed to be quite a charismatic guy, full of energy and jokes, spewing random knowledge at will (offering insight into the neighborhood's shady real estate practices one moment, and explaining the mating rituals of pigeons the next), and he's quite the familyman, held in high,loving regard by his grandpa, mother, and soft-spoken girlfriend, none of whom seem to be aware of his murderous kicks.



Kicks largely consisting of blowing people's brains out at point blank range, wrapping their bodies up and dumping the lifeless fleshy-patches into a ravine. Man Bites Dog isn't short on appalling scenes, the most gut-wrenching for me being this sequence where they dupe a sweet elderly lady into inviting the film crew into her apartment under the guise of a local news team, sitting down for an on-couch interview with her and then giving her a gun-to-the--temple shock so unexpected and jolting that she dies of a heart attack. Such a tactic saves Benoit a bullet, he reasons with a giggle. It's a tough scene to watch, you're full aware that this old woman is in for an unpleasant surprise, but you don't know when exactly she'll get it, and when she does, its just as much of a "Oh shit" reaction that she must feel. Except, of course, that the viewer isn't deceased as a result.

For the first 75 or so minutes of the film's 92-min span, Man Bites Dog is actually a darker-than-charcoal comedy, mining laughs from Benoit's goofy brand of humor and wit, and the playful interaction he develops with the filmmakers in the midst of endless murder. There's one particular scene that had me laughing outloud, even, where they're getting boozed up in a local pub after a night of death and mayhem. It's cleverly structured, lulling you into a false sense of comraderie and tolerability with these scumbags, only to pimpslap you across the face with what follows. In their drunken stupors, they break into an apartment and engage in a bit of A Clockwork Orange-esque "in out, in out." Which is rape, for the uninitiated. Only, here its a gang-rape as the poor girl's lover is held frozen at gunpoint. And then the camera cuts to the aftermath/morning-after, with our villains passed out drunk on the apartment's floor as the male lover's lies with his brains blown out in the sink and the raped woman has her intestines and other innards exposed, gutted on the kitchen table. It's pretty devastating.

With all this praise I'm tossing the film's way, its probably to be assumed that I'm in love with Man Bites Dog. Well, I'm not. I like it, sure. But overall, I can't help but be a tad disappointed, mostly due to all the pre-viewing hype I've read, and all of the fawning praise I've seen critically. I agree that its a well-made and effective piece of bleak satire, but like I hinted at in the beginning of my writing, my being-in-2008 is an Achilles heel here. The media satire attempted in Man Bites Dog is nothing new for me. I know that the media is to blame for much of society's violence, gladly pointing a camera at destruction rather than stepping in to help, just as the documentarians here standy-by and record as Benoit shoots people and strangles old ladies so viciously that their dentures pop out from the force. It's nothing revelatory for me. And I wish it was, because again, I do like the film. It just didn't wallop me in ways I was hoping.

Not to mention, I have a bit of a problem with the documentarians themselves, or their "characters." Where as the killer, Benoit, is rather nicely fleshed out and given tons of gravitas, our two main filmmakers---Remy and Andre---are never given any real sense of purpose. As in, why in the hell are they making this "film" in the first place? To capture the doings of a mad man, I'd assume. Fine, but then why do they remain so obsessed with it, and even willingly begin to participate in the slaughter? Because they're seduced by Benoit's emotionless demeanor, perhaps? Maybe.



Early on, they enter this huge abandoned factory building as Benoit is chasing a would-be-victim who has managed to escape on foot, wounded. Inside, bullets fly at our group out of nowhere, striking Patrick, the sound-man, in the head and punching his clock, for good. After Benoit terminates the assailant, Remy begins kicking the assailant's dead-body while crying. An act of vengeance, if you will. Benoit stops him, though, saying how revenge is an addictive drug, nearly impossible kick its fix once experience from the avenger's POV for the first time. So this is made to be the turning point for Remy, at least. The moment where he begins veering toward the darkside. But he's shown no sense of humanity or morality in the first place, so how am I supposed to buy his whole "becoming as evil as Benoit now" character arch? Just didn't register for me, unfortunately.

The truly-powerful moments in Man Bites Dog are enough to sway me towards the appreciative and admiration-filled side in the end, though. The naturalistic and gleeful insanity seen when Benoit asks the soundman to put the microphone up to a man's neck as he snaps it, giving the "CRUUNCH!" sound a bit more mojo. The despicable scene where Benoit suffocates a boy no-older-than-eight years old with a pillow, as Remy holds down the boys and arms at Benoit's request. The way that, now numb to visualized murder and having laughed uncontested as Benoit has joyfully done it every other time, the viewer chuckles at a snide remark a distraught Benoit makes when he discovers his mother is dead, having fallen victim to Italian thugs who have a score to settle with Benoit and have jammed a broom up his mother's ass--and a flute up his girlfriend's ass (she's a musician, see, while his mother owns and maintains a cornerstore with her trusty broom). Killing both. You're laughing during Benoit's darkest moment, mainly because you've seen he and his new friends get a hearty giggle out of killing other people's loved ones time and time again.



Man Bites Dog isn't an easy film to shake out of your thoughts. I'm still, at this very moment of typing, deliberating between "did I love it?" or "did I just respect its conviction but ultimately feel a bit letdown?" I can definitely say, without any doubt, that the film's ending is a total score in my book. Well-executed, and totally fitting to everything that's come before it. One of those endings where you think, "Yes, that's exactly how this movie should've ended. Nicely done, filmmakers!"

My frustrations only stem from something that comes as a result of having seen the much-more-visceral and harder-hitting (in my opinion, at least) Irreversible and Cannibal Holocaust, both films that are frequently mentioned in the same "controversial cult classic" vein as Man Bites Dog. But like both of those other flicks, undoubtedly, Man Bites Dog is a movie I'm very glad to have finally watched in its totality.

**Sidenote: during the aforementioned funny scene where they're getting sloppy drunk-as-skunks in the bar, Benoit introduces them to a drinking game called "Dead Baby Boy." Charming name, right? It's a serial killer explaining it, so bear with it. But how it's played is....you pour a glass 3/4-ful with gin & tonic, and then you take a piece of string and tie together a sugar cube to an olive. You then drop the olive-cube-tie into the glass, and watch as they rise back up to the glasses' surfaces. Whose ever olive hits the brim first has to drink the entire glass as one shot and then also buy the next round of Dead Baby Boys.

If my friends and I were depraved killers and sick fucks, I'd propose we play this the next time we're at Green Rock Tap & Grill. But we're not, so I won't.

Quarantine Watch: TV Exposure!

Haven't done a Quarantine Watch update in a scolding-hot minute, I just realized, and I never like leaving a hopefully-good movie out in the cold. Time to warm up the buzz-build-a-meter once again.

Not much in the way of news or trivia or actual coverage to report on, unfortunately. Just that, I've seen commercials for it on the boob-tube finally, and TV time is never bad.

So, yeah, that's it, really. Quarantine finally has paid advertisements on television. It's about time. This thing opens in like three weeks, so hopefully the word-of-mouth escalates readily.

Imagine if this movies comes out and sucks big-time. I'll put $$$ on it that I'll have at least seven or eight people calling me that opening weekend to heckle me and blame me for their wasted $11 if so....so here's to the movie kicking some unsuspecting-moviegoer tucus. That's "ass," for all of y'all without G-rated mothers and/or grandmothers, by the way.

And just to refresh memories....this is an Americanized version of a Spanish flick from last year called [Rec], that rocks the shit hardcore. To be more frank, [Rec] rocks harder than a magickist! Suck a cheetah's dick with Heinz tomato ketchup!!!

Word to Wesley Willis (if you don't know, now you know......oh yeah, cut that mullet, jerk!)

Here's the red band trailer, for further mind-refreshin':



Viva la Quarantine!

Making Sense Out Of Nothing

My walks back from the PATH train station to my apartment feel robotic as hell. Like I'm a train of sorts, just coasting along a track that's been predetermined. Taking the exact same side-streets and turns, looking up at the exact same outdoor bars and areas of passers-by. Even when I try shaking the cage a bit, throwing my senses for a loop and darting down a different street, zigging where I'd normally zag, it all still feels extremely drone-like.

But one thing that these 13-or-so-minute foot-exercises are good for, though, outside of physically bringing me back to my apartment, is that they allow for plenty of "me time." Which is why I shamefully look to avoid running across anybody I know, since that'd force me to thwart "me time" and turn it into "us time," and God knows how I feel about "us time" during the work-week. Save that shit for the weekends, I feel. But, getting back on my thought-train here, some of my deepest thinking and biggest issue-resolving goes down as I'm strolling up River Street onto Washinton Street and then down 3rd Street onto my destination, Jefferson Street. And today, a pretty striking epiphany hit me.

Well, referring to it as an "epiphany" may be a bit pretentious....rather, a "hmm, that actually makes tons of sense" moment. Sounds less I'm-smart-because-I-use-big-words, right? Thought so. Good, good. I was moving along, playing out the possible ways that Stephen King's novel Cell could play out for the remaining 123 pages I have left, and it hit me like a Floyd Mayweather left-hook: once I dive mind-first into a movie or a book, or sometimes even a television program, it's damn near impossible to bring myself back into reality.

This may sound strange, or a bit goofy, but scout's honor, it's legit. And I actually was a Boy Scout for like two weeks back in the day, so you can take my word. Though, I quit because meetings interfered with my Friday afternoon viewings of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but that's a fragment of the past. Back on track here, yet again...when the credits roll or my bookmark is once again inserted snuggly between pages, my mind remains where it just was. Such that, right now I'm imagining what Hoboken would look like if Cell's bloodthirsty "phone-crazies" were turning Jefferson Street into Beirut, and my "normie" ass was fending one off with my laptop, swinging it across the phone-crazy's grill as teeth flew out and skin-chunks exploded into the air like dust from wind. And then his imagery brings me into the seedy club seen in Irrversible, and I'm sitting front-seat as "La Tenia" is receiving a skull-smashery job from one-pissed-off fire extinguisher.

And even now, as I type, I'm seeing this living room spin and fling around, like the camera does in Irreversible. It makes reality seem so much more intense, helping me neglect the fact that its just me in my apartment, post-gym-workout, typing away on this laptop like you'd frequently find me doing.

All of this meaning, I'd much rather remain there than come back here, if that makes sense. And this plays a part in me being terrible with answering my cell phone, honestly, and being a bit too-myself during the work week, and on weekends when I can pull the disappearing acts off. My friends may think I'm being an asshole and ignoring phone-calls, but such selfish logic couldn't be further from non-fiction. It's just that, I'm too distracted within my imagination to return to here, where I'd be able to answer the phone and small-talk it out.

And being that I have like zero friends who are as passionate about fantastical shit as I am, about cinema and shit as I am, it's not easy for me to just talk about work, or what we're doing this weekend, or potentially grabbing a drink somewhere where single ladies will be in attendance alongside us. Because truthfully, I'd so-much-rather be in a wilder place than work during the day, and I'd so-much-rather be watching films and having post-viewing discussions on the weekends rather than going "out," and I'd so-much-rather drink a Bud Light Lime in front of my DVD player or next to a good book than around a bunch of girls who could give six shits less about me or are too sadiddy to notice anybody else but themselves.

Does this make me an oddball? Who knows. Perhaps, yes. But then, I'd rather be this way than what others would consider "cool" or "normal."

I know I've written about this topic in different-but-still-similar ways of late here, but I just can't seem to jostle it away from my brain. So for now, I'm continually submitting to it. Which isn't hard to stop doing, being that lately I don't look forward to the weekends for anything more than just some "me time," or some "me and Gianna and Nicholas and the fam" time, too, of course. And to hell if I know when such feelings will fall back for good ol' party-time Matty B.

What a pooch!

Zoey is the world's greatest dog, of course. We all know this; they've done surveys on the matter to prove it (and by "they," I mean whoever actually conducts surveys about dogs, naturally).

But okay, okay.....I can admit when she has some serious competition in the matter. Especially when her comp is of the same German Shepherd breed.

I present her biggest threat for the throne.....Buddy.



[That's a pic of Buddy, not Zoey]

Check it, taken from a news story link found on Perez Hilton's ish:

"Dog Calls 911, Saves Owner…For the Third Time

When Buddy the dog saw that his master was having a seizure, he knew exactly what to do.

The 18-month-old German shepherd had been trained by Paws With A Cause to bring his owner the phone and bring it to him whenever he is in trouble. When Buddy picks up the phone, his teeth make contact with the 911 button on speed dial.

The 911 emergency operator could hear Buddy whimpering and barking, and sent an ambulance to the address.

This is the third time Buddy has had to call 911 for his master, who suffers potentially life-threatening seizures as a result of a head injury suffered while serving in the military."

--Okay Buddy.....Zoey and I see you coming, and we salute you. But if you really think Zoey's gonna back down, you're dead wrong. You better teach some other dog to dial 911....that's all I'm saying.

Shit That I Love.....

Spookies is a film that'll forever remain near and dear to my heart. Sure, I watch some flicks and shout "that was one of the worst fucking movies I've ever seen" often, even recently with the putrid The Happening. But I'm fairly convinced that I'll live out the remainder of my breathing-days convinced that 1986's Spookies is indeed the largest piece of cinematic fecal matter that my brown eyes have ever scoped.

Shitty movies, typically, aren't ones you'd want to give repeat viewings to. Ever. But 'tis not the case here....Spookies is so awesomely terrible that it defies such logic. Piss-poor dialogue, jerkoff protagonists (one dude, the requisite "badass" character, wears an extra-medium-sized leather jumpsuit thats so small it shows extensive potbelly and ends every sentence with "...or somethin'"), and absolutely zero shreds of cohesion. All key ingredients for "turn this shit off now" in any other case, but again, Spookies is the glorious exception to the rule.



Plot-wise....well, there really is no discernable plot. Thing about Spookies is, its a nip-and-tuck job of a film. This bullshit studio was trying to make three horror movies at the same time, and after realizing how shitty each was and how much dough was being crapped down their business toilets, they stopped production on all three movies. But, in a bit of craftiness, the studio decided to just piece the three totally-individual flicks together into one. So with Spookies, you have a Frankenstein's monster of a film, stitched together from the deceased remains of a trio of celluloid shit. You can't make this kinda shit up, huh? Well, maybe you could. Whatever.

So what you're left with is....a generic "kids trapped in an unfamiliar house" setup with some of the most annoying "kids" ever, of course all being played by people in their 30s-and-older; and then there's dumbass actual-kid who runs away from home and stumbles across this haunted house, where birthday presents have been arranged in the dining room in his honor, but then some cat-man spoils the party by clawing the shit out of his face for no real reason; and then there's this magician-looking sorcerer dude who lives in the attic, it seems, and he's trying to resurrect his once-bride, who is currently in a coma; and then sorcerer-man proceeds to pet Cat-Man. And then our characters play with a Ouija board in a bit of Evil Dead-bitery. And there's this "funny guy" who wears a shirt with his own picture on it and talks through some raggedy handpuppet. And then zombies show up. And then monsters fart uncontrollably. And then your head hurts from actually sitting through this catastrophic clusterfuck.

But then there's me, watching it with such boyish glee and sheer entertainment-euphoria, basking in all the absurdity farting monsters.



Its tough to put the dogshit-ness of Spookies into words, honestly. I'm struggling a bit right now in my efforts. So I'll just jot down some choice scenes....

**in the basement, two of our "heroes" happen across 'lust-crazed muck men,' as described on the VHS box-backside. But what these things are, really, are bootleg Swamp Things that exude fart noises with every step they take. Dead ass (pun intended).

**some random chick suddenly becomes our main character at the end, and escapes from the haunted house. She clinbs down the side of house, and as she steps foot onto the grass, this zombie-meets-Jabba-the-Hut lookin' creature greets her with: "Mamma! Mamma! Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

**after our new main heroine escapes this neverending crowd of zombies, using some head-fakes and bobs-and-weaves that'd make Emmitt Smith applaud, she runs into a dude who is just chilling in the woods, sitting next to his car. With dozens of undead about five feet behind her, she jumps into dude's car, so he opens the door, knowing the zombies are there, and says, "Hey lady, what are you doing in my car?"

I could go on and on, but I fear that writing about these scenes does their actual shit-quality little justice. So I'll just show some footage, thanks to the Tube of You:



[this is comic relief guy getting his, and notice how he says "...or somethin'"....]



[check out the monster's costume here....I think I saw this whole costume at Party City last Halloween...]



Okay, I wouldn't be fair-guy if I didn't give this flick it's miniscule due. A few of the monsters in the film are kinda-cool looking (that Party City reject not included), and some of the death scenes show glimmers of nifty imagination. But overall, this is a shit taco of the heartburning degree of no other.

The first time I saw it was one Saturday night at like midnight on Channel 11, back when I was, give or take, 13 years old or so. My dad, who was in the room reading a book or something (I sound like that dicknose character now...."..or somethin'!"), started watching it with me, both of us captivated by the god-awfulness in which we were voluntarily subjecting ourselves to. And once it ended, we laughed together for a good ten minutes. And then we stayed up for like two hours just recalling certain scenes and giggling like LSD-trippers. Sort of an unexpected father/son bonding session over some truly garbage-y cinema. A couple years later, my dad saw a Spookies VHS tape in a bargain bin at KMart for like $5, and thankfully he copped it so we'd forever be able to watch it.

This is the kinda movie that potheads dream about.....blaze one up, toke away, and laugh your ass off at the charming and irresistably-shit Spookies.

Speaking of bad movies, how fucking awesome of a show was Mystery Science Theater 3000??? I wish I was filthy-stinkin-rich, I'd but every episode of the classicness on DVD. On that note, if anybody ever needs some gift ideas for yours truly, birthday-holiday-whenever, MST3K DVDS would win, undoubtedly.

Hung-Over Musings at 2pm......

Is it just me, or do guys only like to hang out with each other when there's a possibility of hooking-up-with-females at play?

Going to a bar. Hitting a club. Knocking back drinks in a lounge. Are these the only times a dude can hang out with his friends, with everybody having a good time? Why not just go check a movie out, or hang out at somebody's apartment and bullshit all night? Why must there always be liquor and chicks present?

And no, I shall not "Pause" anything I'm saying here. Totally unnecessary.

I don't know. Call me weird or crazy, but I'd be perfectly at peace with never going to another bar, ever never again. What good comes out of these dens of alcoholic consumption? Other than hangovers, emptier wallets, and impending shame felt the morning after? Well, those are far from "good," of course. But I'm just saying.

I think what this boils down to is....there's a real sense of disconnect lately between myself and those around me, family not included. And I'd venture to guess that many of those around me don't even realize this. But I do, and its becoming a bit tough to shrug off, or dust off the shoulder.

Mentally, I'm starting to feel like I'm in a far-off zone that nobody around me seems to be compatible with, and that's cool. It's par for the course. We each have our own vices, our own quirks. And that's what keeps matters interesting. But I'm starting to feel like my particular vices and quirks are a bit more secular and polarizing than those of those around me.

Let's see: I'm single, so right off the bat that knocks off a great portion of those around me, in terms of common POVs as mine. As a rule of thumb, dudes are less and less inclined to want to hang out with their single guy-friends once they're tied down, so to speak. Makes total sense---you're swept up in potential-love, so you want to hang out with the girl as much as possible. I get it. But then the single guy-friend, or at least this single guy-friend, starts to wonder, 'Did we only ever hang out just to meet girls? And now that he/they have a girl/girls, there's no more reasons to hang out with me?' It's a bitter pill to swallow, and the now-tied-down dude won't easily admit it, but tell me I'm wrong.....I'm waiting.....

Who knows---once I'm tied down, maybe I'll do the same.

People either want to go out and get "fucked up" and not return home until at least 4am, or go to a bar with no cash in hand and "innocently" ask those around them to spot them, because they're "good for it," or arrange a big couples-and-the-few-single-dudes-too event. And all of these can be good times, of course. But I'm not in any of those zones any more. I'm in the transport-myself-into-some-fantasy-land-of-make-believe zone, as in literature and cinema. I want to discuss it, and watch it, and immerse myself in it.

And as it seems, I'll be doing this by my lonesome. Bring it on, reality.