"In thiiisss corner, the reigning champion: from the Three Olives death-juice factory, with a record of 1-0 and a slugging percentage of Three Vomits Per Night in its sole bout thus far, standing in the middle of this here promo shot...."
"The challenger: weighing in at around 180-or-so pounds, hailing from Fair Lawn, New Jersey, 26 years old, with a losing record too long-stretching to state here, yet pumped for tonight's fight with sheer "Root Beer Flavored Vodka won't get the best of me again, I'm gonna float like an on-the-rocks cubes and sting like a Bacardi 151 shot" adrenaline, here decked out in the flyest suit Macys had to offer....."
The fight location: a pair of New York City-located club parties, of the friend's birthday variety. Prefaced by some standard apartment-pregaming, drunken PATH train ride, and recklessly-loud-in-the-backseat cab trips.
Tale of the Tape: Two weeks prior to this rematch, Root Beer Flavored Vodka served M.B. with five big shots of blackout-tonight potency. M.B., poorly trained for the devastating fight, ate nothing for dinner that night, and decided, wisely, to turn the festivities into an all-out street brawl, no holds barred, inviting Root Beer Flavored Vodka's allies---Coffee Petron, Corona 22s, Bud Light Lime, and Gargantuan-Can-of-Coors-Light---to throw down. Outnumbered and helpless, M.B. was forced to submit a mere three hours into the match. Ending up on his couch, passed out and drooling. Next thing he knew, M.B. woke up in his bed, noon the next afternoon, still in full-garb and suffering from a chorus line of elephants stomping through his brain, otherwise known as a "hangover" by fight enthusiasts.
Fight Start Time: T-minus three hours, and counting.
Apologies extended for that groan-worthy headline, by the way.
Here's a bit of casting/exciting-movies-in-production news that I first heard a couple weeks ago, but the sheer coolness of said news didn't totally register until I flipped through the new issue of Vanity Fair (very solid issue overall, and Kate Winslet looks downright amazing on the cover, it must be said).
Inside, there's a two-page spread previewing the cast of Judd Apatow's next directing job, Funny People. The feature's headline is "The Last Supper," and it's basically a super-short narrative placed above a shot of the entire cast doing a "table reading," or rehearsing the script sans set and camera(s).
Seated in the pic are Apatow (just a reminder for those who may not read Entertainment Weekly religiously like yours truly---Apatow wrote-directed The 40-Year Old Virgin and Knocked Up; produced Superbad, Pineapple Express, Anchorman, Step Brothers, You Don't Mess With the Zohan, and was also the brains behind the short-lived, but funny as shit, sitcom Freaks & Geeks. Yeah, he's brolic with his), his wife/frequent co-star Leslie Mann (Katherine Heigl's scene-stealing sister in Knocked Up), Eric Bana (yes, he's in a comedy...dude started off as a stand-up comedian, believe it or not), Seth Rogen, Jonah Hill (fat dude in Superbad), Jason Schwartzman (quirky yet pretty great character funny-actor, IMDB him), and Adam Sandler.
And then, the reason for this post in the first place.....The Rza!!! Yes, the Wu-Tang leader himself. Aka, the dude responsible for my lifelong hip-hop fascination and obsession. One of the people I'd throw into my "if you could have dinner with five people, living or dead, who would they be?" scenarion. Iconic producer and at-times-great-but-mostly-tolerable MC who's been dabbling in acting for some years.
Wish I had a scan of the article to post, it's a sort-of-surreal sight to see (alliteration much?).....Rza laughing alongside Jonah Hill and Jason Schwartzman, while Adam Sandler and Seth Rogen chuckle mere feet away, next to Eric Bana cracking a semi-smile, positioned inches apart from Leslie Mann and Judd Apatow, who's two button-cute daughters (also Mann's fictional kids in Knocked Up) are playing in front of the table.
How fucking cool is this? Rza in an Apatow comedy, on screen with Sandler and Rogen, two of the funniest mofos around (I still believe Adam Sandler has some actually-humorous movies left in him, so I regularly forgive him for the dreck he's dropped post-Big Daddy)....Funny People is about stand-up comedians, and the soul-searches and comings-of-age a specific few go through. Vague description, yes, but it's all I got so far. The lead is Sandler, though I'm sure everybody else will have meaty secondary roles. Apatow never keeps things "one-man-shows."
The Rza being funny? Sure, why not? Who knows, maybe he'll even toss in a "Bong bong" or two. This actually makes great sense, the Rza/Apatow connection. Rogen has expressed his love of Wu-Tang on several occasions, even referring to the Apatow machine, jokingly, as the "Jew Tang Clan."
Not the Vanity Fair shot, but this does feature both Rza and Rogen, from that great Complex magazine cover shoot they did together in the summer of '07:
***also worth mentioning: Rza is co-producing a remake of cheesy-yet-charming The Last Dragon, that '80s knockoff of Bruce Lee lore. So, yeah, that's happening. Kind of hate the idea, but I'll give Bob Digi doubt's benefit. Until the casting of Vanity's part is revealed, which they best not fuck up. Chick better be finer than Merlot, to even do my boo Vanity justice. I bet she's still slammin', 23 calendars later.
Dreamy, with blown-out '80s hair and all. [Kudos to anybody who can spot William H. Macy and Chazz Palmintieri in early, blink-and-you'll-miss-'em Last Dragon roles.]
It's early Saturday morning, I'm debating on whether to walk to the gym or not, and lacking motivation. Which indirectly inspires this lazy post.
Self-Explanatory, but wonderful.....
"What do you say we go back to my place and I eat your pussy?"
Amen, that scene in Spider-Man 3 was, and is, inexcusably terrible. Nearly walked out of the theater when I first saw it.....but, I do beg to differ on one account here: "Paancaakes!!" is extremely random, sure, but it's also so moronic that it crosses over into greatness. No? Well, I think so, wanna fight about it?
Just read over on Empire Mag's website that Steven Spielberg and Will Smith are in serious talks to remake the Korean masterpiece of shock/drama cinema, Oldboy, directed by Park Chan-Wook in 2004. Spielberg as director, Smith as star, naturally. Nothing's set in stone just yet, but it seems like a super-strong possibility. I've read how Spielberg and Smith have been trying to work together for years, yet have been unable to secure a project that'd suit both, for whatever reasons.
And, man, Oldboy certainly is the last project I'd ever expect them to jump into together. Well, if not the last, then damn near close to the end. If anybody reading this hasn't seen Oldboy (and my hunch says that's the majority), go rent that shit right now. It's a revenge tale, a compassionate character study, eye-popper of a gore-and-torture-show, and tense crime drama, all wrapped into one unique and hard-to-turn-off flick.....plot-wise, it goes like this: this everyday Joe gets locked up for 15 years, for reasons I believe are never justified (it's been a couple years since I've watched the original; I own the DVD, though, so I'll be revisiting this weekend). 15 years passes by, excruciatingly alone and angry. He gets out, and proceeds to tear through the criminal underworld---dropping bodies, clipping body parts, taking some names---in efforts to figure out who "kidnapped" him. But graphically. And awesomely.
In other words, the exact kind of great foreign film that America often tries to remake, only to churn out some inferior bile that grinds my gears. At one point, I know that Nicolas Cage was in talks to star in an Oldboy remake, which would've been cause for witch hunts and tomato-tossing in Hollywood's direction. Cage hasn't made a good movie since....Adaptation? Was that really his last good one? Jesus. Besides, he was partly responsible for that truly-atrocious The Wicker Man redo, and I won't even get started on that one....
But Spielberg? And Will Smith? Neither one seems like an obvious Oldboy choice, but they've both entered the dark-side in the past, so it could very well be great. Though, I'd be willing to be coin(s) that most of Oldboy's striking visuals will either be tamed or scrapped altogether now....Will Smith eating a live octopus? Ripping out criminals teeth with the clawed-end of a hammer? Then there's the entire climax, which rocks harder than Judas Priest and compromises nil.
Come to think of it, I take back whatever excitement I may have injected above....there's no way that they'll maintain the rawness of the original. Will Smith is about the worst choice you could pick to star, because now it'll be surely be a blockbuster, thus neutering the original's primal force. What the hell was I thinking, giving the benefit of the doubt? This is Hollywood, we're talking about. And does it get more Hollywood than a Spielberg/Smith duet?
Fuck.
Keeping close eyes on this one, nonetheless. At the least, it'd be an intriguing trainwreck.
.....and now, courtesy of those great peeps at Joblo.com, who I'm assuming made this, considering I found it on their site:
Menacing, isn't he? Yeah, this is a bad idea. Switches file to "Give me a break" instead.
Eyes wide open. Standing in Hoboken's New Jersey Transit train station. Heartbeat accelerating at an alarming rate, sweat slowly trickling down my forehead. I better do this fast, I must seem as suspect as Sarah Palin in a MENSA meeting.
It's time to rock. You brought this upon yourselves, transit folk.
My grip on the Easton baseball bat is vice-grip tight. Both hands wrapped around the bottom handle, right digits atop the left. In the background, increasingly louder and angrier shouts of "Step away from there!" and "Are you fucking crazy!" reverberate through my one ear, and swiftly out the other. Their commands are powerless. All I can see, hear, taste, and even smell is rage, years' worth of vengeance honed directly on to the New Jersey Transit ticket machine resting 30 inches away from my front.
"You won't make me miss any more trains now, motherfucker....no more malfunctions causing in-a-hurry commuters unnecessary tension, you manmade electronic disgrace."
To think, if only one of NJ Transit's many employees would've dropped a "Need to fix and/or update our ticket machines" note into the company suggestion-box, just once, the pummeling that's about to commence could've been avoided. The Hoboken Police Department would've been able to continue standing on their homebase's front steps ogling female passers-by, like any other day or night. The elderly woman to my immediate left hoping to catch a train back to her loving husband in Suffern wouldn't have suffered her heart attack, kicked in at the sight of an animalistic twentysomething male turning the entire train station into batting practice, determined to knock off heads like they were fastballs, treat machine-bottoms like Nancy Kerrigan's legs.
Woulda. Coulda. Shoulda. Too fucking late now.
The first THWACK shatters the machine's screen, giving a whole new meaning to its favorite on-screen phrase "Out Of Service." As my arms cock back for Strike Two, an overzealous, wannabe-hero Transit employee---probably just a poor engineer on his lunch break---tackles me, bringing both our bodies crashing to the floor. "Put the goddamn bat down!" he orders. As if I'm even hearing him. Moving my left hand up to the bat's top-half, now holding it like I would a broom, I hurl the pain-stick backwards into his sternum with the force of a battering ram. Drops of blood sneeze out of his mouth before he wiggles in agony.
Back to the mission at hand.
Four more violent bat-lashes against the machine. Coins begin dispensing, rapid-fire-style, on to the floor. Okay, this one's officially busted...on to the next. Speed-walking across the platform to Unlucky Machine II, I hear money-hungry, opportunist commuters sprinting to the now-free currency sprayed all over the concrete walkway, yelling and clawing their way to the nearest George Washington face. Riotous.
Another wannabe-hero---this one a police officer---runs up on me, promptly met with an "Easton" sign to his right cheek, slumping his body to the ground in an un-bent, "stand up straight, young man" position, like a tree cut at its roots. And then another bat-to-skull, and another. Who'd of thought Hoboken had so many foolishly-heroic people. By this point, I'm swinging at whoever's in my direct vicinity---men, women, workers, pedestrians, officers.
Shit, keep yours eye off of her. Stick to the plan. Kick it to a chick at a bar later on, if anything. To my left, a drop-dead-stunning woman, about my age and with long black hair/caramel-coated skin/hourglass frame/belly exposed above seemingly-painted-on denim, is glancing my way in astonishment. Intrigued. Strangely attracted. Giving me that look of You're a bad boy. I need to discipline you something fierce, huh? Come over here.
Must resist. Stick....to the....plan.
Shaking my head, ridding my thoughts of their perverted urges, I turn back toward Unlucky Machine II. Only, Unlucky Machine II is being blocked. By a cop. With his nightstick in the air, in his right hand. Then driving it down. On to my face.
Lights out.....
Eyes wide open. Back to reality, standing in front of a ticket machine that's expectedly not doing it's one-and-only job. Operating like a horse's ass on a bad day. Showing little compassion toward a tired guy named Matt, who's been waiting on thia slow-as-molasses line for 25 excruciating minutes just to buy a measly $5 ticket so he can get home and have dinner with his parents, brother, sister-in-law, and the Gianna/Nicholas tag team of awesome. Knowing that the result of it's refusing to dispense my ticket will be a "Five Dollar Surcharge for all tickets bought on this train," translating to a five-dollar-ass-raping at the hands of NJ Transit, for no justifiable reason other than swindle-addiction-satiation. Repeatedly spitting my barely-wrinkled $5 bill back at me, as if it's saying "You know what? I feel like fucking your day up some more, jerkoff." Causing irritating Mrs. Bitch on line behind me to do-her-namesake and moan. Wish I had an Easton bat on me, that'd shut her up.
"The 5:25pm train to Waldwick, now departing," says the robotic lady into the loudspeaking PA system.
Great, that's now the second fucking train I've missed, thanks to you, you piece-of-shit ticket machine.
Defeated, I smash the side of my clenched right fist into the machine's own right side as I walk away. Surely raising a few civilian eyebrows in the process. Like you all can't feel my pain right now. Cowards. On to the next frustrating, inoperable, blood-pressure-cooking NJ Transit ticket-machine-from-hell. Hades. The fiery pits below.
Otherwise known as the New Jersey Transit train station, of Hoboken, New Jersey. The fifth circle.
Admit it, this was you two nights ago.....and by "you," I'm referring to those intelligent, un-racially-biased folk out there who didn't vote for that old guy and his braindead, hot-piece-of-tail albatross.
Admit it.
Impressive how the South Park team must've been fingers-crossed waiting on Obama's victory, and had these scenes animated and cued up, ready to premiere directly after the historical moment. Something tells me that the plotline of a post-McCain-victory episode would've revolved around Kenny committing suicide, his pals grieving, finger-pointing toward the Republican guard: "You killed Kenny. You bastards!" But in a funny way, of course. My version sounds a bit too morbid.
I can distinctly remember the moment when I was introduced to Mystery Science Theater 3000, a show so perfectly suited for yours truly's wavelength that I couldn't believe my pupils. Terrible genre movies, torn to shreds by movie-savvy comedians, some in the guise of robots? Set on a spaceship? How had I not heard of the shit before?
The episode-that-christened-me was anchored by I Was a Teenage Werewolf, a Michael Landon-starring, darker-tinged precursor (of indirect sorts) to the '80s Teen Wolf. The odd thing was, for me, that I kinda already loved I Was a Teenage Werewolf, thought it was the "bees-knees," to salute the 1957-era the film was made in. The notion of it being regarded as a "bad movie" seemed blasphemic at first; No way, not that lycanthropic gem I re-watch on dubbed VHS weekly. The scene where Landon, having morphed into the hairy son-of-a-bitch, hunts a pretty co-ed in the school's gym, revealing his snarling self from behind a stage curtain....the Mystery Science Theater 3000 crew, however, turned this and every other moment in the film into lampoon-fodder, roasting Teenage Werewolf for its inept script, chuckle-worthy dialogue, and overall mediocrity. And watching them go to town on my beloved wolf-show, I couldn't help but giggle along, in a revelatory "wow, they're right, this movie is pretty crappy" way. And from that point on, I made it a point-of-action to catch as many Mystery Science Theater 3000 episodes as humanly possible. It had me, hook, line, and sinker.
Some greatest hits
[Worth saying here....I've had some friends and family watch MST3K with me in the past, and I've been met with mixed enthusiasm; some laughed, some were bored, others were angry at me. Whatever, shit's hilarious to me.]
Even to this day, I must admit, I'm not the walking-cinema-encyclopedia that I wish I could be, though I'm on a one-man mission to come as close to such classification as Netflix and $11-two-times-a-week-being-raped-by-AMC-and-or-Loews will bring me. But I am more knowledgeable than those around me, I can proudly state, and egghead-y to the point of holding my own amongst full-fledged film-drinkers. Which means, Mystery Science Theater 3000 is comedy tongue-wagging in my kinky ears. The amount of obscure and at-first-head-scratching movie trivia and references they toss at the putrid films they're watching is astonishing, and when I watch the episodes today, I find myself laughing even harder than my earlier viewer years. Back then, in early high school when I initially turned MST3K fanboy, I caught enough of the punchlines t0 very-much enjoy, but not as much as I felt I should've.
I should give a brief what-it-is here, though, for those surprisingly still reading this even though they don't know what the fuck I'm talking about...Joel Hodgson (later replaced by Mike Nelson) is a prisoner on spacecraft S.O.L. (Satellite of Love), held captive alongside two robot companions: Crow T. Robot, a bird-like machine, and Tom Servo, who resembles a R2D2-ish gumball dispenser. Their eternal punishment, to watch endless amounts of Z-grade films, the worst movies ever to see just how much horrible-movie-watching it'd take to turn a man insane. Like, when you'd say those snarky lines about music artists you can't stand, alonng the lines of "I'd rather sit in a locked closet with nothing but Soulja Boy songs playing on loop than go to work today." But Joel/Mike and the 'bots make the best of this damnation, firing insult-after-cynical-dart at the screen (we see them seated at the bottom of the screen as the film plays).
It's an insanely genius idea, first sprung into the pop culture landscape quietly back in 1988 on a Minneapolis public access TV station. In late-'89, Comedy Central picked it up, providing the backbone for MST3K's cult-status-uprising, which continued as the show switched to Sci-Fi Channel in 1997. Every now and then, I'll revisit one of the four DVD volumes I own (there's like 20-something total volumes, so clearly I need to step my game up some), and not a bad-movie passes by without me watching and thinking, "If I had a couple friends with me, we could easily go MST3K on this shit." Now, thanks to a 20th Anniversary DVD Box Set released last Tuesday, it's front and center. I've yet to buy this new goodness, sadly, though I plan on doing so once the holidays pass by and I've dropped my last coin on gifts.
Even when the writers were on the B-game-job, the show was still leaps and bounds funnier than anything else on TV, if you were (or are) a flick-head. Cinephile. Movie-obsessor. The films they'd watch---from the now-infamous Manos, The Hands of Fate to The Robot vs. The Aztec Mummy, to Santa Claus Conquers the Martians and The Leech Woman---were hilarious in and of themselves, so sprinkling razor-sharp and rapid-fire, perfectly timed wit atop the movies elevated festivities into manic entertainment.
Manos, the Hands of Fate episode clip
Hands down, one of my all-time favorite television programs, holding up beautifully over time and inspiring me just as much now as then. Mystery Science Theater 3000 is something I use a "nerdy rite of passage," an immediate source of cool-points-earned to those who recognize the name and profess their love upon my mentioning.
All I need now is for Comedy Central and/or Sci-Fi Channel to put repeats back into heavy rotation. Then, all y'all would finally see whhy the hell I'm laughing like a marijuana-filled youngster whenever a gumball dispenser treats poorly-crafted scenes like Triumph the Insult Comic Dog.
**Bonus Video: Some of the MST3K folks laucnched a new site called Rifftrax last year, where you can buy audio commentary tracks that sync up fluidly with new, popular films. Basically, cut-and-paste versions of MST3K, edited by the viewer....check this gem of a clip from their roasting of M. Night Shyamalan's most recent debacle The Happening, which firmly holds it's place amongst the worst movies I've ever seen. Here's one where, as I sat in the theater open-mouthed and awe of the film's utter shit-ness, I wished I was in a MST3K episode. Would've been too easy.
R.I.P. Michael Crichton. Author/filmmaker/physician/one of the reasons why I first grew to love storytelling and narrative imagination. He passed away today at age 66 from cancer.
Can't say that I've read all of his books, but I can say this.....Jurassic Park (the movie, too, sure, but mainly the original Crichton-penned book) was a milestone event in my childhood, and proved to me that having a T-Rex-sized mind-full-of-wonder-and-endless-possibilities was something to be proud of. I haven't tapped into my own (or the one I truly feel I have locked within my noggin), but the day I do, Crichton will be one of the people responsible.
Sphere and Congo, my other two Crichton works of choice, rode Jurassic Park's momentum down the road of "Matt's Newfound Love of Adult Literature," even before I read my first Stephen King paperback.
Just wanted to pay tribute to a great writer. 'Tis all.
Of course, we can all laugh at this now without any bittersweet or downright depressing undercurrents. I'm mad that I came across this so late; it'd have been better to post alongside my whole "The Nightmare Before Election Day," but funny is still funny.
Watch your boy, and my boy, Homer attempt to vote for Obama:
Everybody's in skyscraper-high spirits today, and for good reason, so why not get a good chuckle over the "imagine if it actually went down like that?"
9:45pm This election is far from over, of course, but it's looking good for our boy Barack. And let me be the first to say, I love you, people of Ohio. Scholars, gentleman, upstanding women, and bright youngsters in the Buckeye State, you Democrat-leaning-in-'08 residents are.
To think, I actually woke up this morning a bit scared, stricken by this unavoidable fear that McCain was somehow going to pull this one out of Sarah Palin's fine ass. This sense of presidential dread made its debut around 3:00am in the morning, of this fine Election Day 2008. I'd been laboring through an otherwise whatever dream, where I was casting my ballot (technically speaking, "pushing the button") in the humble Fair Lawn, New Jersey voting booth, positioned inside Warren Point Middle School's gymnasium. Which is exactly how my right-given Obama-selecting went down earlier today, so this dream was basically a broadcast of events to come.
Nothing spectacular, and quite coincidental. What are the odds, of having a voter-pegged dream the night before today? Rarely do my mental-nocturnal-movies coincide with present-day happenings, so this struck me as odd off the bat.
I knew something was off, in the dream, though, when I first was asked to show my driver's license. Flipped it out, showed it to the elderly fella working the booth, but his facial reaction was anything but normal. Sort of a screwface, followed by his nudging the Barbara Bush-looking chick to his right, who also responded curiously to my ID. "What's wrong?" I ask. "Son, would you please explain what the joke is here?"
ID passes back to me. I peruse, and strangely see John McCain's crusty old mug, next to Matthew J. Barone. And not just that generic headshot being used by CNN as I type to distinguish which electoral-vote-tally is his; but The Mack himself (what a dumbass fucking nickname to give himself, by the way), winking at me as if he were Nailin' Palin.
[bizarre how I was able to find a picture that pretty-closely resembled the McCain mug from the dream....as Shaggy would say, "It's like weeeeirdo!"]
Then, my head---spinning internally and filling up with acid like a being-prepped bubble bath---peers upward, notices that the elderly fella has morphed into McCain, as well as the Barbara Bush-looking chick, and every other person inside the gym. I turn about-face, immediately, and sprint back to my car. Fumbling my ketchain at first, I clench my fingers around the Buick-lock picker and jimmy the driver's side door open, bringing me back into my bedroom here, not on the Fair Lawn side street.
"Shit, that was one vivid fucking dream," I thought, lying face-toward-wall in bed. And normally, I can't remember my dreams. I wake up, and whatever stories were told in the dome wash away into oblivion. That's the routine. The drill. So the fact that this Twilight Zone episode of a dream registered so visually, so potently, had me shook.
"Damn, what time is it," I wondered.
I turn over, now facing the room-space, only it wasn't what should've been an empty four-walled-area. Instead, what can only be described as a "the love child of a wizard and the grim reaper" was standing over the side of my bed. Think the Tall Man in Phantasm, if you're a seasoned horror movie head. The Tall Man would've been welcome, though....my hooded-dealer-of-doom had a sickel in the air, ready to sweep clockwise into my stomach, to turn my clean, comfy mattress-sheets-and-comforter into a crimson-soaked, organ-covered slab of slaughter.
[replace the orange background with my bedroom, and I'd shit a brick right now]
And this Grim Wizard was real. Real, I tell you! At least real-looking-and-feeling enough to send ice-cold shivers down my spine.
But in a flash, Grim Wizard was vapor. Unlike my near-paralysis, though. Took a good five minutes to erase the frozen heebie-jeebies. And needless to say, the rest of my night's sleep was far from cozy. Maybe a total of two hours slumber, cume.
Walking to the train hours later, the only notion that sprung to brain was, "That has to mean that McCain will win, and this country is fucked, now overseen by the Grim Wizard himself and his Wicked Witch of Wasilla." Unpleasant, at best.
Fortunately for the lot of us, however, Obama/Biden seem to be tag-team-pimp-slapping their opponents like they owe them money. Meaning, I can chalk my bad dream as further proof that I'm a wee more tetched in the head than I'd like to fess up to.
Do dreams really mean anything, in the big picture? Can they predict a person's future? Serve as unexpected allegory to encapsulate soembody's fears, happiness, wishes, etc.? Or, are they just momentary amplified imagination, and nothing else?....who knows, really....for so many, though, tonight, one of life's biggest dreams has an intensely-strong chance of becoming reality, thanks to a certain Barack Hussein Obama.
Thank our lucky stars for that. Keepin' fingers crossed, only 63 electoral votes away from victory as I post this....
GRATUITOUS, JOYOUS UPDATE TIME: Hell motherfucking yeah. "President Barack Obama," I can definitely get used to saying those three words. Kick rocks, Dubya, and please-do let the door hit you on the ass on the way out, then send you tumbling down the hallway where a bag of pretzels awaits you to stuff a handful down your mouth and choke mightily.
"What the fuck? I was gonna try to hook up with her, too!"
Those were the words pouring out of my heavily-intoxicated mouth Halloween night. Around 11:00pm.
The scene, a better-than-expected warehouse party here in good ol' Hoboken---a yearly fundraiser my friend luckily caught wind of this year. A bunch of tossed on costumes (myself, an all-red '70s-era pimp suit, complete with red bell-bottomed pants, a hand-me-down getup I borrowed from my roommate), pre-gamed at a buddy's apartment, and strolled over to the venue all nice-and-liquored-up. Outside, the spot looked like an opening scene in some cheesy '80s horror film, where the ragtag, poorly-written stock teenage characters foolishly enter an obviously do-not-enter-if-you-don't-want-your-entrails-exposed, suspect-looking building for some drunken fun. Only to be greeted by the lumbering masked psycho limb-slasher. [Though, I'm sure I'd be the last man standing, considering I've seen damn-near every '80s slasher in existence. Watching those shits has to come in some kind-of handy, right?]
Back to Halloween, though....it was myself, three friends, one's girlfriend and two of her lady-pals, both of whom I'd just met for the first time that night. Both were attractive, but one in particular sparked my hormones more than the other, mainly due to a thicker-curvier physical frame. And you know I'm not one for overly-slender, now.
So we drop our $20 a head, and enjoy the fruits of everything-goes all-night open bar. A fucking steal, if you ask me. Walking around, surrounded by wall-to-wall costumed twentysomethings, filling up what looked like one of those huge, spacious indoor skating/rollerboarding/skate-boarding parks you'd see on Jackass. This one, though, gutted out and now offering two bootleg bars and a walkway leading to a narrow rooftop patio, for smokers. And, thanks to one of my friend's brilliant mind, our very own "Flip-Cup" table and tourney. Once we started the Flip-Cup fever, needless to say my associates and I were rock stars amongst mere dressed-up mortals.
Flip-Cup games, of course, preface heavy intoxication. For all those involved. Specifically myself, and one of the formerly-unknown gal-friends of my buddy's wifey. And this one gal-pal had been given me the interested googly-eye all night, which I of course was all set to oblige. So, being the quick-thinking drunk game-spitter that I am, invited her out to the dancefloor, for a bit of bumping-and-grinding. Shit nearly heated up into the Lambada, the "forbidden dance" of pelvis to glutes.
Translated to, things were going my way. Swimmingly.
If only we'd have stayed on the dancefloor, near the restroom unreasonably guarded by a line of nobby-kneed, Forrest Gump-like "I gotta peeee" men and women who needed to break their seal, or further drain their already-cracked urinal seal. Instead, like an unthinking asshole, I agree that we should head back up to continue the Flip-Cup antics with our crew. Not knowing that she had to urinate something fierce. A necessity kicked into overdrive as she sees one of my boys pissing over the side of the roof.
Now, brace for it....ask me why this girl proceeds to request a two-guy blockade as she walks up to the roof's ledge, turns about-face, squats, and begins leaking bodily fluids off the roof. Met with my stunned, deer-in-monster-truck-headlights, and sunken jaw. Positioned mere inches below my open mouth.
Which instantly shouted, to whichever friend was closest by and aware of the nasty going down before us:
"What the fuck? I was gonna try to hook up with her, too!"
The night progressed, and we continued to dance together. Even more Dirty Dancing, although by the time she was Swayze like Patrick, I hadn't even scored her cell-phone digits. Some random drama went down with her friend, prompting the ladies in our entourage to exit stage left. Abruptly, before I could even muster the words "So, can I get your number" from throat to atmosphere.
At first, I was both angry and ashamed. "How could I not land the number, at least?" She was clearly feeling me (at least I thought so, in hindsight), it seemed like a slam dunk. Easier than selling drugs to Joaquin Phoneix (have you seen his "Bye! and "Good" hand-tattoo fuck-up? Priceless, what a dumbass. Seek it out, on Google or whatever, dude's a druggy mess). But I'd dropped the ball, no way around it.
As I took the Walk of Shame to get some late-night 7 Stars Pizza (that Hoboken post-partying crack), I played the night back in my head, indifferently at this point. Shit happens, and the soon-to-be-mouth-raped white pizza slice(s) would more than make up for a lost opportunity. Before I could even place my order, though, it was flashback city....
Me standing on that roof, watching her squat and piss off the roof. That's some manner-less, crude shit that only dudes do, isn't it? And even when guys drain their respective lizards in public, it's frowned upon, no?
"What the fuck? I was gonna try to hook up with her, too!"
It was the piss-stream felt around the world, that night. Or, within my circle of friends, rather.
EPILOGUE I so would've still hooked up with her that night, had the opportunity presented itself. Let's just be clear about that. Out of sight, in the bed, out of mind.
I sit here, on this routinely-mundane Monday night, inept at shaking the guilt and lethargical-womp-womp-ness clouding my thoughts. Because yet another evening is passing without me taking my $100-dollar-a-month-membership-fee-paying ass to the gym. The push-up bars and 20-pound dumbbells resting on my bedroom floor keep me my sanity and self-image in check, banging out at least 75 push-ups and 100 arm curls a night. Call it the lazy-man's battle tactic, but my miniscule makeshift home gym is a lifesaver.
[now here's a book I should crack open in the near future...]
No matter how many push-ups I do while watching Family Guy, though, or bicep and tricep exercises I knock through while channel-surfing, it's virtually impossible to replace the instantly-accomplished, productive psyche that results from actually physically going to the gym. And why is this, now? Fucking angers me, why I can't feel the same sense of triumph working out here in my apartment that I do when I walk across town to the overpriced gymnasium. The gym is, undoubtedly, one of the most awkward, self-conscious, get-me-the-fuck-out-of-here settings around. At least for me. I find myself, whenever there, checking the clock to make sure I've been within its mirror-clad walls for at least 45 minutes, anything less than said duration rendering my trip pointless. Misused.
I hate it. When all's said and pumped, the shit I do here in my apartment isn't that far off from what I do there. Only difference being, there's no cardio machines here. Sure, I from-time-to-time attempt to run-in-place in my living room, but the floor's hard as fuck and my feet end up stinging as if I were tapdancing on a bed of syringes. So why can't I mirror the gym-going experience anywhere else but there?
[all that stands between I and home-workout nirvana....a bigger apartment would be clutch]
At least here, there's no eyes peering at me, or personal trainers examining how properly I'm using their precious machinery, or that one short blabbermouth-asshole-dude who feels the need to broadcast his own version of Sportscenter to any male in a 10-foot radius when not issuing D+-grade game to fit chicks who clearly want to jam a free-weight up his ass (pause). I can do what I want to do here, skip long lines for the room-temp-and-metallic-tasting water fountain, and not feel embarrassed about watching VH1 reality shows...why is it that every time I do cardio, the only machine available is somewhere in the front row, in 20/20-plain view of everybody else jogging and elliptical-ing to see just what I'm idiot-boxing. I like sports, yes, but it just so happens that every time I'm watching TV at the gym, there's no game on that I'd ever even watch. Forcing me to endure a fucking hockey game, in order to not look like a tool.
The gym....killing people's self-esteem while building up muscle mass and trimming fat since, whenever the fuck the first gymnasium was opened.
"Trimming the fat" is another dilemma, workout-related. You know that old wives' tale about "doing cardio can rip you up and give you six-pack abs, guaranteed"? Whoever initially uttered those words, or whatever variation my paraphrasing derives from, must've ate nothing but carrot-sticks and hummus, and drank water, with an occasional Diet Soda Pop with lemon slice acessory. And if that were my diet regime, I'd surely snap within three days, bumrush the Johnny Rockets here in Hoboken, take the cook at butter-knife-point, and demand a triple cheeseburger and cheesy fries for free, or else said cook's face will meet piping-hot-grill. Or, do nothing of the deviant sort, and opt for ordering $20 worth of Chinese, and not the "steamed healthy menu" shit I typically order. My father used to always complain at how my "steamed chicken and mixed vegetables" smelled like ass, but I've stayed strong in my wise-dining strategy.
Six-pack-abs are more elusive than Dr. Dre's Detox, and I'm not about to stop satiating my Haribo or CVS gummy bear fix anytime soon.
[even better than that book above....though, you'd never catch me dead wearing this]
Guess I'll stick to 75 push-ups and 100 arm curls a night, with time spent in the gym handicapped to whenever motivation settles in, and Family Guy is nowhere to be found, remote control wise. And daydream about my gym magically relocating to across the street from my apartment, cutting out all pesky, unnecessary footwork.
Clown on vegans all you want, but I'm starting to think that these "fuck you, meat" dieticians have it right. Though, I did (and still do, actually, whenever it's on TV) find joy in the whole vegan-restuarant scene in the lowest-common-denominator-comedy-that-I-shamefully-like Grandma's Boy....you know, the whole "Guy-blow....do I have to shit in a plant" bit. You don't know? Makes sense, that movie was an H-bomb of cinema if there ever was one. With Slim Pickens riding it all the way down into its crash-and-burn mushroom cloud, yelling "Yee haw!!" from launch to kaboom.
I'd be lying if I were to say that I'm ready to actually become a vegan, because the heavens know that I'd never bid "Adieu" to grilled chicken, or any other cooked poultry variation. Some people need water to live; I endure on a consistent diet of chicken-featured dishes. Lifeline, of sorts.
After last night, though, I'm tempted to go the way of the plant. Flashing back....my roommate hits me with quite the dinner proposition---"Let's go to Five Guys, man!" Five Guys, for those many who don't reside in Hoboken, is the city's answer to Fat Burger, or In & Out Burger. Meaning, pure grease and fat in a bun, with a side of even greasier fries that are advertised as having "zero preservatives," whatever the fuck that means. Sounds like "low fat ice cream," which is another crock of shit. But back to the mission-at-hand...I had zero other dinner plans, so I figured, "Fuck it, it's a weekend, and I've been eating mighty healthy for some time now. A nice criminal cheeseburger is the least I could do for myself."
Now, my roommate---who'd been singing Five Guys' praises for the past couple of weeks, since his first glorious feast there---failed to warn me of the carb-den's curious ordering process. If you want a single patty burger, you have to order a "Little Cheeseburger," or "Little Bacon Burger," or etc. Not knowing this, I order a "Regular Cheeseburger," which means a double cheeseburger. Double the indigestion, double the fun. Thinking I have one harmless patty on deck, I also request a large serving of fatty-fries (like when obese people treat themselves to seconds and thirds, comforted by that small Diet Coke on the tray), and to make matters even more distressing, I then pour out some delightftul Mr. Pibb from the do-it-yourself soda fountain. [I'd be a fool to pass up on the Pibb, though. How often do you see that offered? Poor man's Dr. Pepper, sure, but still tastes like heaven-surrounded-by-fizz]
Seated now, with wide eyes blocking my otherwise guilty-as-charged trepidation, I rip into my heart-attack-in-a-grease-soaked-brown-bag-full-of-sin. Feeling quite bad about myself, yet still strangely satisfied. Even walking back to my apartment, after the carnal meal, I didn't feel as gross as I'd anticipated. Physically, I mean; mentally, I was a dripping pile of cholesterol and shame. But as the night progressed, and I sat down to watch True Blood and The Life & Times of Tim, I couldn't shake a real "is that a lead ball in my stomach, or am I somehow fuckin' pregnant now?" washing-over of my entire body and mind.
"It'll go away by morning," I settled upon internally. Whatever help you sleep at night, man. A good night's slumber, mixed with some downtime for my stomach to recover from its intoxicating-substance-overload hangover, would do the trick.
Not quite, lard-ass. This morn, I felt equally, if not more, putrid. Even now, during a lunch break that consists of a lettuce-and-vegetable-drenched salad and water, my belly appears extended and my once-proud sense of Jenny-Craig-would-so-sleep-with-me sheen has been submerged in a sea of American cheese and ground chuck.
[The Devil In Two Buns itself...yuck]
All of this unease and guilt, over a simple double cheeseburger and fries. Where was my reasoning power last night? Now do you see why part of me wants to go vegan and never look back at a plate of processed formerly-living-and-breathing-animal cuisine? I'd imagine that a grows-in-the-Earth-only consumer goes about his or her day energized and light-on-foot. Not bogged down by the excess of edible murder. If only I had the will power and gumption to employ such an extreme lifestyle makeover.
On this Monday, November 3, 2008, I'm hereby tossing a middle-finger-you to steak, hamburgers, sausage, meatballs, beef patties, and hot dogs. Chicken and seafood, still welcome. The dreadful aura of bodily-tension I'm coping with today in the wake of Double-Cheeseburger-Gate '08 is the stuff of cautionary tales.
File this under Purely Self-Serving Posts, those that I'm sure others read and think, as the final sentence concludes, "What a waste of time? Why does this motherfucker think that such internal-monologue shit should be experienced by anybody else?" To which I wouldn't blame. But yeah, this is what I do, on a daily basis...I overthink, and criticize myself. Can't help it, never have been able to. The eternal struggle, call it.
I hate referring to what I do here as "blogging," though really, you gotta call a spade a spade, right? Just sounds so corny, status-quo-meeting. Besides, I'm not exactly "web logging," more like utilizing a free, other-hands-off outlet to wax long-winded about shit I like, and have no other means of coverage for. And I can end sentences with prepositions ("for") and not feel like a schmuck. Well, a total schmuck/hack, at least. You know what I mean.
But a problem I'm now finally realizing of just writing shit down here and not thoroughly proofreading is that, at times, I'm posting some entries that just aren't to up my snuff.
For instance, I just flashed back to some old posts I did on Fabrice Du Welz films, and I'm not in the mood to re-explain who he is, so if you're really intrigued as to who he is and don't know jackshit about him, either just enter his name in the SEARCH option above or consult IMDB. But yeah, for whatever reason i felt the need to re-watch the opening for Du Welz's upcoming Vinyan, which I embedded on this here site a couple months back. But in doing so, I also came across one of my first-ever entries here, a reaction to his debut Calvaire, which was one of my Netflix-addiction-kickoff-fix(es).
So, for the fuck of it, I re-read the Calvaire text, and promptly Xed out the page's box, thinking, "Damn, definitely am not feeling this." First off, my feelings were slanted toward the negative side, and having seen Calvaire again since, I must retract; it's a film that requires multiple viewings, and unavoidably scrambles your thoughts upon premiere viewing. So, to Calvaire, I apologize. Color me ashamed.
Color me even-more-ashamed for how I wrote said unfairly-damning reaction. My crimes: Repeating tons of words within sentences, which is my personal pet-peeve in writing and reading, so imagine how heated I've made myself. Flow and smooth-read-quality were clunky. Issues that would've been resolved if I'd have just proofread, instead of premature-posting-ejaculating. So from this typed-word on, I'm vowing to somewhat-polish these entries. It's "blogging," yes, despite how hard I try to distinguish it otherwise, but even bloggers owe it to themselves and whoever happens to read their work to put their best fingers forward.
Not saying this site will read like Pulitzer Prize material or anything. Let's be real. Just making note of past mistakes, in hopes of better days.
Again, The Life & Times of Tim rules. HBO better not cancel this shit, or else I'll only have True Blood left to watch on the once-great-but-now-mediocre network. Because, let's face it, Entourage totally sucks now; this new season only serves to prove how mundane, predictable, blahzay, and uninspired the whole "douchebags make it big in Hollywood" show has become. Like, how do the writers and/or producers NOT have Ari take that new studio-head position?? Now, the show is basically "Ari loves his favorite client Vince, the struggling actor," which, correct me if I'm wrong, was the first season's arch. Back to square one, down to shitsville.
And how fucking terribly has Johnny Drama devolved as a character? Once a funny, snarky, dumbass-who-thinks-he's-slick, he's turned into nothing more than an airhead jerkoff, who you'd be hard-pressed to ever root for...and Turtle is still one-note skirt-chasing. Eric hasn't totally jumped the shark just yet, but in the hands of the increasingly inept Entourage scribes, it's only a matter of time. And Ari Gold, still good for frequently-funny zingers here and there, is growing old, and the now-botched studio-head subplot would've brought us Gold 2.0. Would've, being the operative word.
Enough of Entourage-ranting, though. The whole point of this shit was to further show love for my dude Tim. Timothy, even though "that's a terrible name." Sure, it's a tad lazy to plug the show yet again on this here site, but fuck it. My site, my choices. And I'm knee-deep in HBO's tepidness as I type, having just finished my True Blood guilty-pleasure-fix, now struggling to keep interest in Entourage, and impatiently awaiting a new half-hour of Tim's animated-Curb-Your-Enthusiasm-like goodness.
Now enjoy some Tim, demanding a promotion....
Oh, and for the sake of fairness, that John Adams miniseries was pretty stellar, and Flight of the Conchords is good times, so HBO deserves hand-claps for that. But still, yeah, with no more Sopranos and too-sporadic Curb seasons, my Channel 82 is losing mojo.
UPDATE: Just watched the new Tim. Quite possibly the best episode yet. LOLs all around, and now, I love Blobsnark. "Are you a 40-year-old man?"
Yes, I must preface this movie-reaction entry with this truth: I am a bit tipsy right now. Was boozin' and liq-in' it up earlier. I'm not hammered, or shit-faced, by any means. But a bit coming-down-from-drunk, I am, though this declaration doesn't mean much in terms of critical response. But still, I'm a stand-up kinda dude, so I feel the need to be upfront, and truthful, and all that jazzy bullshit.
I actually began this film before cracking open my first beastly-can of oversized Coors Light (seriously, these mutant cans my friend brought over last weekend and left here, shits are like steroid-injected beer cans, pop-our-tops-you-about-to-be-drunk-asshole sin portals that are double the size of your basic give-me-a-buzz brew can. Tough stuff, I say). On this site Fearnet.com, I'd heard that this hard-to-find American-made horror joint called The Midnight Meat Train is playing, free of charge, for a month or so, and it's the only place to see the film, for the time being. A DVD release is impending, though not solidified just yet, but pussy-ass Lionsgate company put the film into brutally-limited release a month or so back, and nobody say it. I guess chump-style Lionsgate feared the film's commercial success prospects, opting to churn out the latest Saw film, dumbing down and polluting the American horror film system rather than bettering it. Fuck you, Lionsgate brass.
The Midnight Meat Train (which I literally just finished watching on Fearnet.com moments ago) fucking rocks, hardcore. And of course, audiences won't get to experience it's awesomeness in deserved-theaters. At best, they'll either watch on Fearnet.com, or catch it on DVD in the sometime-future per friend's (most likely a friend such as myself, in the know) recommendation. Damn, damn shame. This could quite possibly be the best American-produced horror flick in a long-ass time. Real talk.
Which is a huge, immense surprise to yours truly. Because, really, The Midnight Meat Train has been so hyped and talked-about on the various horror websites I frequent, I was ready to christen it "overhyped," and "a martyr for stateside horror, despite its probably mediocre pedigree." After watching the trailer and reading it's plot premise, I unfiarly figured, this shit is just another run-o-the-mill affair riding the rapid-fire-edits/heavy-metal-scored coattails of Saw and other ADD-friendly genre fare.
How wrong I was. The Midnight Meat Train literally sucker-punched me, just now. I just watched it's final 15 minutes in wide-eyed awe, in disbelief that a film produced here in the states would so far off the deep end, so heavy on the gore and anti-happy ending. So honest and comfortable in its full-blown horror. I guess a good part of the reason for such rawness is the fact that it's directed by a foreign filmmaker, a stylish dude named Rhyuhei Kitamura, a fella who's previous flicks have been touted as cutting-edge though I've never seen any. May have to Netflix his catalog now, though, because The Midnight Meat Train has flash and panache to spare.
For clarity's sake, I should explain the premise here. Basically...this struggling photographer named Leon (played nicely by Bradley Cooper, an on-the-rise thesp who you'd know as the confident, athletic boyfriend of the sister whom Luke Wilson pines for in Wedding Crashers...dude who spears Vince Vaughn something fierce) is told by a respected professional (randomly played by Brooke Shields) that his photos lack heart and/or soul, shots of New York City life that need a bit more heatbeat-ing. So Leon, at the urge of his loving girlfriend (played by cutie Leslie Bibb), immerses himself nose-deep into the seedier side of the city. Which leads him to shadowing Mahogany (played by the scary-as-hell-just-looking-at-you Vinnie Jones), a serial killer who slaughters and butchers poor folk riding a subway car late at night. Leon, now intrigued and captivated by Mahogany through a series of small-world-killings that link to Leon somehow, begins his own self-appointed investigation, which of course leads to tragedy, twists, turns, gore, and sadistic glee.
First off, this is one of the few films in recent memory where when people are killed, as a viewer you can feel the force, the skull-and-bone-crushing. It's how Kitamura shoots the carnage inflicted by Mahogany, in semi-slow-mo, but with enhanced sound effects every time Mahogany's massive mallet (which looks like a hammer that must weigh a solid 50 pounds) crashes into a victim's head, or knees, or back, or sternum. Each hit is cringe-worthy, and impactful. The heartbeat-like percussion score used here adds to the feeling, too, and the overall effect of each killing is potent...namely, an early slaying scene where Mahogany drills an unsuspecting subway-rider in the back of the cranium, which Kitamura shoots from the front of the now-dead-dudes face, catching his eyeball popping out in slo-mo, bright-red blood shooting onto the camera. Gore galore, my droogs.
Perhaps the most "wow"-inducing moment, though, comes when the camera's POV switches suddenly to a Mahogany victim's eye-sight, as he's hanging upside down in a subway cart, and our stone-cold, truly terrifying villain slits his throat, and we see the victim's face in a reflection gleaming from a pool of blood, blood pouring off our (or the victim's, whose point-of-view, or POV, we're looking through) slashed throat. Raw dog, without protection, this scene is.
Again, I'm eating my initial thoughts regarding The Midnight Meat Train. I expected it to be whatever, a standard American-churned horror entry that favored style over substance. But really, it's a well-constructed piece, that moves along swiftly through solid acting, believable characters and relationships, and geniunely intense and vice-gripping scare setpieces, that show face frequently and effectively. And the gore is top-notch, and unflinching. The script goes in directions I never saw coming, introducing twists and monkey-wrenches, and concluding in a bit of creature-feature insanity that had my eyes reeling and my jaw dropping. So relentless, so vicious. So un-American, by horror's standards, which means I salute director Kitamura and the icon who wrote the original source material, horror legend Clive Barker.
All of my praise, for those horror heads aware of how Hollywood terribly and un-justifiably treats US-distributed terror cinema, should render it understood, then, that The Midnight Meat Train has been treated like a red-headed-stepchild by H-wood, a disrespected and how-do-we-market-and-promote-such-a-well-made-and-unhappy-and-brutal-horror-film piece of wonderful nastiness that was destined to be slapped around. In late summer, vagina-like Lionsgate released this shit on like 30-something screens nationwide, to the minimal point where I---a dude notorious for seeking out obscure cinema in any stretch of NYC---couldn't find a theater showing it. The whol ordeal has been a heated talking-point for horror know-whats and lovers nationwide, and rightfully so. A quality, skillfully-made horror film like this gets a raw deal, while a purely-made-for-financial-means-and-devoid-of-any-original-or-genuine-thought piece of feces like Saw V gets put on like 3,000 screens. Fuck it, America sucks in terms of horror treatment.
The Midnight Meat Train deserved, or still even deserves, much better. It's a film that may disinterest you by its off-putting title alone (it does kinda sound like some X-rated male porn, huh), and by plot description and trailer-viewing offers little new or worth spending an hour-and-a-half of your life peeping.
And sure, it's not perfect. I could nit-pick and point out a flew moments that seem contrived, or bits of dialogue that reek of cow-hand-jobbed cheese. But I went into this film simply hoping for a good time, and hoping to see some tense shit that had me excited and pulse-pounding. And this accomplished enough for me. And if you're a true horror head, or just somebody who enjoys a nice dose of risky, dangerous filmmaking and off-the-wall, brave storytelling, The Midnight Meat Train is one to seek out. Hell, it's still playing on Fearnet.com, so if my praising interested you at all, log on to the damn site and watch for yourselves.
And yes, again, I'm coming down from a drunken night, but don't let this fact deter you from seeing this movie. If anything, such mental corruption that I'm currently feeling has my film-loving side on higher alert, and spewing out more typed-passion tha normal, but a passion that's in fact real and vehement.
Hopefully this post made some sense. I'm off to slumber now, so I'll read this shit back in the morning, when I'm well rested, clear of mind, and in a post-drunk state. Odds are, I'll even rewatch The Midnight Meat Train tomorrow, because it's sickness has me honestly questioning that I really just watched such a kick-ass movie. Of course I did, and of course this glowing reaction is legit. I'm just so accustomed to mediocre American-bred horror, that I'm in disbelief. This time, I should've believed the hype. Sorry, Chuck D.
[here's the flick's trailer....not the greatest trailer, but it'll hopefully give you all a feel for the film]
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