From the look of your diet, it's obvious you're not too interested in counting calories. Could it be that you're just too busy counting the money they paid you to set us up?

I love my weekends, just like any other decent human being with time off. It's great that I have a job, but the downside to only having the weekends off as opposed to every goddamn day off is that I have less time to do things like write in this blog. It's either write or watch movies, but rarely both. Now I sleep less during the weekends to squeeze every waking moment from my free time. As a result, coffee becomes lifeblood, Monster Energy Drinks is now mother's milk, and I can always sleep in during work. Anyway, this was a pretty decent weekend; went to the New Beverly dos veces for the Stallone triple feature and the Jim Wynorski triple bill. I'm too tired, and will only write about the Stallone night this time, and save the Wynorski for later in the week (read: probably never).

I couldn't make it to the first film, Cobra. That meant I missed out on the glorious 35mm sight of Sly using scissors to cut into some cold pizza. It's too bad, because when I arrived, the end credits were rolling and the packed house was flying high on the experience of watching Stallone at his best/worst. I noticed the sound mix was done using something called Eagle Sound, which upon quick Googling I found out was another name for Ultra Stereo. That was odd; growing up, I figured Ultra Stereo was a poor man's Dolby because every low-budget straight-to-video/HBO premiere was mixed in it (either that or straight up mono) and Cobra was using it despite being a big budget studio flick. I don't know, it was just something I noticed.

Tango & Cash started, looking great for being only one of two existing prints, I believe (according to Phil Blankenship, who was programming a week of films, including the Stallone/Wynorski nights). "Let's do it" says Stallone before the opening credits, like he fuckin' knew your world was about to get rocked -- and boy does it ever. This is one of the most gleefully stupid movies I've ever seen (and I say this as a bona-fide idiot) but it's just so much goddamn fun. Damn near any 80's cop cliche is in this movie, and now in 2010 it plays like some kind of Edgar Wright homage/piss-take on the genre rather than just another example of it.

Jack Palance is the Big Boss baddie behind the whole deal, tired of these 2 supercops (played by Stallone and muthafuckin' Kurt Russell -- who got more applause in the credits than the dude whose night it was supposed to be) fucking up his money. So his plan is to frame them, put them in jail, get them killed, and rule the world or something. This guy is awesome, not just because he's Jack Palance, but because his crime lair contains a bar that also doubles as a giant rat maze. Motherfucker keeps his rats in a custom-made container, takes them out, fondles them, smells them, then shoves those motherfuckers into the rat maze/bar. Did he create the rat maze/bar specifically to use as a kind of model as to what he intends to do with T&G, like a Bond villain normally does when revealing his grand scheme, or did it just work out that way? Like, "Ahhhh -- I just came up with an IIIdea to fuck TAN-go & CASSSHHH, CASSSHHH & TAN-go good. Ahhhh yes, I can use these 2 ratssss to represent TAN-go & CASSSHHH, CASSSHHH & TAN-go!" It certainly would justify the money that went into the goddamn thing. I'm sure it was cool for a while to entertain his men at the bar, serving them up some cheap shit (never the top shelf liquor for these guys) and digging the sight of them looking down through the glass as these 2 furry rodents try to make their way across the maze/bar. Ok, enough about the rats.

Let's talk about Palance's 80's big multi-screen setup; it allows him to watch suspiciously workprint-quality multi-angled security footage of Tango & Cash barreling in with their RV from Hell. It also doubles as a camera phone, where he could have conversations with his fellow underworld types. That's a pretty funny scene, with the camera phone; on the other end of the line is fuckin' Lo Pan and some other dude who's been on Deep Space Nine like 17 different times or something, like the Star Trek equivalent to an SNL featured player. Anyway, these two are not so much standing as straight-up posing like some album cover for a one-hit wonder duo from the '80s. The best part is that the camera phone knows when to zoom in on a particular dude, depending on who's talking, even picking the right speed at which to zoom in. It senses the emotions I think, this emo-cam. The big multi-screen then gets all Circuit City demo on you when the self-destruct sequence goes off, along with a female countdown voice. I'm sure at least Stallone and Russell were laughing their asses off when they read that part in the script, right? They seem pretty self-aware, those two.

Stallone plays Tango, who is supposed to be this smart stockbroker-type who happens to be one of the 2 best cops in L.A. (Russell's character, Cash, is the other), and aside from wearing glasses and business suits, Sly kinda fruits up his voice a bit to complete the character. "It's a maaa-jor moving violation." You go, girlfriend. His sister is played by Teri Hatcher, back when she was at her hottest but way before she got kinda famous with Lois & Clark and then disappeared before becoming kinda famous again with that Old Bitchy Whore Housewives show or whatever the fuck that show is called. If it wasn't for the fact that talented motherfucker William H. Macy's talented motherfuckin' wife was in that motherfucker, that shit would be out-of-sight, out-of-mind for me.

Kurt Russell, on the other hand, just shows up as Kurt Russell, or at least that's how I like to think the dude really is; the kind of cool and funny dude you can have a beer and bro out with. I'd fuck it up, though; I'd get a little too drunk and start mouthing off about his step-daughter. I'd tell him she's pretty hot but I can't stand her and he'd kinda chuckle it off and I'd continue and once he realized I wasn't going to stop talking about Kate like that, he'd get all Snake Plissken on me or at the very least call his friend Ted Nugent and next thing you know I'm wondering why I'm on the floor in a pool of my own blood and why do I have arrows sticking out of my chest and most importantly WHY is a goofy fake-tooth smiling, draft-dodging yet flag-waving motherfucker in a snakeskin hat laughing over me.

The late great Brion James is here, doing an awesomely terrible British accent, like even he was like Fuck This Shit. I remember there was this rumor once that James served in Vietnam with Tim Thomerson, which I soooo wanted to be true. I love the idea that homeboy from Blade Runner and Jack Deth were in the shit together, shooting it out with Charlie. But do you know who WAS in the Nam? James Avery. You may know him as Uncle Phil from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, but I prefer to remember him as the voice of Shredder from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoon, or better yet, that fuckin' awesome DMV examiner in License to Drive. You're lucky, Corey Haim -- the cup was EMPTY! Anyway, Brion James gets the fuckin' Lance Henriksen/Hard Target treatment at the end, which is a double spoiler and I apologize. But goddamn, this is a pretty good supporting cast; you got Michael J. Pollard, Edward Bunker, Juliette Lewis' father, Michael Jeter, Maniac Cop, Patricia Arquette's father, Clint Howard, the big fat black guy who was in a lot of flicks but I always remember him from Class Act, Shabba-Doo, the Rekall dude from Total Recall who gets his head blown off by Arnold, and Billy Tae-Bo Blanks.

Let me go back to one of the supporting actors, Edward Bunker. In addition to doing crime and doing time, in addition to helping introduce The Great Danny Trejo into our lives, he also co-wrote the screenplay to Runaway Train (one of the greatest fuckin' movies ever fuckin' made), which was directed by some Russian dude who wrote movies with Andrei Tarkovsky and bumped uglies with Shirley MacLaine. Well, the same Russkie directed this flick, or most of it anyway, and then I think he realized this shit was ridiculous and bolted or most likely the studio was all Fuck This Commie Cocksucker and gave him his walking papers back to mother Russia. I mean, it *was* the 80's -- we weren't supposed to trust those assholes. Better Dead Than Red. Whatever the case, they got the guy who directed Purple Rain to finish the job. You can tell for the most part, because half the movie has this gritty hand-held look to it and the acting is a little more, I don't know, real. The other half looks slicker and is played in a less serious tone.

Oh yeah, Phil had a story about Lo Pan; he said that he had invited him to do a Q&A of Big Trouble in Little China and I guess what happened what was that he arrived at the New Bev, saw the huge line going around the block, and I guess that spooked him out because he was like Fuck This and took off. Phil tried calling him again for another movie, I think, but Lo Pan won't return his calls. I don't get it, was he scared? Did he think the crowd was there to Tommy Wiseau his ass? Judging by the applause his appearance in Tango & Cash received, he has nothing to worry about, unless he's worried about getting his ass kissed. Whatever the case, fuck you Lo Pan. I remember once overhearing Phil telling someone near the concession stand something to the effect of One day when I'm retired I'll write a tell-all book about all the people who did Q&A's here, who the cool people were and who the dicks are. Holy shit, that would be awesome to read if he meant it.

It was a great experience watching this at the New Beverly, and I say this not only because I live a boring life, but because I doubt the audiences back in '89 were as into the movie as this audience was. Lots of cheering and even some occasional high-fives from the dudes a couple rows in front of me. Probably hipster ironic high-fives, but high-fives nonetheless. Of the jokes and one-liners in the film, half of them were lame and half were actually kind of funny. The audience laughed either way, regardless of intention/result, which says a lot about the movie. I saw this as a kid, and I never remembered it being this fucking ridiculous. Did 1989 adults find it this ridiculous? An older lady, I'm guessing late 50's/early 60's came in halfway through, I wanted to ask her what she made of all this -- then maybe I could've had a shot with her. You should be getting that young stuff, I'd tell her, even if that young stuff is fat and out-of-shape and of dirty Mexican ethnicity.

I'm gonna admit I genuinely dug the Harold Faltermeyer synth soundtrack, liked it even more than his Beverly Hills Cop work. Yeah, I said that shit. It really fits the big stupid 80's movie playing on screen. One of the high-fivers a couple rows ahead of me would bob his head dangerously hard during some of the tunes, like he wanted to see if he could dislodge his brain and have it make contact with the back of his head. Or maybe he succeeded and the high-fives and occasional yelled-out comment were the results of that. I speak with jealousy, of course; I wasn't about to high-five the guy next to me, as much as I wanted to. I need to make friends to high-five with, but then I fear that if you start with high-fives, then you probably move up to date raping, and I don't think I could live with myself if I went that way.

Surprisingly not as homoerotic as I hoped expected. There was maybe one scene after a prison break where they shared a way-too-long meaningful glance, similar to when Charles Bronson and Ed Lauter gave each other the Brokeback stare at the end of Death Wish 3. But otherwise, they manage to skirt around that shit in spite of the hot shower scene where they go off on each other's dick size or the sexy scene where Kurt Russell dresses up like a girl. Maybe back in '89 this movie was swimming in the Gay, but not compared to flicks like Bulletproof ('96) or 2 Fast 2 Furious. I've seen worse, I've lived worse.

There was a lot of action, decent but nothing spectacular. The 80's were more quantity over quality when it came to the bang-bang, for the most part. It wasn't until the 90's when guys like John Woo came along and forced Hollywood to step up their game. Still, I enjoyed a lot of the old-school stunt work; when some motherfucker jumps through a second-story window and lands on the roof of a car, you see that he comes thisclose to missing it and eating shit. Or there's one shot where a bunch of police cars arrive at a drug bust, they speed right up to the camera before screeching to a halt, then the camera tilts up as a helicopter flies right over them. Man, now they would just CGI the copter. I guess you can't tell the difference anymore, but still, there's just an inherent coolness in knowing they really did that shit.

Cliffhanger was next. Saw this back in the summer of '93 but more importantly, I remember catching the trailer at the beginning of the year and thinking HOLY SHIT. It's still a great trailer, but back then, it was more than that, it was definitely something different from all those "In a world..." types. Ultimately, the trailer was a better movie than the actual movie, but it was still a fun watch with two killer sequences in particular.

The first is the opening scene, where Stallone's attempt at helping Michael Rooker's girlfriend out becomes just that, an attempt. That whole bit might be Renny Harlin's best work, and the only reason I'm not straight out calling it Renny Harlin's best work is because of a moment in The Adventures of Ford Fairlane where two girls tell Andrew Dice Clay's character that they just wanted to be held (he fucked 'em -- OHHHH!) and his response to that is "You got the bonus plan". Also, Harlin doesn't know when to quit sometimes; there's a horrifyingly beautiful shot in that scene that tells you everything. Harlin's not happy with that, though, this Finnish fuck then has to show you more and it's just fuckin' lame. Why am I tiptoeing around on eggshells trying not to spoil a scene from a 17 year old film, especially since my first sentence in this paragraph pretty much spoiled it? Whatever, I'm just saying we didn't need to see that stupid shot of her screaming all the way down while shit's all crazy rear-projected behind her. That wide shot with her falling away from the top of the frame with Sly watching helplessly was awesome, then it turned to self-parody.

The second killer sequence is the air-to-air heist. These fuckin' guys hook a line between a transport plane and a jet, and transfer 3 money cases. That's already incredibly impressive in itself, but even better is one of the best acts of motherfucking I've seen in a film. See, one of the treasury agents was shot up and left for dead, right? But he's not dead, he's still alive (barely) and he pretty much uses what's left of his energy to motherfuck the hell out of the guilty parties. He could've radioed for help or something, he could've told the co-pilot to put his hands up and make him fly that plane to safety (and maybe defuse that timebomb as well, if he knew about it) but no, this guy's like Fuck All You Motherfuckers I'm Dead Anyway and rains on their goddamn parade with some fuckin' nine-millimeters. He shoots the fuck out of the co-pilot, adds some proper ventilation to the jet, fucks up their heist, and goes out in an awesome fireball once the bomb does its thing.

Stallone is really good at playing a morose motherfucker. It's like he was able to see into his future to get the motivation for this performance, specifically 1998 to 2006, when he was damn near persona non grata. He's all sad and shit, trying to get Janine Turner to go back with him to Denver. By the way, I forgot what a cutie Janine Turner was. I don't know what the fuck happened. She was in a hit television show with that asshole who left TV to become a movie star and is currently back on TV (not David Caruso -- the other one), then she was in a hit movie with Sly, then next time I see her, she's in some indie movie with Pauly Shore. Nothing against Shore, I dig the Weasel for the most part (you broke my heart, Jury Duty), but I figured she was gonna have a lot more going for her in the future. I don't even know what she looks like now, she's probably all Teri Hatcher'd out or something.

So as mentioned earlier, James Gunn's arch-enemy, Michael Rooker is in this. Apparently this was Give The Co-Star Bigger Applause Than The Star Night, because homeboy got his during the opening credits, just like Kurt Russell did one movie ago. Again, no complaints here, it's not like they were applauding some undeserving piece of shit like Ashton Kutcher, they were giving it up for someone awesome. He does a great job, but there was one line delivery that made the audience laugh during a moment when they were supposed to do anything but. He's going off on Stallone, blaming him for his girlfriend's SPOILER death. He says something like "What the hell do you know about bad times, man?" and I think if he left off the "man" part (along with the Finger of Doom), he'd be OK. But he didn't, so we all laughed.

They say most movies are made in editing, and never has this felt more like the case than in this case. Having watched it this time, after reading the stories about poor test screenings and reshoots and MPAA motherfuckery, I can notice that shit a lot more now. It just seems a bit more choppy now than it did back in '93; the famous cliff jump in the trailer got fucked with in the final cut, lots of odd angles or cutaways when someone gets shot, or one part that has a 3-peated shot of Stallone shooting his bolt gun at someone (turns out originally Stallone shot the dude once and then Rooker shotgunned his ass, but maybe the audience/studio/Stallone wanted to see Sly being more proactive in the ownage department). Some kind soul had posted workprint footage of uncut bloody squib action on YouTube, until some unkind soul had it removed, but it sucks to know they cut a lot of that shit out because who knows what they did with that footage, nowadays it would be no big deal because they could Unrated DVD that shit, but back then, they probably just junked the trims.

I swear I once saw John Lithgow promoting this on The Arsenio Hall Show, calling it one of the best scripts he'd ever read. I don't want to argue the man's taste, considering he also said Hell Yes to the DePalma flicks as well as The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across The 8th Dimension, but still. Maybe he just saw the mustache-twirling potential in his role as the villainous Qualen; he's got some great lines/moments throughout, and I particularly dug the interplay between him and Rex Linn (who can shout Goddamn or variations thereof with the best of them).

That indie actor who was in Homicide: Life On The Street and some other guy show up playing really annoying EXXXXXTREEEEME sports types. They jump off the highest mountain peaks and parachute their way down, because it's awesome, I guess. We're supposed to feel for these guys at one point, but some people started applauding when one of them gets the machine-pistol treatment by the dude from Cool Runnings with the one name, like he's Prince or somebody. So the filmmakers may have failed with that attempt at likable characters. Ralph Waite shows up playing the Clu Gulager role as the elder rescue dude, and this guy is a twisted nut for sure; he paints crazy shit like a banana eating a monkey ("Nature in reverse") and apparently finds the fate of Rooker's girlfriend more than amusing. For real, check that opening scene out and notice the look on his face, he's like "Fall, bitch! MWAHAHAHAHAHA!". That was cold-blooded, Ralph Waite, cold as ice.

Then I went home. The End.

They tried charging me for the basket so I could carry the DVD's to my car with it. I said Fuck That Shit and carried them in my arms like a cheap-ass bastard champ, baby.

I had just finished watching both City Island and La Mission at my local AMC, when my friend sent me a text about his neighborhood Blockbuster Video. It was closing down for good in about an hour and they were selling the rest of their stock for $1 each. I picked up the last available basket and overflowed that shit; people were looking at me sideways, fat fuck like me sweating profusely with trembling arms carrying what eventually amounted to 62 movies. I overheard someone at the store say they weren't charging tax either, which I found out was bullshit when I got to the counter. Whatever, it wasn't that big a difference and the movies were still damn cheap. Funny how it works; half of these flicks I'd probably never even bother renting, but as Mike tweeted, "at $1/DVD, that's cheaper than renting it and it's due back: NEVER". So there you go -- my justification for all of this crap.

(Movies I've seen before are italicized, just because)

1. A Mighty Wind
2. Adventureland
3. Air America (not the dead liberal radio station, but starring awesome actor Robert Downey Jr. and awesome anti-Semite Mel Gibson)
   
4. Babylon A.D.: Raw and Uncut (I saw this in the theater and actually kinda liked it)
   
5. Beer For My Horses (morbid curiosity with this shit)
   
6. Blue State
7. Bug (William Friedkin)
   
8. Bundy
9. Corn (weird fuckin' cover enticed me)
   
10. Crank 2: High Voltage
11. Crocodile Dundee in Los Angeles
12. Expired (wonderfully fucked up flick)
    
13. Fail Safe (Clooney and pals TV remake)
    
14. Finishing the Game
15. Henry Poole is Here
16. I Know Who Killed Me
17. I’m Not There
18. Interview
19. Junebug (Amy Adams!)
    
20. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
21. Living & Dying
22. Marilyn Hotchkiss’ Ballroom Dancing and Charm School
23. Mighty Peking Man
24. Mirrors (I swear I didn't pick this one, counter dude must've of stealthed that shit into my selection)
25. Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (Amy Adams!)
    
26. Monument Ave.
27. Moonlight Serenade (Amy Adams!)
28. My Bloody Valentine 3-D (I have 3-D glasses at home)
    
29. New Blood
30. Nobel Son
31. Once
32. Post Grad (Alexis Bledel!)
    
33. Postal (I understand this is a rare decent flick by Dr. Uwe Boll)
    
34. Red Siren (Asia Argento!)
    
35. Reindeer Games: Director's Cut (did John Frankenheimer get fucked over by the Weinsteins, or was this movie always shitty? I'll find out soon enough.)
    
36. Reno 911: Miami Unrated
37. Romeo Is Bleeding
38. RPM (a car movie re-written by drunk driving expert Roger Avary)
    
39. She’s So Lovely
40. Skipped Parts
41. Smart People
42. Something Wild
43. Standing Still (Amy Adams!)
    
44. Stupid Teenagers Must Die! (awesome title)
    
45. Supergirl: International Cut
46. The Best of Youth (like I'm gonna watch this 6-hour movie again -- great flick, though)
    
47. The Brothers Bloom
48. The Descent
49. The Deviants
50. The Girl Next Door (the Ketchum book version, not the Elisha Cuthbert/porn star one)
51. The Good Life (Zooey Deschanel!)
    
52. The Island of Dr. Moreau (fuckin' Brando with an ice bucket on his head)
    
53. The Ladykillers (you brought your bitch to the waffle hut?)
    
54. The Last Winter
55. The River Wild (Kevin Bacon's sweet ass!)
    
56. The Spirit (for a $1, I'll consider finding out if it's really THAT bad)
    
57. The TV Set
58. Too Smooth (1998 flick w/Neve Campbell and vehicular homicider Rebecca Gayheart)
    
59. Tropic Thunder: Director's Cut
60. Welcome to the Grindhouse: Black Candles/Evil Eye
61. What Just Happened (DeNiro/Levinson) 
62. Zero Effect
    

Sarah McLachlan does not want the doggies and kitties to die

Bill Burr was on the Opie and Anthony show once and he told them about a documentary or something about alcoholics. He remembered one particular bit where this drunk talked about going as far as drinking his beer in the shower. How refreshing a simple pleasure THAT must be, Burr thought. And so did I, for that matter, which is why I tried that out today. I took a Heineken inside and made an airtight seal with my DSL wrapping around the rim and tossed it back, cold brew making its way down my throat as the hot water rained down upon on my head. It truly was one of life's most refreshing yet simplest pleasures. See, I'm not an alcoholic because I didn't come up with the idea; I merely heard it secondhand and filed it away for future reference and the future was now and now is time to ramble about a movie I watched last week and am just getting to now.

Kick-Ass is based off a comic/graphic novel/whatever-the-fuck-you-call-them from the same dude who did the Wanted comic. They made a movie out of that shit, so now they're making a movie off of this shit. The movie is about your typical nerdy high-schooler whose philosophy gets all Edmund Burke all-of-a-sudden, so he decides to go out on the streets and become a real-life superhero (minus the super) and fight crime in his online-purchased wetsuit. Along the way, he meets a couple of costumed badasses who go by the names Big Daddy and Hit Girl (who is about 11 years old, by the way) and there's some bald Italian mafia boss who wants to know why these motherfuckers are fucking with his capitalist ventures.

For the past few months, Kick-Ass seems to be to geeks what Obama was to liberals during the '08 elections -- the greatest thing to walk on water since sliced bread. Naturally, this kind of hard sell blah-blah forces you to lower your expectations so low that they end up in fuckin' China. That's what I did and I'm glad I did, because I thought it was an above-average movie but nothing to punch Christopher Nolan in the face about. I mean, I dug it, but this is gonna go up on my I Guess You Had To Be There list alongside Drag Me to Hell because both were screened way ahead of time at geek congregations in Texas and maybe experiencing those flicks in those settings added a lot of special good vibes towards it. Or maybe those flicks are really just That Fucking Good and I'm just a fucking asshole. 

One problem was that I really didn't give much of a shit for the main character or his situation. I'd tell you about it, but I don't even fuckin' remember, that's how much of an impression he made. What this movie's really about is fuckin' Big Daddy and Hit Girl. Watching them do their thing is a beautiful symphony of ownage, but the problem is we're not here for the symphony, we're supposedly here for the goddamn acoustical performance of Green Clad Douchebag. But this coffeeshop singer is lame, I want to ask the barista to turn up the T.V. set behind him so I can enjoy the Philip Glass of Killing Criminals. Shit, that's not even one problem, that's my main problem. That's the only problem. But it's a big one.

But not nearly big enough to fuck up the movie or even threaten to fuck it up, it's just kind of a drag when you're not into this Kick-Ass dude as much as you we're into Peter Parker or Tony Stark. Stark is awesome in a smarmy asshole kinda way and Parker's got the nerd angle covered far more interestingly and sympathetically, so, yeah. I guess Kick-Ass Dude is supposed to be a normal person, the Real Thing when it comes to alter egos but if that's the case, then shit, man, like the fuckin' Weasel said in that goddamn masterpiece Encino Man, "Normal's boring".

So it's good that we have Nicolas Cage and potential Natalie Portman having far more interesting going-ons going on in this piece (and I loved how Cage-as-Big-Daddy sounded like Adam West). It's also good that Mark Strong plays the bad guy; he was also the villain in Sherlock Holmes and one of the few good things about Revolver. Both those movies were from Guy Ritchie and this movie was directed by Ritchie's former film producer, Matthew Vaughn. He did Layer Cake, which was awesome and Stardust, which I haven't seen but was told it was awesome (by the same people who were once blind but can now see thanks to Kick-Ass, so I don't know).

Vaughn also wants you to be very aware that he's married to Claudia Schiffer because he has a whole fuckin' scene take place next to a billboard featuring the sexy lass. I mean, Good Work Bro, but that reeks a tad much of showing off. Motherfucker probably goes around at parties constantly introducing himself and his wife with "Have you met my wife, former supermodel Claudia Schiffer?" and even if they've already met, he'll remind them "Oh by the way, my wife's a former supermodel, you know. Her name is Claudia Schiffer. Isn't that right, former supermodel Claudia Schiffer?". Shit man, I don't even know if she's former or whatever. All I know is that she sure as shit ain't sucking MY cock, she's sucking Matthew Vaughn's cock and I'm here alone writing bullshit on a blog and calling both Schiffer and Vaughn cocksuckers for two completely different and wrongheaded reasons. Digression acknowledged.

As awesome as Hit Girl was killing people and looking absolutely pedo-tastic while doing so, I actually got annoyed by her casual use of bad words like Cunt. Don't get me wrong, I don't get offended by little girls swearing or killing people (like Roger Ebert did in his review of this movie -- slightly reminiscent of his pan of Blue Velvet -- so offended was he that he watched the entire film with his jaw dropped) but it seemed a little too much of a Yeah Man, We're Naughty And We Don't Give A Fuck vibe from it. "Look, we have a little girl using words that'll make your grandma shit and piss herself -- more than usual, anyway" is what it comes off to me like and they didn't need that because they already had her blasting and slicing up so many low-lives in so many nifty ways. Actions speak louder than words, people. Unless the words are louder than the actual action you're going to perform, like "Hey I'm going to pull this tissue out of the box" and then you pull the tissue out of the box and that particular action is like, practically whisper-quiet. Whatever, that's not a valid argument, skip that.

Christopher Mintz-Plasse is here too, and the funny thing about his role is that it could've been played by someone far less McLovin and far more McSteamy. What I mean is that I figured since it's McLovin, this dude's gonna be like a real nerdy klutzy type and even the trailer plays up that angle with the part where he hurts himself jumping off a dumpster. But his part is pretty much the James Franco part from Spider-Man, a rich kid with a father he looks up to, and maybe he's not seen as strong or capable as his old man, but he's itching to give it his all in trying. I don't know if his character in the comic was also a nerd or if he was a Franco, but if I can get  retrospect armchair quarterback on this shit, they didn't have to make him a nerd for us to visually get the idea that he was incapable of running shit; he's a rich kid, and as we all know, all rich kids are pussies. I know this because I read it somewhere.

I understand the early screening at the AICN Butt-Numb-A-Thon was of a print that used source music from superhero flicks like Superman and Batman, and I swear I also read that they also used that great song November Rain by that piece-of-shit Axl Rose. I don't know if it was just a temp track thing they were doing or if the filmmakers actually tried to use those themes in their movie and maybe the studios/owners of said music were either like "Fuck you, you ain't getting shit" or "Pay us a shitload of money if you want it that bad, and by the way, fuck you", but those compositions didn't make it into the theatrical version, but the music they used in its place sounds enough like those tracks that you get the idea.

Anyway, I liked Kick-Ass but I didn't love it. I took like five paragraphs to get to that one sentence opinion but you probably know how I roll in this motherfucker anyway and should be used to it by now.

Grafted in a jiffy

THERE BE SPOILERS HERE

So last Friday, I went to the Art Theatre in Long Beach to watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2, which I had never seen. I'd been to this particular place once before, to catch Sunshine Cleaning for the 2nd time before visiting my friend to watch a bunch of motherfuckers beat the shit out of each other on UFC. I remember liking the place but hating the parking, and as it turns out, this time the parking is even worse now that they closed the small lot behind the fuckin' place. As I walked towards the ticket booth, a homeless dude using his coat as a mattress started mumbling to me something about my cigarette, so I gave it to him. For all I know, he could've been warning me about the dangers of smoking and probably thought I was being a dick for handing over my cancer stick, but whatever, he was mumbling. Kinda like what I'm doing now with my typing.

Instead of a ticket, the girl stamped my hand and I was in. It was a decent turnout and I ended up sitting near the female lead of the movie, Caroline Williams. She was chatting with the people sitting beside her and was in very good spirits. Two of the guys who worked on the makeup effects were there as well, Bart Mixon and Gabe Bartalos, but I wasn't sitting next to them, so who knows if they were in good spirits or not. At least up on stage, they seemed cool, but Madam Williams wins the award for this night. She was awesome. There was a giveaway of DVD's for those who got the trivia right, and I ended up winning an autographed poster of TCM 2 because I was the only one who raised my hand as opposed to yelling out the answer (which I didn't know until I heard it yelled). I won for demonstrating good manners while swooping in and owl-ing that shit from a motherfucker. Lesson here, kids: Raise Your Hand.

I really liked the movie, really liked it. I can understand why this flick might have rubbed many a horror fan the wrong way back in '86, considering that it's basically for the most part a piss-take on the first movie. I mean, it still has some genuinely shocking moments, but for the most part it feels like Tobe Hooper made this because he had to, not 'cause he wanted to, and so he decided to have some fun with it. But even if that wasn't the case, it's kind of an uphill battle to follow up such a classic. So why not take it to a different fuckin' playing field? Anyway, while I can understand someone not liking this movie, I do not agree with them. This fuckin' movie rocked and I'm definitely buying the special edition DVD with the shitty Saw design.

Something I noticed during the viewing was, well, two things I noticed. First, they must have blown out one of the speakers of something, because there was a weird crackling coming from the front throughout the whole fuckin' movie (the 35mm print looked great, though). Second, I realized that Rob Zombie owes a shitload of his film career to this goddamn flick. Holy shit, was this motherfucker influenced by what he saw here. I mean, there was a lot of The Devil's Rejects in here with the half-crazed Texas lawman avenging his fallen family member(s), the use of Bill Moseley, the unsettling mix of horror and goofy, colorful language, people forced to wear other people's flesh, etc. Both TCM 2 and Zombie's Halloween II even have a similar directorial tone of Fuck This Shit, I'd Rather Be Doing Something Else But I'll Give You A Fuckin' Sequel To Remember, going as far ending their follow-ups with straight-up closure, all the baddies dead and no room for further sequels (which doesn't mean a fuckin' thing to the studio, 'cause there's always a way to continue). I guess what I'm trying to say here is that if they've never met, and in that case, were to meet one day, it would make perfect sense if Tobe Hooper's first words to Zombie were to be "You're welcome".

The next day I rented The Collector, because this gentleman had tweeted its praises. It was written by the guys who wrote Feast and directed by one of them. The movie is about this dude named Arkin working construction/renovation shit on a house in the woods owned by a family with money, but what they don't know is that once they take off for vacation, homeboy's gonna come back at night and jack everything in the safe. It's kind of a scummy thing to do, but the fact that his baby mama owes a shitload of money to some undesirables helps you want to see him pull it off and get away with it. And he would've gotten away with it too, if it wasn't for that darn mysterious masked man in black already inside the house and torturing said family.

Yup, it's the title character and it's people that he collects; he likes to slice them up, beat them up, and stitch their mouths shut. Arkin tries to get the fuck out of there, but suddenly it seems like every other step he takes is thisclose to a deathtrap that didn't seem to be there a minute ago. Suddenly there are spikes sticking out of the stairs, razor blades hidden between the planks of the boarded up windows, needles attached to the phone, etc. Arkin is trapped and I guess there's the whole human being side of it that makes him want to help these poor people out, in addition to getting the fuck out of there before midnight (that's when the loan sharks are coming to either collect from his woman or break her fuckin' legs). But there's also this Collector dude stalking around the whole joint that he has to contend with.

This was intended to be a Saw prequel, but for whatever reason, that shit didn't happen. So here we are with this movie. Ultimately, it wasn't bad, I thought it was OK and worth a Saturday night rental. It's a short movie, and fast at that; this one felt a little more torture porn-y than others of its ilk.  There's a really creepy motif involving spiders and even the Collector himself looked a tad arachnid. Even some of the traps give off a spider web vibe where once a poor motherfucker goes in, there's no getting out; rooms are suddenly lined with tripwire and one fucked up trap involves the floor of a room being covered in some yellow sticky substance (it's like flypaper, this shit) and as a special bonus, this stuff is like acid and starts eating away at your feet once you're stuck. Even a poor fuckin' cat is stuck to this shit and doesn't sound too happy about it.

OK, those were my brief thoughts on the movie itself, but I want to get into the revelation of who the Collector is and what I got out of it, so, again with the spoiler warning. So it turns out that the Collector ends up being the pest control dude who was working alongside the construction guys. He's played by character actor Juan Fernandez, who you might not know by name, but you've sure as shit seen his face, usually as a bad guy. Shit, I think he's only played bad guys. Anyway, being that this dude is raza, I wonder if the movie is trying to say something about how most of you motherfuckers see the brown dude who is cutting your grass, or the lady who watches your kids, or yes, even the Latino who is killing your bugs. You better watch the fuck out, people. Respect these motherfuckers, be kind to mi gente and don't ever look down at them just because you might make more money and have a better job/life situation and because you're not a dirty wetback. Don't be like that. Or they will put bear traps all over your foyer.

I understand this movie made its money back and they're considering a sequel. Good. I want this to become the new Saw. I want more and more people to know about the Collector and I want the movie to make people aware about the ethnicity of the actor playing him because what would come out of it would be just so darn amusing. I can see it now; upper-middle class/wealthy liberals will kowtow and walk on eggshells so as not to annoy Lupe the nanny. I can see similar tax-bracketed conservatives using The Collector as another reason why we have to close the borders: "You see, people -- these illegal Mexicans will come over here, take our jobs, live off our socialist/communist/fascist health care that our son-of-a-bitch president Obama has forced us to live with, and then they'll lock us up in trunks in an attempt to lure more rich White--ahem, I mean fellow Americans into their deathtraps!"

I don't want to see paisas get mocked for wearing their cowboy hats and gigantic belt buckle and snakeskin boots and driving their old Ford pickup with a 2 foot Virgin Mary on the dashboard and blasting some fuckin' ranchera music. I want them to be feared. I want to see people get nervous at the possibility that Jorge the kindly gardener will own their fuckin' ass, should he ever feel like it. This is the kind of change I believe in.

The thievery of ambition, and other things like that

(This entry has fuck-all to do with movies and is more of some regular life shit, so you can stop reading at this point. Thank you.)

I don't know what the ratio of Bullshit-to-Genuine is when it comes to people who get Medical Marijuana recommendations, and I really don't care. I just know I wish I was one of the Bullshit patients, but as a recent unplanned doctor's visit turned out, I happen to have one of the ailments that is legally recognized in this great state of California when it comes to the MM. It's something I figured I was dealing with as far back as high school (what a surprise), but never really did anything about it until now. So I decided to turn lemons into a refreshing citrus drink (the name of which escapes me) and figured I should try getting a bona fide Medical Marijuana recommendation.

For the record, my weed intake is pretty low and not at all resembles anything routine or consecutive. I still rank as an amateur in this sport. It is merely one of many weapons in my arsenal in the on-going War Against Sobriety I've been fighting half of my life. I just like the idea of having the ability to acquire this shit in a far more legal manner. To know that you *can*, is sometimes enough for you to go on.

So I did the research and looked up the places, settling on one that I will not name for reasons I'm not entirely sure of, but it's better to be safe than sorry. I called, made my appointment for the following Saturday and then Saturday came and I went. The location was inside a bank building in a nice business section of town; I went to the office and was greeted by an attractive blonde in her mid-to-late 20's with a Midwest-Gone-California feel about her. She gave me some forms to fill out and told me there were more seats further down the office. I passed by a lady in her 40's and a young dude who looked early 20's and very much from the Bullshit echelon, but then again, this is me judging a book by its cover like some kind of asshole who judges books by their covers. I sat down at a table and answered the questions such as what ailment do you suffer from, who is your health care provider, are you taking any medication, have you taken marijuana before as a substitute/avoidance of said medication before, and some other shit I can't remember because I smoke da reefa. There's also a bunch of shit to initial, making sure that you're aware of both the possible benefits and drawbacks of Doctorological Mary Jane.

Directly across from me was the entrance to the physician's office, and I knew that because a deep booming voice could be heard from behind the door, saying things deliberately slow and overly enunciated like "But you have to tell me if it's pain that you believe can...". During this, another gentleman entered the room and was welcomed by the receptionist. This guy was either hard core Genuine or really trying super-fuckin-hard to sell the Bullshit, because the entire time he was filling out his forms a few feet away from me, he kept muttering to himself, and it there's such a thing as violent muttering, that's what THAT motherfucker was doing.

The door to the physician's office opened and out came two men of the Asian persuasion, escorted to the receptionist/secretary/important papers lady to cross some T's and dot some lower-case J's (one acted as a translator for the other, hence the slow/deliberate talk from the doc). His next patient was the Shoulda-Been-A-Cougar-But-Isn't, and they both walked in and the door was closed. It really did no good, this door; you can hear everything. This made me nervous. The young stoner in his early 20's then made a comment to the blonde, something like "I bet you don't get people like that much in here, huh?", referring to the two men from Southeast Asia. "I'm from Oklahoma and I've heard every kind of accent, but I never heard something like *that* before!" she responded. They giggled the kind of giggle that had nothing in common with each other; her giggle was coming from a "Those wacky Chinamen!" vibe and his was more "It would be so awesome if we fucked."

He then asked her if in addition to her office duties was she also a patient, which to me seemed a little too personal a question, I don't know. But she didn't miss a beat, she told him she was and he then asked her what the difference was between certain kinds of plants and she straight out demonstrated her expertise in that shit. It might as well have been math equations this chick was talking about, otherwise I'd kinda remember it enough to write it down. Me, I just know the difference between an indica and a sativa. These two were becoming fast friends, whereas I was sitting a few feet away from a man I was hoping to God was actually having a Bluetooth conversation rather than an imaginary one with God himself.

Meanwhile, it wasn't sounding so good in the office; in an even-tempered but booming voice, the doc was telling Cougar Town that he needed ANY kind of medical record from a doctor or chiropractor that said she had what she claimed to have. Shortly after dismissing her ("She's *mad*", remarked the blonde after the lady's departure), the doc told Blondie what had happened. Turns out that Stiffler's Mom was trying to get a rec. for her back pain with only a bottle of Ibuprofen from Costco to back her up. Oh, what laughs the doc and Blondie had (along with Skater Dude who was trying to bang this broad)! I was next.

So we go into his office, and in addition to his large desk and two large comfortable leather office chairs, there was an examination table to the side as well. Up until my arrival, I kept expecting someone like Dr. Lexus from Idiocracy or Jack Elam from Cannonball Run, but instead I got a man who looked to be in his late 60's and looking as doctorly as a doctor could look. He looks at my form, and I tell him my story. As I do this, he would occasionally go over and scribble notes and make comments on how it sounds like a clear case of >>CONDITION REDACTED<< and that these >>SYMPTOMS REDACTED<< I've recently been having are obvious >>DETAILED SYMPTOMS REDACTED<<. I had a copy of my medical record and a prescription bottle, which he looked at, and told me that in his opinion, I could benefit from Medical Marijuana. The doctor then went on to tell me the potential risks and benefits of medicating with dank; he spoke loud and clear and carefully, like he wanted to not only make sure that you understood everything he was telling you, but make sure that in case you were recording any of this, he would be legally free and clear and that there was no shenanigans involved with my diagnosis.

He escorted me out and gave the forms back to Blondie, then went back in with Skater Dude. Blondie asked me for the $150 fee (you pay only if you get the recommendation, which is only fair) and had me sign a few things with her pen that had a weird bubbly kooshball at the end of it. Among the documents I received was my official Medical Marijuana recommendation/Physician's Statement (doctors can not actually prescribe it to you), a wallet-sized version of said Statement, and a glovebox version of the statement -- all signed by the doc. I also received a Patient Handbook with all the info one would need about this whole thing, in case you didn't know any of it; laws, effects of marijuana use, web addresses to relevant sites, methods of use and medicinal effects of particular kinds of bud. There was also an application for a Medical Marijuana State ID, which I'm not yet sure about signing up for. On the one hand, it renders you practically bulletproof with John Q. Law. On the other, you're officially noted with the State of smoking pot and even though I'm legit, I still feel uneasy about those motherfuckers knowing that shit. All this is good for a year, then I'm supposed to come back in about a year for a renewal (and I'm guessing another sitdown with the doc to catch up).

You should already know where the dispensaries are, and legally, the people at this joint (see what I did there?) can't tell you anyway. I had already looked around online and was surprised by the sheer number of them in my hood. It was interesting to be able to price compare items with names like OG Master Kush and G13 and Buddah Kush and AK-47 online, you couldn't do that on the street unless you really felt like giving the guy and yourself a hard time. Half of these places cleverly(?) give themselves names that spell out THC in acronym form or have the word Green in there; if there's a place that manages to spell out WEED, that's like, well that's like Wow as far as I'm concerned.

An hour ago I was sitting in a pot doctor's office, filling out forms. Now I was walking to one of my many local pot dispensaries. A security dude kept watch behind a desk in the large lobby (about 2/3 of the entire space, of which 1/4 was being used) and there was a bank teller style window to walk up to. The guy behind the glass showed up with a shaved head, goatee and basketball jersey; he asked if it was my first time and then had me fill out a form while he checked out my Physician's Statement and driver's license. I sat down on a couch in front of an HDTV and a table with free cookies to fill out the form. After giving the form back, the guy buzzed me in and I walked inside to the room of weed.

The room is as big as someone's bedroom; glass display counters with different kinds of bud in jars. On top of one of the counters was one of those magnifying glass/light deals you can check the weed with, should you so desire. The guy behind the counter was nice and looked to be in his late 40's/early 50's, and looked like someone who probably knew Cheech and/or Chong personally. The basketball jersey dude told him that it was my first time here, so the counter guy gave me a free pot cookie with my purchase. The corner of the room had one of those multi-screen security monitors, because you just never know, I guess. He invited me to smell the buds and check them under the lamp. And even though I just wanted to get this shit, get outta there and just fuckin' blaze -- schwag or dank, be damned --  I took him on his offer. Every once in a while, Basketball Jersey Dude would suddenly exclaim "Ice Cream and Cake! Ice Cream and Cake!" like that Baskin Robbins commercial, for reasons known only to him.

I ended up getting a gram of an indica and a gram of a sativa; Buddah Kush and Maui Wowie. It was still early in the day, and I figured I would take advantage and catch a movie while enjoying my free pot cookie. In the end, I went with Clash of the Titans in 3D. Even though I heard horrible things about the last-minute post-production 3D, I didn't care. It's not like I really wanted to see this goddamn movie in the first place, shit, I'm gonna commit some motherfuckin' sacrilege and confess that I admired the original more than I actually liked it. I mean, I love me some Ray Harryhausen, but that's pretty much all the love that flick gets and I don't jizz all over that movie the same way I geek-bukkake over something like say, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. I just wanted to trip out on something after ingesting some cannabis Mrs. Fields. It must have been some good shit too, because not only did I really dig this fuckin' movie, I don't get the hate over Jake Sully's acting either. Again, that cookie was some good shit.

Come November, there is a possibility that this shit will get even more legal in the state of Caulyfoneeya (Schwarzenegger pronunciation, please) for those over 21, that is if the proposition passes. I'm betting that it will; in the same way that Obama did his Health Care Reform thing right around the time that I FINALLY got health insurance after a two-year period without it, now every fuckin' adult is going to be able to walk into a joint for a joint now that I scored a MM rec. Just my luck -- and everyone else's for that matter. 

Squid

I had finished dining alone and directly across the street was a cool-looking bowling alley, as most bowling alleys are, and I figured I should go. Into the street I went, and into the left turn lane I merged. I made my turn and it was at that moment, as I was inches away from making my way into the entrance, that I misjudged the distance and location; the entrance was another ten feet to the right and I was headed for hard curbed concrete. Perhaps it was the two glasses of stronger-than-usual wine that I had with my meal, perhaps it was my already nervous state-of-being (whenever I'm behind the wheel), or perhaps it was me making an inexplicably stupid move caused by some odd synapse going wrong or maybe I'm just a Dumb Fuck, but rather than make a three point turn, I instead decided to drive the ten feet for the entrance -- in the wrong direction.

This incredibly dumb decision was made slightly smarter by the illusion that there was no oncoming traffic. I swear this to be true, there were no cars in sight. Yet as I made my move, sure enough, a goddamn speeding exodus approached my way, horns honking & lights flashing at me in a sort of morse code that translated as WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG WAY YOU'RE GOING TO KILL SOMEONE GET THE FUCK OFF THE ROAD. I quickly hugged the curb, trying to make as much room as possible for the rightful drivers, and finally making it into the bowling alley and screeching to a halt at the first available parking spot. For some crazy reason, I thought it was best to immediately stumble out the door and make like I was having some sort of attack. I coughed and wheezed and spasmed because in some retarded way this made sense to do. Maybe if one of the drivers I nearly Death Proof'd on the highway decided to come over and Zoe Bell my ass, seeing me suffer from some kind of hitherto unknown medical affliction would overcome him or her with some kind of sympathy.

After about two minutes of this, I calmly walked to my car, got in, and drove away just as calm. After passing down two blocks, a fleet of cop cars drove past me in the opposite lane -- flashing red/blues, sirens wailing -- and I wondered if maybe, just maybe, someone had made a frantic call to 5-0 about some possibly drunk piece-of-shit of Latin descent driving the wrong way toward oncoming traffic. This wonder was made even wonder-er when 3 out of the 6 cruisers entered the bowling alley parking lot. I eventually made it back on the road, heading home, radio turned off for some odd made-up-at-the-moment superstition that convinced me my goose would be cooked if I kicked up the tunes. Halfway home I was tempted to get all Woo! and celebrate like I got away with it, but I knew I shouldn't do that. Because it would be like that asshole from Creepshow 2 declaring his win over that man-eating oil slick, and we all know what happened then, don't we? Nom nom nom. Except for me, the man-eating oil slick would be the cops and a different kind of Nom nom nom-ing would be happening to me in jail. I made it home, sighed in relief, and took a 30-minute disco nap because I decided that perhaps the best course of action would be to go to the New Beverly Cinema and catch this Rockula movie all the cool kids were talking about. 

While waiting in line, the movie's composer stood behind me and was telling whoever he was with stories about somebody fucking over somebody money-wise, the kind of stuff that I suppose is unfortunately normal business in Hollywood. Inside, Cathie was up front handing out tasty treats -- it was her birthday, and this was her b-day movie. Clu Gulager was in the front row being his usual cool self. He was in a lot of cool joints, one of them involving him and fuckin' Lee Marvin owning motherfuckers. I found out that this guy was there as well, and later that night he tweeted that we shoulda said hi. Alas, Mike, I was unfortunately born with swollen testicles and that makes it impossible for me to go up and say hi to people. I'm also a master of the awkward situation and I think it is only responsible of me to spare people of said awkwardness by leaving them alone.

The star of Rockula, Dean Cameron, was there for a Q&A before the flick. If you don't know him by name, you'll know him by face. One of his best known roles was as Chainsaw in Summer School, and I think he's the same Dean Cameron who also created a small metal pocket-sized Bill of Rights shortly after 9/11 for use in fucking with airport security. Mr. Cameron does not look the same as he did in the Summer School days, which of course is something that happens to most of us when 20 years go by. This is not an insult; he actually looks more distinguished, carrying a more serious look about him rather than the young goofball type he used to resemble. I have no fucking idea why this matters to me, but allow me this; looking exactly the same most of your life isn't what it's cracked up to be, and if you don't agree, just ask Dick Clark and he'll be glad to slur his thoughts to you on this issue. That motherfucker was blessed to always look 30, then one day God had it with that bullshit and punished Dickie Boy with the goddamn stroke-to-end-all-strokes, putting Billy Squier to fuckin' shame.

The Q&A was moderated by some dude who runs the midnight shows at the Castro Theatre in San Francisco (and sounded every bit of it). I love this motherfucker because he used a term that I'm gonna run with in these here ramblings: "Neo-Sincerity" (or "Post-Irony", I can't remember but I prefer the former), something about how we've been living in the age of Irony for quite some time and now it's time for Neo-Sincerity, when you can like some shit because you actually liked it, not because it's incredibly bad and you laugh at and feel all superior and shit over it. He talked about how he didn't love a flick like Rockula in an ironic sort-of-way, he genuinely loved it from the heart, and these days I think most people are kinda self-conscious about admitting to digging something everyone else might find lame. I understand that we as a people will be submerged for eons in Irony, I understand. But we need to lay off of that shit for a bit. Listen, I love a good bad movie just as much as the next asshole -- I inflict them on a regular basis to my friends (which is probably why I've precious few nowadays). But not every single goddamn movie has to be The Room and maybe, just maybe, you like Roadhouse because goddamn it, Patrick Swayze is a fuckin' badass in that film. I'm speaking for others, of course -- I'm too busy laughing at that shit. Ahem.

I could sense a lot of that when I went to see Hausu a couple of weeks ago or maybe I was just being a sensitive douche or both. But it seemed like some people around me thought they were watching the reincarnation of Edward D. Wood Jr., and I sure as shit didn't feel that way. I fuckin' loved it, and you can call it weird, you can call it insane and you can call it 90 minutes of sheer WTF -- but you couldn't call Hausu a bad movie. The Japanese motherfucker behind that shit KNEW what the fuck he was doing, he fuckin' KNEW. But as far as the dudes behind me were concerned, that movie might as well have been directed by Mickey Rooney's character in Breakfast at Tiffany's. If you're going to make comments and can't keep it down to a whisper to the guy next to you, here's a handy way to determine if you should in the first place: Unless the movie you're watching features a muscular long-haired actor of indeterminate origin or age getting cheated on by his blonde-hair/black eyebrow'd wife and his possibly gay best friend, unless it involves Tim Curry in drag, or unless you once worked on the writing staff for MST3k and/or are currently under the employ of either Rifftrax or Cinematic Titanic, you should probably just keep your goddamn mouth shut and save that shit for when you bro out with your bros over chili dogs at Pink's.

But yeah, back to Cameron. He was cool and very funny. Sometimes he got a little too self-deprecating on his past work and I think this unfortunately resulted in Castro dude taking that shit a little personal sometimes. It was interesting to observe because I think Cameron sensed that his words may have been misconstrued, and if he didn't at first, he certainly did by the time a guy a couple rows ahead of me who looked like Buzz from the Home Alone movies started yelling out his disapproval on Cameron's disapproval on stuff like Miracle Beach. Cameron then clarified what he meant, saying that he had nothing against those movies and was very happy that people were fans. He just didn't think he was as good as he could've been and can only see the flaws in his performances. In the case of something like Miracle Beach, he felt his career was pretty much in the tanking stage and a flick like that wasn't helping him mood-wise, either. This guy is also an excellent shit-talker. Best part was when he talked about Charlie Sheen accidentally shooting Kelly Preston, ending with something to the effect of "if you knew Kelly, you'd want to shoot her too". Dean Cameron is fucking awesome. At the end of the Q&A, some guy in the back said that it was also his birthday (that makes 4 -- Cathie, Mike, Quentin Tarantino who is always there in spirit, and this guy) and asked Dean to do his tension breaker scream from Summer School. Rather than politely tell this man "I understand and respect that it's your birthday, but it's 12:45 in the morning and I'm not a trained seal", he went through with it. And you know what, he's still got it, that one.

They showed trailers of some of Cameron's work, like Men at Work (for which he got paid a shitload of money for minimum work by holding out) and Ski School. Of the flicks shown, I'd really want to see Bad Dreams, that looks like an awesome flick. Plus, it's directed by the guy who did The Craft, Dick, and Hamlet 2, so it's got that going for it, which is nice. Then the movie started. Rockula was co-written and directed by a guy named Luca Bercovici. He also directed some other joints like Ghoulies and acted in quite a few more, but I mostly know him as the jerk who learned the hard way in Drop Zone that it's best not to go skydiving near power lines, especially if Gary Busey's your wingman. But I guess Luca didn't learn his lesson, because a couple years later he directed that crazy fuck in a movie. Real quick, did you know one of Kathryn Bigelow's first short films starred Busey, who later went on to ask Utah to get him two in Point Break? Fuckin' A.

So, yeah, Cameron plays this vampire named Ralph who's been around for centuries, living with his mom, played by Toni Basil. I never cared for her song Mickey, but I was definitely a fan of her performance here, particularly when she hissed and showed her fangs. That always made me laugh for some reason. Anyway, this dude, he's under some kind of curse where he falls in love with the same chick every 22 years but on Halloween she ends up getting killed by some hambone-wielding pirate. Yeah, man. And I guess this curse involves having your reflection in the mirror talk to you and give you shit, because that's what Ralph's got going on here. Anyway, Ralph's tired of going through this all the time, so this October he decides to stay and do nothing about it. He's just going to chill out at his favorite watering hole with Susan Tyrell, Bo Diddley, and some other fuckin' dude I guess I should know but don't. Also, I don't know if they know that he's a vampire. I mean, they know his story about the curse, so either they don't believe him and they're humoring him, or they do and they're cool, or maybe they're vampires too. I mean, it IS Susan Tyrell, after all. The set-up of this movie made me feel like I came in 20 minutes late, kinda like what that John Landis-looking motherfucker Leonard Maltin said about the awesome Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai; it's like watching a serial, except it's missing the first few chapters, so you're on your own as to what the fuck is going on.

Oh, by the way, Ralph can't stand the sight of blood and it appears he and moms get by with donations from the local blood bank, brought to them every morning like dairy from the milkman. So he's not your average asshole vampire, attacking people for their blood, he's a pretty decent dude. He also loves to cook with garlic and it appears he can eat regular food too, so he's not THAT kind of asshole either, you know, like the kind of person who tells you they don't eat dairy, meat, vegetable, bread or mineral and you're like GODDAMMIT WHERE THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO TAKE YOU THEN? and that's why you're no longer going out with her. Please call me, Stacy.

Because life likes to fuck with a motherfucker, he ends up running into the reincarnated chick he was trying to avoid. She's a singer named Mona and she's one of those chicks who is hot but not exactly pretty, like Gina Gershon. Not a butterface, I'm talking about something else and I don't know what I'm fucking talking about. Forget it. I was actually kinda crushing on Mona's friend with the glasses (I'm a sucker for cute chicks in glasses). She's played by the wife of the dude from Devo who now composes music for Wes Anderson flicks except for the last two, so he probably feels all assed out now. She was also in this criminally unfinished project.

Anyway, sure enough he's smitten with her, she's intrigued by him, and somewhere along the way he bullshits her into believing that he's a musician in a band. This bullshit is made true when he gets his bar buddies to join and next thing you know, they're doing rock songs and Fresh Prince-style rap. Which might be why this flick is called Rockula. Along the way, Thomas Dolby shows up; he's not so much an evil villain as he's just a fucking douchebag. I still haven't figured out whether Dolby meant to play his character the way he did because of the movie's tone, or if he blinded me with bad acting? I'll go for the former; my favorite bit of his is when he starts swinging a weapon around during a fight while doing a "whoosh whoosh whoosh" sound. I was fuckin' rolling when he did that shit.

Speaking of which, while I laughed a few times, I didn't laugh nearly as much as I expected. Which made me feel like a bit of an asshole, considering how fondly remembered this flick is by the relatively few people that saw it. And yet, I enjoyed Rockula very much. It's just such a weird, oddball movie and it has a very good-natured, so eager-to-please attitude, that it still won me over. It has a very slick look to it too, which I'm guessing might have more than a little to do with having the cinematography being done by the same guy who went on to shoot The Rock, Armageddon, and Pearl Harbor for Michael Bay. At times, the lighting reminded me of something you'd see in a Bay flick, only the camera is standing still for a change and it isn't cutting to a new angle every seven frames. I dug the soundtrack too, and Castro dude gave away a few copies, even though that shit isn't officially available, so Buzz from Home Alone who kept yelling shit at Cameron is a lucky motherfucker. My fave songs would have to be the title track, the hilarious rap song, some emo shit from Thomas Dolby and the end song.

But yeah, Rockula. As a comedy it gets a C for results, but an A for effort and me being the schoolteacher in this motherfucker, I averaged that shit out to a B. And that's way fuckin' better than how I did at school. Stupid-ass motherfucker. I used to be smart, but now I'm just stupid. This movie, though? Pretty decent.

One last thing, during the end credits I recognized the name of Adam Shankman, which I hope you don't. He played the airport shuttle driver who jacks Mona's underwear. He's since gone on to direct The Wedding Planner, Bringing Down the House and The Pacifier. Those movies were huge hits.

The laughs come hard in Auld Lang Syne (and Santa Monica Blvd.)

I needed something to do and rambling about movies seemed like a good time-killer, something else to do while I was broke and unemployed. But since last month, I've been working, and while it's supercool to have some money in my pocket again, the downside is that I have far less free time than before. There's just about enough time to watch movies and drink, but little to no time for writing this shit down. So I think the way I'm going to do it from now on I'm going to group together a bunch of movies I watched every couple of weeks or so, devote a couple paragraphs each to them or something and post 'em up like some Reader's Digest or The Week type of bullshit. I don't know, I'm just saying. Who knows, maybe I'll fuck up and be back on the unemployment line and then things will be like before, but until then, there'll be fewer posts. That's okay, because no one's holding their breath over these things to begin with.

Here's just a few things that have been going on with me movie-wise:

I worked on a Top 100 list a couple of weeks back, which was pretty easy to write since I just wrote down every movie I really dug, and I'd be finished with it by now except I stopped at about 97 movies and haven't gone back to it since. But I'm sure I'll return and put 3 more flicks on it and post it up.

While I would've loved to have caught the Corey Haim tribute screening of Lucas at the New Beverly, I had plans to catch The Big Lebowski at the Nuart, and that was an interesting evening right there, let me tell you. I met with my friend and his lady friend, and while my friend and I have seen Lebowski multiple times (this was 5th time watching it on the big screen -- 1st in '98 at an Edwards, 2nd in '07 at the Pasadena Rialto, 3rd in '07 at the Nuart, 4th in '08 at the Egyptian), this was his lady friend's first viewing. My buddy was worried that the screening would get too crazy with people quoting lines and stuff, worried that it would ruin it for his lady friend. I told him he shouldn't be worried, because the last time I saw this at the Nuart in '07, Marc Heuck, the guy who runs this shit, he seemed to be more annoyed than usual, introducing the screening by pretty much telling people not to be jackasses during it.

Later at that '07 screening, I went and bought a diet Coke and he seemed really flustered while working behind the counter. Having made an ass of myself at the Aero Theatre by buying snacks and trying to pay with a credit card (turns out they were Cash Only), I asked him if they accepted Visa here. Dude looked at me like he wanted to Highlander my ass if he had the proper surgically-sharp implement to do it with, for asking the dumbest of the dumb questions. I felt bad, because I know how it is to  have a bad day at work. Doesn't everyone?

Some time later, I read a post from him on some message board where he talked about a movie that was recently screened at the Nuart that apparently played to the audience from hell. Homeboy had such a bad night dealing with drunk motherfuckers, high motherfuckers, vomiting motherfuckers, and various other motherfuckers and their motherfuckery, that he went home that night and took his DVD of the movie in question and threw that shit away, like some guilty by association kinda shit. He wouldn't even identify what flick it was, because to call the movie by its name would be to give it power or something. Anyway, there's a good chance it may have been this movie -- or Suspiria, or Fight Club or Office Space, cause I think those were the other midnight movies that played in April, and he said all this shit went down in April.

So flash forward to last night; I had a couple pint cans of Bud before the movie and went to buy my ticket. The girl at the ticket booth had a stuffed crocodile or something to keep her company. She was cute. She also was annoyed by the "frat boys" who were fratting it up a few feet away. If I had the powers of Bruce Lee or Charles Bronson, I might have had a chance with her. So I meet my pals in line and later I noticed fuckin' Troy from Community chatting up a group of people in front. Apparently, he had just come out of a Q&A for a movie he made called Mystery Team, which I'm sure will be funny when I rent it on DVD a few months from now. We go inside and the theater's packed, the crowd down to have a good time. The movie begins and people laugh, as people do when a comedy succeeds at its goal. But a couple of rows down, on the left side, there was this girl who was giving out the most annoying, call-attention-to-itself laugh imaginable. This would be all well and good, because we all have different laughs. But this chick was obviously on something and not even laughing in sync with the audience. She wasn't even paying attention to the movie, she was texting on her phone in between her HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!'s. You know who she was? She was fuckin' De Niro in Cape Fear. She was laughing and acting EXACTLY like that motherfucker, minus the cigar:


I have to stress how not part of the experience this chick was. You can see the people around her looking annoyed, shuffling uncomfortably. It was the kind of laugh that overpowers yours and sucks out whatever enjoyment you were getting. It was the fakest sounding, loudest laugh. The people in front of her got up and left. Other people would stare at her or look at each other in disbelief. And like I mentioned earlier, the worst part was that it wasn't even genuine. There were other people in the audience with very loud distinct laughs, and yet they didn't bother me, because you can tell they were with the movie, and they didn't laugh like that at Every Single Moment, even the ones that weren't funny -- in between her incessant texting, of course.

I started thinking of my buddy's lady friend, and how with her luck, she was in fact having her first time ruined. I can sense my buddy was growing more and more annoyed. And hell, even I was getting annoyed. This bitch had managed to fuck up my buzz, she laughed me into fuckin' sobriety, so even I couldn't ignore this shit no longer. Something had to be done. But what? What was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to go to the manager and complain that someone is laughing too hard at a goddamn comedy? It's a weird position to be in and a weird situation to try to explain to someone. Even now, I feel like a real asshole writing this down, but ladies and gentlemen, You Had To Be There. Then what else? Politely ask her to calm down? We live in a world where people get shanked with meat thermometers for merely asking for some common goddamn courtesy. The animals have won, and the rest of us can only pray to whatever god we believe in/don't believe in that we can pay our money and maybe, just maybe get a decent theatrical experience.

The only thing I could think of was this: if this girl (who I would guess to be somewhere in the 18-25 range) was going to make things uncomfortable for us, I was going to make things uncomfortable for her. Perhaps I should stand up above her and just stare? Or counter her laughs with my own Max Cady-style guffaws? No, I decided upon something else -- something that I feel ashamed about and yet, I feel it had to be done. It had to be done. I had some peanut M&M's on me (thanks to my friend) and after one of her HAWHAWHAWHAWWOOOOOHAWHAWHAWHAWWOOOOO's, I grabbed one of those delicious chocolate & peanut ovals...and fuckin' launched that motherfucker directly to her motherfucking head. Immediately I got back into innocent position, watching the movie and didn't pay attention to her reaction. I didn't even think I hit her. But evidently, I did, because a minute later she and her friend got up and left...and returned with the goddamn manager. Yup. I'm the bad guy. I'm the asshole. And for the record, I don't normally do this sort of thing.

She pointed in our general direction and told the manager (at least I think he was the manager) that "it came from within 10 feet, I'm sure" and he nodded and looked around. I understand that he was doing his job, these chicks probably went and complained and most likely asked for their money back, and he went down to at least look like he could do something about it. But I'm sure even he knew there wasn't much he could do, save for shutting down the movie and turning the house lights on. Dude would've had to have seen me holding the smoking M&M bag in my hand to even consider kicking a motherfucker out, and even then, it's pretty hard to accuse a dude who happens to be eating candy. They then left, and the theater was left to the genuinely mirthful, the people who laughed because it was funny, not because it was funny to laugh. I'm not proud of this, even though my buddy and his lady friend thanked me for it, but I felt I had to pull the dick move for the good of the audience -- not to mention my goddamned sanity.

As we walked out, I saw the manager/employee dude whose name was Witney, standing near the concession counter. I felt compelled to confess and hopefully get him to see it my way after explaining the situation. Also, I hated the idea that this dude would think that two girls had their night ruined by some asshole out to get them -- which is exactly what happened, but still they had it coming. We all have it coming, kid. But I knew that shit wouldn't go down that way. I like the Nuart and would like to continue to go there and to tell him would be to get my ass reprimanded and kicked the fuck out forever -- at least that's my worst case scenario fear. So instead, I kept walking and lit up an American Spirit. Instead, I decide to post it all down on a blog that I'm sure wouldn't take a genius to figure out who I am and fuck my shit up. Because I'm a stupid, stupid asshole. Have a good weekend, everybody!

UPDATE: I realize that this is unfortunately not the first time I did something like this. There was also a brief altercation when things couldn't get civil between me and a dude at the Regency Fairfax. But that was in '07. I'm getting better about this sort of thing, plus I was sober that time and far more irritable.