Forget to Breathe

Peeping Tom - Movie Review

2012-01-28T11:10:00.001-06:00

Mark Lewis is a generally shy individual with a deep dedication to filmmaking. By day he works as a focus puller for a British film studio, and for extra money he supplies playful, erotic photos for a local newspaper shop to sell. Mark, however, has another secret desire – he gets filled with an amorous elation when he sees women in a frightened state. This desirable feeling has spun out of control to the point where Mark has begun murdering women with a weapon of his own design; a handheld video camera supported by a tripod with a spear concealed in the front leg so that Mark can film their deaths and relish in their terror until very last breath, but soon Mark finds himself falling in love with a tenant in his apartment building. He hopes to seek a cure, but to find one he must relive the ordeals of the experiments his father, a famous biologist, subjected him to and recorded when he was a young boy.

Peeping Tom was made in 1960 by director Michael Powell (The Red Shoes) and writer Leo Marks and it is a movie that is truly ahead of its time. The story’s use of voyeurism is intriguing and seemed fresh for the suspense genre, especially when watching how someone uses the cameras and recording devices of the 50’s and 60’s to accomplish what a cell phone and a laptop computer can do these days.

Karlheinz Bohm portrays Mark as a neurotic, emotionally frail lost boy when he is around people, but once Mark steps behind the camera a confident, no-nonsense artist emerges, which was a nice touch. You also get a complete story as you see what makes Mark tick, what charges his thrill for a woman’s fear. Bohm shows flashes of legendary character actor Peter Lorre in both expressions and dialogue, and it serves him well for most of the film of which the first three quarters were capable of holding my attention, but somewhere along the line the movie loses steam and instead of an intense, excitable ending things sputter and wear down until you get something passable for the Batman television show starring Adam West and Burt Ward. The murders are gruesome in theory, there is no blood anywhere in the film, which is bright and psychedelic itself, but that’s because it was the style of filming in the oncoming 1960’s as studios were still perfecting the use of color in their films.

I am grateful for what Peeping Tom is, even though at the end I was disappointed for what it wasn’t, but that is just me and cultural difference of my modern age and the modern age of the 60’s. It is still a bizarre film, an experimental one, so if you want to see something unusual it is worth a watch, but if you are looking for any kind of payoff in violence or plot, you’re better off watching something else.

The State of Aggression Address - Instant Winners

2012-01-28T01:53:00.001-06:00

There is only so much kindness I can feign before the stupidity around me sends me into a self-induced stress coma, but I do feel that it is about time for my State of Aggression Address.

I make no secret about my disgust for politics. I don’t need anyone to tell me that the hundreds of voting festivals that would be better served for bukaki bazaars – oh, wait, that’s exactly what voting is – rather, voting booths would be best served as portable bathroom units for the terminally defecate, people that literally shit themselves to death that way before they die, they know their final flatulent moments are spent speaking the minds of millions of Americans across the nation and many more millions of voters across the world.

No one needs to tell me the types of political gophers (there are no leaders anymore) we are going to have, locally or nationally. All anyone has to do is learn what type of majority turn out to vote – the blissfully ignorant. The same people who believe that anyone that campaigned in their city, debated on their television, and skull-fucked a Muslim orphan calling it War on Terror, an amendment to the Patriot Act, or a Catholic brunch believes that these power mad bureaucrats with butt plugs and fetish balls stuffed in the same places they keep their morals have any intent of bettering our society for all races and social stratums.

While the rich benefit from voter turnout, the mythical middle class are the ones that vote for better social standards and thanks to votes by the rich and the destitute who think the rich have any of their best interests in mind, the mythical middle class are the ones who get ass-raped by government workers wearing strap-on dildos laced with broken glass with all of our blood being fed to support the rich so they can continue running welfare scams to support the destitute, because THAT is what the majority voted.

Other people that deserve what they get - overly proud parents with access to social media. I have no children, and the more I see of these people living nauseatingly vicariously through their kids I am thankful to Sweet Zombie Jesus that I am childless. If you are a proud parent, great, but do I really need to know what you’re little dumpling scored on their alphabet test – no – I just need to know they’re not going to try and mug me at some point in the future with an infected syringe demanding me to piss in their eyes because the crystal meth they’re tweaking on left them without any sensation in their faces, or that their cute ragamuffin has grown a liking to choking small animals and disemboweling them with pizza slicer and using their husk as a crotch cozy that talks to them about career options. I applaud you for being a responsible parent, we need more like you, but nobody gives a fuck about your kids.

On the other extreme are these haughty, insecure wastes of sperm that report to all eight-hundred of their cyber-friends (793 of whom they’ve never met) that they are bored. “Dear Facebook, I’m bored.” You’re bored, and you have the gall to believe that any of us give a flick of pubic hair that you are bored. Kill yourself. None of us will be bored any more and you will have obtained ultimate purpose – entertaining others.

You’re bored. So, instead of going out to find enlightenment of some kind, whether reading a book or, hey, maybe looking up the answer to a question you’ve had in your head on the most powerfully informative device ever created – the internet – you choose to use this technological marvel to inform the functioning population of the world that you are bored. How about a game of Cuban Roulette? Six chambers, six bullets – instant winners.

Also, people that call in to work three times a week, and then complain on payday about their check being so low – instant winners.

When I was young and told my mother I was bored, she beat the shit out of me. “Why are you crying, you’re not bored anymore are you?!” Then she’d give me whatever object she was beating me with and say, “Here, go learn about this and how many different ways to use it. You already have a head start. You know it’s used to beat stupid bored bastards.”

The one social nitch that I am tired of killing themselves, believe it or not I can display some emotional discipline, are these young kids being bullied. It saddens me. They'll never comprehend what it is to see the most beautiful sunset of their life. They'll never understand unconditional love, like their parents have for them, but at the same time - LEARN TO THROW A FUCKING PUNCH. That might help your bully issue. Kids are so afraid of getting their butts kicked these days unless it's behind a computer program. Gouge an eye, wait until the bullying bastard has turned around and bash their brain in with a brick - have some damn pride, stand up for yourself. Parents, what the hell? That's partially why kids don't want to fight back, parents don't hit their kids anymore. You grow up on a healthy dose of discipline by the hand and mind, a bully's assault has got nothing on mom's backhand.

The future is going to be ugly. We, the human race, are ensuring an ugly scenario every day, but in order to heal first we must bleed. I don’t expect any radical changes any time soon. The world is not going to end, there will be some massive tectonic shifts in continents causing millions of deaths, but that’s just Mother Nature doing what comes naturally. Earth was here before we were and will be here long after our sad, biological presence has long disappeared into the oceans from whence it came, only for the whole damn thing to start all over again.

History repeats itself; we’re all just too stupid to learn from it. If I have offended you, you probably deserved it. We owe it to ourselves and these wonderful things called minds to be creative and not just in new ways to destroy things, but to make things better. Everyday, we can make just one particle of our life better.

Super Bowl XLVI - The Irony Bowl

2012-01-22T22:37:00.002-06:00

The match is set for Super Bowl XLVI (46) and attending the combative soiree are two familiar faces – The New York Giants vs. The New England Patriots, an excitable rematch from what was an electrifying Super Bowl XLII (42).

Super Bowl XLII was memorable for more than the game, the storyline of the Patriots’ undefeated season being contested and the championship debut for Eli Manning whom back then was still considered Peyton’s little brother. Four years later the tables have not only turned on Peyton, there’s a buzz saw slicing right through his career as Eli has a chance to surpass his older brother in Super Bowl victories, and he can do it in big brothers home field in a year where Peyton was sidelined due to a lingering neck injury and there are questions of whether the Colts will even keep him and whether he can ever play football ever again.

The Indianapolis Colts’ own Lucas Oil Stadium is hosting the big game, so to think that the Giants might not have just a hint of home field advantage would not be absurd considering the ups and downs that Tom Brady and the Patriots have instigated with their rivalry against the Colts, but you better believe that both Tom Brady and Patriots head coach Bill Belichick are seeking vindication for their failure to obtain the seemingly unobtainable perfect record, and you can best be sure they are out for blood.

I’m hesitant to dub this year’s Super Bowl as The Irony Bowl. Not only do both teams have close ties to Peyton Manning and the Colts with the game to be played in their backyard, once again we have a meeting of two former protégé’s of the great Bill Parcels – Tom Coughlin and Bill Belichick - with both teams entering the championship game in much the same fashion as they did four years ago. The Patriots were riding high, soaring over teams heads in points and outperforming them while the Giants, with Tom Coughlin’s job in jeopardy like it was then, buckling down, circling the wagons, and smashing teams in the mouth to get there.

The way the two teams reached the Super Bowl this year is also ironic. The Patriots won because the Baltimore Ravens, coached by Jim Harbaugh, had their kicker Billy Cunduf go wide left on a game-tying field goal attempt while the Giants’ kicker Lawrence Tynes sent the game winner against Jim's brother John Harbaugh's San Francisco 49ers through the uprights like he did four years ago on the road (again) against the Green Bay Packers to get his team to the title match.

Many more stories will unfold over these next two anticipatory weeks, but there is already something eclectic and magical circulating in the air, and hopefully Super Bowl XLVI can be just as intense as these stories and the game that preceded it.

Double Barrel's Interview on Zombie Evolution

2012-01-21T20:56:00.000-06:00

Dumb Shit: “Check, check…okay….sounds good. Are you ready Mr. Earhart?”

Earhart: “You wanna get yer fingers outta my face, son?”

Dumb Shit: “Well, uhm, y’see my hand’s modified, I, uh – god, your eye is really weird – I,mmm… modified it over the summer to be an all-purpose-media device; microphone and additional plugs in the fingers, audio and text editing in the palm, full control on the backhand. I installed stage lighting into my synth-retinas next to the video recording apps. It’s really – OW! GEEZ, you didn’t have to yank it off like that! It hurt!”

Earhart: “A lot, I hope. Now, you only need one microphone as far as I’m concerned, so I’ll just fix it up to my liking.

“There we go.

“Test, 1, 2…You hear me?”

Dumb Shit: “Loud and clear. The middle finger works quite well as a microphone. You don’t have to point it directly at me all the time though.”

Earhart: “Oh, but I feel I do. I really, really do.

“Now, you wanted to know about the evolution of these new zombies, zat right?

Dumb Shit: “Yes, sir; nowadays, they look almost like any human alive, some have past right through crowds and cities and were not spotted until it was too late, they started attacking people for their flesh and such, so when did it all change?”

Earhart: “It was probably about twelve years ago. I was with a group of the Texas population making their way through Missouri. They had requested our expertise in fortifying safety camps. The zombie population was dwindling. They weren’t scarce by any means, I’m just sayin’ the length of time between encounters with zombie packs were getting longer. There was no doubt in my mind that the zombie population was definitely dwindling.

“You five-knuckle-shuffle with this all-purpose-media-device, son?

Dumb Shit: “What?”

Earhart: “Crank the shaft? Turbine the engine? Launch the red rocket?”

Dumb Shit: “……”

Earhart: “Nevermind. Anyways, we’d been hearing tales from other wanderers that there had been a shift in the zombies’ genetics; that they were now reproducing on their own. I chalked it up to the typical grapevine syndrome – somebody says something and by the time it passes between a few dozen people and three states the story was nothing like the original – but that didn’t mean I wasn’t gonna keep an open mind. “

Dumb Shit: “Sir, could you please not use my hand to scratch your…..your groin.”

Earhart: “Oh, shit; forgot it wasn’t mine. Now, we were about twenty miles from the Eldon camp when we ran into a small zombie tribe, about five of’em, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t see it for my own eyes.

“Y’see, four of’em came at us. Two of’em were the old, slow kind. One of’em was a speedster, but still stupid; no tactics. The fourth was another slow one, but this one tried circling around us for a better vantage point. Of course none of’em were a challenge, we picked’em off quickly, cleanly.

“The fifth one….fifth one was a woman. She was missing half a face, one arm, and a leg just below the knee. She’s wriggling and rolling around on the ground. None of us can figure out what’s wrong with her. She finally stops, she’s on her back. He stomach begins expanding until it tears wide open, and out comes this tiny, fully functioning - - I don’t even wanna call it a baby, but it was a baby zombie, not a zombie baby – that’s something different. This was a baby zombie.

Dumb Shit: “What do you mean by fully functioning?”

Earhart: “This thing was walking. Not perfectly, but it had enough sense and intelligence for muscle control. While it’s stumbling about we’re all in shock not noticing the mother trying to shove her guts back into her stomach. She does so, gets up off the ground and charges right at us. Nearly bit Bilo, but Sara was able to put a shotgun shell in the thing’s skull before then.

“Once momma was down, we set out to catch the kid, wound up snagging him with our trap-nets. Looked ungodly, it did. Gray mushy skin felt like thick jelly; already had teeth too.

“Wipe that I-just-saw-and-elephant-dick-look off yer face son; it’s only teeth on a newborn zombie. Natural selection, whaddya expect?

“Don’t you be giving me that look yer givin’ me now, I’ll yank that retinal-recorder outta yer socket and globally broadcast the biggest ass-whoppin yer sad, techno-pussy generation’s ever seen.

“That was my first encounter. Had many more through the years, but seeing as how zombies had become a mainstay in the natural order of things, they began to evolve. It wasn’t just women birthing these things, men were too. “

Dum Shit: “Zombie men and zombie women, correct?”

Earhart: “………..

“You sure you came outta yer mother’s vagina, boy? You sure she didn’t shit you out, cause only a dumb-shit would ask that question. Or maybe, just maybe she shit you out of her vagina. You were meant to be a turd but her body got mixed up and sent you through meiosis and thus was born the first ever turd baby named Dumb Shit.

“Yes. Zombie men and zombie women, and the more intact the surrogate zombie was the better condition the baby came out. And, I mean they were new and improved. They grew quickly, they felt no pain, they didn’t have to breathe; they were now thinking, flesh-eating machines.

“Society was still able to make progress, we have towns back, regular communities, businesses going again, but with the zombie evolution – it’s like living with fear of communist spies again, only instead of giving secrets to the Kremlin, these invaders will eat your face.

“That’s all I got for you fer today. Here’s yer hand back. It thinks yer number one, heh heh.”

Dumb Shit: “Well, thank you sir….ow….uh, your insight is very valuable. Again, thank you…uh…this is going to make for a great article in the science magazine. Your contributions certainly be remembered and honored in the future.

Earhart: “I don’t give a fuck. You drink beer, Dumb Shit?”

Dumb Shit: “Well, no, yuh see the alcohol isn’t good for my body modifications and….”

END SIGNAL

Harry Brown - Movie Review

2012-01-21T18:42:00.003-06:00

Harry Brown is a retired, ex-serviceman who in the last winters of his years is losing everyone close to him. Shortly after his wife Kath passes away, his last good friend Leonard is murdered by ravenous street thugs. Leanord’s case is being led by D.I. Alice Frampton and her partner D.S. Terry Hicock. As the investigation drags on the police have no good news for Harry; they have suspects but no evidence or motive, but Harry knows how to find the bastards that killed his friend and he means to see that Leanord is served justice one way or another.

It was good to see Michael Caine in some kind of crime drama again as back in his early years he tended to play the wise-talking, hard knuckled gangster. In Harry Brown, he is once again out for revenge, but he is delivering it from a bystander’s perspective. At first, there are slight similarities to Clint Eastwood’s Gran Torino with the elderly war veteran taking arms against the local hoodlums, but Harry isn’t seeking redemption and there is no social commentary hidden within the film; this is strictly a revenge flick. Harry goes deep into the muck of society, meeting with drug dealers and gun runners; taking prisoners and enthusiastically torturing them in order to obtain the answers he is after.

Emily Mortimer (or as I like to say, the eternally adorable Emily Mortimer) plays the morally astute Detective Frampton next to Charlie Creed Miles as her partner Detective Hicock who doesn’t mind turning the other cheek since he figures Harry is doing them a favor.

All the performances are standard; well played with no real standouts. It is interesting to see how a man of Harry’s age and physically limited condition deals with highly intense situations such as shootouts and standoffs. Harry Brown doesn’t do anything new. It’s a nicely told revenge flick with a small, very important twist, like most crime stories have, and there are far worse movies out there to be seen. Harry Brown is worth at least one chance. You might not be overly impressed, but you won’t be bored.

Plus, the end credits are supported by a very cool song by Chase and Status.

Daughters of Darkness - Movie Review

2012-01-21T18:10:00.000-06:00

One alluring night after getting married, a newlywed couple takes temporary residence in an ocean-side vacation resort. That same evening, the mysteriously enchanting Hungarian countess Elizabeth Bathory (Delphine Seyrig) and her gorgeous assistant Ilona (Andrea Rau) arrive as well, and their appearance strikes a befuddling memory with the innkeeper as he swears that Countess Bathory had stayed at that resort forty years ago and she looks exactly the same now as she did then.

The newlyweds, Stefan (John Karlen) and Valerie (Danielle Ouimet) share a few encounters with Countess Bathory and Ilona with each meeting brushing off the dust over the secrets that Stefan and Valarie have hidden from one another. Soon, their perfect getaway is becoming a sadistic nightmare with Elizabeth Bathory fiddling with the strings to this macabre puppet show whom herself is being pursued by a detective who’s eyeing Elizabeth Bathory as his prime suspect for a slew of virgin corpses that have been discovered all across the shoreline.

Daughters of Darkness (1971) was released around the time when films of its like were considered nothing more than European sleaze with a few credits towards artistic merit, like the majority of Jess Franco’s and Jean Rollin’s movies. With Daughters of Darkness, director Harry Kumel succeeds in that crossover appeal. It is a beautiful film to watch; shot with elegance and elaborate settings with a superior use of color and artistic imagination.

For someone wanting a blood and guts shower hour this is certainly not the film for them. The pacing is slow and will surely be considered a boring film by someone yearning for a hefty body count. In actuality this movie is a well crafted character piece with new layers of each person being revealed with every scene. Particularly impressive is Delphine Seyrig as a vampire version of the real life “Blood Countess” Elizabeth Bathory. She approaches the character as a ten ton hammer wrapped up in subtle confidence and vivacious seduction. She suckered even me in with her deadly charm. There are a few shocks and nude shots to appease a general horror fan, but even the nude shots are done with class as they add to the atmosphere and not just for cheap thrills.

If the slow storytelling doesn’t throw you off then I hope patience will reward you as it did me. Daughters of Darkness is filled with a small array of interesting characters filmed in a lavishly imaginative manner.

The Wave (Die Welle) - Movie Review

2012-01-19T23:05:00.003-06:00

It is project week at the German high school where the student-popular Rainer Wenger teaches. For the next two weeks he must construct a project for his self-assigned students to complete. He hoped to teach the class on anarchy but to his disappointment Wenger was assigned autocracy. His sullied mood upswings, however, when the students become more invested in the project than he first thought possible, so Wenger challenges the class to experience what life is like under a dictatorship. Everyone is excited at first, but soon the entertaining project begins morphing the unified class into a legion reminiscent of Germany’s dark history.

The Wave (Die Welle) is based on the novel of the same name by Todd Strasser. The movie was brought to life, written and directed by Dennis Gansel (We Are the Night). There is near-perfect casting in the movie, particularly Jurgen Vogel as the rambunctious, unorthodox educator chided by most of his co-workers. Max Riemelt is the handsome popular athlete in Marco with the iron willed girlfriend Karo (Jennifer Ulrich). Frederick Lau portrays the socially awkward, fragile soul Tim who will go to extreme lengths to gain any kind of satisfactory acceptance among his peers and does a good job as he just looks the part and it seems to fit him naturally.

The problem with The Wave is that the story feels forced with too many intangibles working it he favor of the student’s united front. Some of these teenagers have known one another their whole lives and never spoken since childhood, others have only met in high school, but they all have their own social circles that rarely transcend one another, and in less than a week this assemblage of teenagers from every social status – the rich, the poor, the broken homes, the perfect portrait – all unite under a single sign in a vow to keep order and protect one another, and all for a school project. There was not enough elaboration into the purpose of the movement that justified the sudden fanatical endearment in their behavior.

The Wave is directed well, the cast is great, and while the idea is intriguing (particularly for me and my personal interest in German sociology in the post-Nazi era) the heart of the story lacks any support from the information and actions provided turning the movie into a tolerable cliché.

Waxwork - a Reflection

2012-01-17T23:05:00.001-06:00

A new wax exhibit has opened in town and Mark and his friends have been invited by the strange owner for a special midnight showing. Once they arrive they seem to be abandoned, free to explore the house at their will as one by bone they get sucked into the lives of the displays.

I was probably between eleven or thirteen when I first saw Waxwork. It was at the video store and the cover looked so damn cool. It had Zach Galligan from Gremlins, I figured why not. The movie ended up being everything I love about cheesy horror - terrible acting, complete disregard for story continuity, impressive special effects, and sweet gore with the occasional boob shot. It also introduced me to David Warner who wound up being a mainstay amongst most of my favorite pop culture phenomena. He usually played a villain, but he did a lot of voice acting in cartoons. He was excellent as the voice of Ra’s al Ghul in Batman: the Animated Series and was hilarious as the clueless Lobe on the short-lived Freakazoid cartoon.

I liked the idea behind Waxwork, a cult craving immortality that lures victims into their living, trans-dimensional traps. The story brought together some of the greatest madmen of history and literature despite some awful makeup and costume designs. Johns-Ryes Davies (Lord of the Rings) played a werewolf, Miles O’Keefe (Iron Warrior) portrayed a comically awkward Dracula thanks to bad acting not the plot, and J. Kenneth Campbell (Abyss) was a sleazy, unkempt Marquis de Sade. The whole movie was bizarre enough yet not to be outdone by the climax which is an all out brawl between the wax figures and a wild pack of senior citizens and some of the worst swordsmanship feigned onscreen.

Anthony Hickox accomplished what most horror creators could hope for; making a memorable movie on a budget that a child’s neighborhood lemonade stand could probably double during the summertime, but there is every sense of determined passion behind it all. Hickox went on to direct some finer horror films such as Hellraiser III: Hell on Earth, Warlock 2: The Armogeddon, and has maintained a steady directorial career in movies and television.

Waxwork is by no means a perfect film, but it is entertaining and a beloved horror film. In fact, Waxwork was so beloved it spawned a sequel – Waxwork II: Lost in Time. How could it get any better? Two words - Bruce Campbell.

Isolation - Movie Review

2012-01-17T20:06:00.001-06:00

On a failing Irish farm, the owner Dan (John Lynch; Hardware, Sliding Doors) has agreed to allow Bovine Genetics Technology to run genetic experiments on his stock meant to increase the fertility of cows, causing them to reproduce quicker. Aided by a veterinarian Orla (Essie Davis; The Matrix sequels), Dan notices one of his cows having difficulty birthing its calf. During a routine examination inside the pregnant cow the calf bights Orla. Dan also notices two strangers parked in front of his farm entrance. They happen to be young lovers Jamie (Sean Harris) and Mary (Ruth Negga) on the run from Mary’s family who disapprove of their relationship. That evening, the pregnant cow is ready to fully birth the calf but is having difficulty, so he asks the young couple for help while they wait for Orla. After the calf is born it bights Dan, forcing Orla to kill it off as she has determined they have made a genetic anomaly. Even stranger, during the autopsy of the newborn they come across a pregnant fetus. Outraged over what they have helped create, Orla tries to destroy all of the abominations, but one escapes. Cows soon become targets for the creature and it is only a matter of time before the humans are next.

When dealing with killer animal movies, you can never be sure how seriously to estimate the material. Undoubtedly, director/writer Billy O’Brien was telling a dark story, perhaps even trying to make a statement about mankind’s foolish ways, messing with Mother Nature; regardless his intentions were legitimately fierce, unfortunately the outcome wasn’t anywhere nearly as ferocious.

The physical, cinematic tone of the film is executed well. The Irish farmland is nothing short of a gray, dank marsh with muddy pitfalls all around. It looks like rain could fall at any second and O’Brien worked those small details perfectly into the movie with the dull lighting, the kind that has become a practical mainstay in Lions Gate horror, but once Isolation got to the heart and gore of the story, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. The fetus babies looked like jumbo shrimp twirled in plastic wrap. When the people are doing battle with the creature, I feel like they’re fighting an improperly sewn muppet rather than a bloodthirsty, genetic mishap. Plus, the limited plot is not expanded well enough for a ninety minute movie. It would have been better off as part of an anthology series instead of its own feature. This is where lack of character development really hurts horror films (all films). Blood and guts alone don’t work unless you have some relatable substance to meld with either the killer or the victims.

I’m an animal lover and I could’ve cared less if they killed the little bastard or not, same as if it ate all of the people on the farm. All Isolation did was leave me craving a mighty fine hamburger, but like a poorly made burger, Isolation has a nice look, but no sizzle.

City Voices

2012-01-15T00:36:00.003-06:00

Wired around the torso and sedated, I was waiting only for the mask. Athono asked if I wanted the full guard or only the half-piece. I chose the full guard for comfort. The sedatives took longer to begin working; I was gaining a tolerance to them, but soon I wouldn’t need them at all.

I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes. I was in the dream state. The whispers I heard when I was awake were now the shouts I implied to soften. 7^th street ached for repaving. Each day the potholes sank deeper into the gravel flesh as cars with foolish drivers couldn’t swerve away from the large voids in the street.

The Meintz-Leanord Trading Tower urged for someone to stabilize its foundation. The depletion of the original mineral resources beneath its foundation had left empty cavernous layers. The tower stressed that it had begun shaking. The building personnel shrugged the tremors off to fault lines of which there were none for over eight-thousand miles but it was the stress of a multi-ton building erect over hollow ground.

A damaged lamp post in the Lacosta district wondered when the city workers were going to take it down. A drunk driver had swerved into it two weeks ago, bending it; leaving it in constant agony. Meanwhile, a house in the neighborhood called La Chuza cried. The dad was beating the mother again after knocking the daughter unconscious in kitchen.

The Mithune Hotel shouted that a murder was happening on the fifth floor. The serial killer known as The Red Lace Romeo was in the midst of carving another victim.

This is my city. I am its shaman. I hear everything.

A bout portant (Point Blank) - Movie Review

2012-01-09T23:03:00.001-06:00

Samuel Barriet (Gilles Lellouche) is a nurse’s aide, a husband, and soon a father. While working a night shift, Samuel notices a stranger meddling with one of the I.C.U. patients’ stations. Before he can confront the man, the patient’s vitals begin crashing but Samuel is able to save him. The next day, he and his wife Nadia (Elena Anaya), who is nine months pregnant, begin their daily routines when Samuel is maliciously attacked by an unknown intruder and knocked unconscious. He awakens next to a cell phone. On the other end of the line is Nadia pleading for mercy; then a deep voice interrupts and explains the situation. In the next three hours, Samuel must free the patient he saved the night before from the hospital which is now overrun with policemen. Once the job is done Nadia will be returned. The catch is that this patient is Hugo Sartet (Roschdy Zem) a well known master thief that is being hunted by a third party because of evidence he possesses that would incriminate a popular city tycoon and a corrupt police unit. Samuel and Hugo soon find themselves on the run from criminals and the police with only a short amount of time to earn each others’ trust.

The plot is simple and familiar, so when it comes to making these suspense thrillers is the quality of execution from the people involved. Gilles Lellouche’s performance as a common man thrown into a radically uncommon situation is superb. His facial expressions holster a constant worry. Even when he believes he is taking charge of the scenario you’re watching a man that could lose his cool and either break down and cry or just shoot everyone that is in his sights. Roschdy Zem is perfectly cast as the slick cat burglar who proves that there is still honor among thieves, but even this thief isn’t afraid to pull the trigger when necessary. Complementing both men is Gerard Lanvin as the corrupt Commandant Patrick Werner. This policeman has no qualms with breaking every rule and murdering any witness to protect him and his crew, and Lanvin’s glassy stare and stone faced jaw emit pure apathy; you don’t know what he is thinking which makes him a very dangerous man.

Director/Writer Fred Cavaye handles the action scenes sensibly, accurately, and at a whirlwind pace that doesn’t harm the story one bit. You catch everything that is happening from the drawn out chase scenes to the close quarters combat spots. He captures all of it with a fine linear texture so you do not miss a beat. I wish more directors would do this instead forsaking a great actions sequence for that annoying shaky camera effect.

A bout portant (Point Blank) is a time well spent and does a great job of showing how an average individual with absolutely no fighting skills or street smarts would react in a hyper-chaotic situation. Like any movie there are a few intangibles that might work in the antagonist’s favor, but who is to say that people become great thieves because they prefer not to kill. I would definitely recommend this film before an American studio picks it up and rapes the story of all of its humanity, leaving only yet another soulless Mark Wahlberg movie. A bout portant is much better than that.

Bodyguards and Assassins - Movie Review

2012-01-08T21:13:00.002-06:00

In the year 1905, China is still under British authority in the midst of the Qing Dynasty. The leading revolutionary Sun Wen intends to visit the British colony Hong Kong in order to discuss a revolt against the monarchy with fellow Tongmenghui (Chinese Revolutionary Alliance) members. Empress Dowager Cixi learns of Sun Wen’s plans and dispatches an armada of assassins to kill Sun Wen upon his arrival.

Chen Shobai, editor of China Daily and a lead revolutionary, arrives a few days before Sun Wen in order to discuss funding for the revolution with local businessman Li Yutang (Wang Xueqi), who has lately been arguing with his son Li Chongguang over Chongguang’s recent involvement in revolutionary protests. Within the next few days, all of Shobai’s associates are being murdered and soon Shobai himself is kidnapped. Li Yutang feels that he has no choice but to declare himself in league with the Tongmenghui and begins recruiting a group of China’s best fighters to protect Sun Wen when he arrives.

Sum Chung-yang is a police officer with a gambling addiction, Wang Fu-ming is a disgraced monk bent on proving his goodness to the world – all of these people from all walks of life willing to put their lives on the line for someone that they have never met, but does provide a ray of hope in overthrowing the corrupt Qing dynasty. It is Li Yutang’s intent to see that these men and the rest that have volunteered to gain in life what they seek, whether it is love or redemption, because they all know that there is very little chance of anyone making it out alive once the battle begins.

Bodyguards and Assassins blends reality and fiction to tell an engaging story focusing on the costs of accomplishing the impossible. Wang Xueqi (The Red Suit) leads an all-star cast that includes popular singer and actor Leon Lai (Seven Swords) and martial arts sensation Donnie Yen (IP Man). Mengkee Bateer and Simon Yam also co-star.

I wasn’t exactly sure what I was getting into when I began as I had chosen the film because I am a big Donnie Yen fan. Halfway through the movie (which is over two hours long) not a single fight had occurred but I didn’t care. I was mesmerized by the tale and Wang Xueqi’s performance was drawing me further into understanding the thin line that he and his fellow revolutionary compatriots walked every day. Bodyguards and Assassins is a great dramatic piece from actor/director Teddy Chan (director; The Accidental Spy), and as a bonus there is an excellent fight scene between Donnie Yen and popular mixed martial arts fighter Cung Le where they each get to unleash their spectacular martial arts skills against one another, so there is definitely something in this movie for everyone to appreciate.

Post-Contagion Playground Soliloquy

2012-01-07T23:28:00.001-06:00

"Excuse me, are you lost?" I heard a woman’s voice through the light, tattering rain. Her hair was dark with frosted streaks. Staring in between her locks reminded me of being in prison which is where I thought I had been, talking myself to sleep. Instead I was in my old neighborhood, in the middle of our playground that used to be our universe.

"No," I replied, still believing that I was falling asleep in prison, thinking I was dreaming about standing in the midst of a dark gray day in the my dress clothes covered by my black trench coat.

"Did you used to live around here?” Her voice wavered from compassionate to careful. “Have you been gone a while?"

"I have." I looked away from her voice, never wanting to see into her eyes.

I stayed silent until she walked away.

I stared at the spot where my brother and I used to play. The ground was greener now. Before we had green patches spread out amongst regions of dirt. The air was cleaner. I could suck in a stomach's full and not gag from the fumes of incinerated corpses, dead from the Red Devil Virus.

Pregnant women were actually allowed outside again, which was a big surprise to me. I saw one showing off her unborn child through her ultrasound-shirt. I didn't check the display label to see if it was a boy or a girl, I was relieved to see that it didn't have a head and a half, or a third limb shaped like a talon.

Times have changed. The people are nicer, the planet is richer, and I'm still no closer to belonging in it than I was before my incarceration. But my brother and I, we never belonged. We just did enough to make other people think we did, plastering the right smiles at the right times, but we were always different, always would be. We didn’t care about anyone else because in our family’s line of work, you could only trust family. Now, all of my family is gone and there’s nothing left to do but adapt. Luckily, my family’s profession is still a necessity in this new, cleaner world.

Every one with money still wants someone with more money dead. That will never change.

Bunraku - Movie Review

2012-01-05T17:14:00.001-06:00

Bunraku falls upon the backdrop of a world where guns are forbidden, replaced by the blade as the primary weapon of choice. The story introduces us to The Drifter (Josh Hartnett; The Faculty) who fancies himself quite the gambler and is looking to get in on the biggest poker game in town which is run by the overpowering overlord of the land, Nicola (Ron Perlman; Sons of Anarchy). Meanwhile, a young samurai named Yoshi (Gakt) seeks to obtain a precious medallion stolen by Nicola and his band of nine assassins.

While having a drink at the local bar, Yoshi and The Drifter come to realize that they share a foe, and the more Yoshi learns about The Drifter, the more personal his intentions appear. Together with the aid of the Bartender (Woody Harrelson; Natural Born Killers), the three men comprise a plan to overthrow Nicola, his army of Red Suits, and his nine assassins.

Bunraku is a genre-bending piece of work that is undoubtedly inspired by a love of Western comics and Eastern manga. The brightly colored lighting is reminiscent of Dick Tracy while the story and dialect could have been torn from the pages of Frank Miller’s Sin City while the entire package is wrapped up under a crisp, divine martial arts flare. The entire film was shot on a sound stage using backdrops that one might associate with a lavish college production but is done so intentionally in tribute to the visual inspirations which withdrew unfortunate flashbacks to Joel Schumacher’s tenure on the Batman franchise. There were times when you weren’t sure if whether a fight or a dance number was about to ensue.

The movie is director Guy Moshe’s second full length feature from his own script, but inspired by a Boaz Davidson story who is responsible for many of SyFy Channel’s own movies. The movie looks hokey at times, menacing in others. The pacing during some of the dialogue is slow which wouldn’t be a problem if the dialogue wasn’t so drab and at times difficult to comprehend. Many actors try to play their characters as cool, deep, and soft spoken like Marlon Brando would when some of them may have benefitted more from a loud and cantankerous John Wayne approach. The gang rumbles are staged well but it’s the one-on-one fights that’ll have you rolling your eyes a bit. Josh Hartnett didn’t try nor pretend to be some master martial artist; he stayed within his own realm of finely tuned hand to hand combat. Killer No. 2 (Kevin McKidd; Dog Soldiers), however, is supposed to be a master of the blade and the fist, but his fight scenes were choreographed and shot at a slow, paint-by-numbers pace, causing his tyrannical moments to suffer and appear unthreatening.

The movie was a nice attempt at doing something fun, and paying tribute to genre’s that have helped make filmmaking a beloved art form, unfortunately at over two hours long there is something to be said for keeping things simple, whether it is the visuals or the story. Bunraku is worth a viewing, particularly if you enjoy the cast which also includes Demi Moore and Mike Patton (singer; Faith No More) as the narrator, but don’t expect to be at the edge of your seat the entire time for as much as Bunraku tries to be a helping dose of coolness, it tends to trip over itself into a bearable, lukewarm offering.

13 Assassins - Movie Review

2012-01-04T22:51:00.001-06:00

In 1840’s Japan, the winding days of the samurai, the ruthless Lord Naritsugu Matsudaira has risen to power and is about to become the elite member of the shogunate where he will abuse his power in merciless ways in order to maintain the loyalty and obedience of his people. A concerned servant sets out to find Shinzaemon Shimada, a sword-for-hire, hoping that he will assist in the matter.

After hearing tales of the lord’s vile actions towards his servants, such as the rape of a wife and the playful killing of a family, and after observing the aftermath of his work firsthand by visiting with a young girl whom the lord severed limbless for sheer pleasure, Shimada agrees to kill Naritsugu. In doing so, he requires help and enlists the aid of twelve other samurai, some with loyalties to their own lords, others wandering ronin, but all with one duty. Kill Lord Naritsugu Matsudaira.

13 Assassins marks another turn in the work of director Takashi Miike, best known for his insanely violent films such as Ichi the Killer and Izo, but his entire filming career has touched every film genre from gangster films (The Third Gangster) to family friendly ones (Ninja Kids!!!).

This is very much a traditional samurai film, and an entertaining one. Miike’s trademark over the top violence has been traded in for a realistic approach to the natural bloodbaths that occur with a samurai battle. The film works as a character piece with the story focusing on the quickly developing relationships between all of these hired assassins and their outlooks on life and death, and how some of them still uphold the pride in honor of being a samurai while others feel the weight of the title taking an unbearable toll on their lives, but as men they still know what is right and wrong. It shows the spoils of power and its ability to morally corrupt those that have too much and how those with little power but great trust in their own merits withhold the meaning of honor and justice; all of it well performed by the ensemble cast.

If someone is a Takashi Miike fan because of his bizarre film nature and gruesome cinematic exploits, then they will be disappointed because that is not to be found in 13 Assassins, but if someone is a fan of Takshi Miike because of his brilliance of storytelling and good filmmaking, they are sure to be entertained and hopefully even consider on which side their own morals stand these days.

We Are the Night - Movie Review

2012-01-03T10:40:00.001-06:00

During the day, the city of Berlin runs like any other, following the rules of federal and local decree, but once the sun goes down the night management takes control and they do not allow any form of authority to tell them what to do.

Throughout the centuries a vampire coven trio has banded together in order to seek the greatest pleasures out of life that only immortality can bring. Louise (Nina Hoss) – the leader, Charlotte (Jennifer Ulrich) – the sensible one, and Nora (Anna Fischer) – the carefree spirit; together they have survived and thrived in the lapse of luxury but now Louise feels that it is time to find a new member, someone that she hopes will love her.

The new prospect is a troubled young woman named Lena (Karoline Herfurth). She is on probation for car theft and spends her days scouring the streets pick-pocketing and hustling people out of their money. After an incidental run in with a narcotics detectives, Lena winds up at Louise’s night club where Louise takes an immediate attraction to her and vows to change her life forever, forcing her into the life of vampirism. Complicating the issue is the narcotics detective Tom (Max Riemelt) who notices the change in Lena’s looks and health, meanwhile, Lena begins changing the harmonious status of the coven as she reminds them what it was to once be human, to have emotions, and to care about life.

After watching the trailer for We Are the Night several months ago, I thought I had an idea as to what I was getting into. I was only half right, and that being said I’m glad I was because both halves blew me away.

While the movie plays up to the gothic aspects of a vampire’s impression the audience is not beaten over the head with the ideals and textures of it all. The film is as close to realistic in tone as it can be for a movie about immortal blood suckers and at times does not feel like a horror movie at all. There are wonderfully constructed dramatic scenarios as the characters are fleshed out (pun intended) to reveal their true human natures (Charlotte was my favorite), a great extended action sequence; all of it making for a well paced, finely directed film with wonderful cinematography.

Dennis Gansel directed the movie from his story that was scripted by him and Jan Berger, and most of the actors and actresses have worked with Gansel before in another movie he directed, The Wave. There was great chemistry throughout the movie in front of the camera and what was happening behind it; all of that benefitting what was the making of a good movie that may be classified as horror but it lends itself to all genres, and the fact that I’m still thinking about it is one of the best things any kind of movie can do.

YellowBrickRoad - Movie Review

2012-01-03T10:37:00.001-06:00

In the year of 1940, the entire population of Friar, New Hampshire gathered together and began walking a winding northern trail. The town was left emptied. A U.S. Army dispatch unit was sent to find them, but all they found were three-hundred dead bodies of some of the Friar’s citizens. A few of them had frozen to death while others had been mysteriously slaughtered, and except for one lone survivor the rest of the town disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again.

In the year 2008, the incident at Friar had been toned down to merely stuff of backwoods legend, but the new population never dared enter the same woods, but now a team of curious enthusiasts have come together on the first official expedition of this trail in hopes of solving the mystery of what happened to the people of Friar, New Hampshire.

Once they set off into the woods their only reliability is one another, but soon it seems like the woods begin playing with their minds. The trajectories going forward are completely different when they try tracking their way back. Loud music begins playing from all directions without a single speaker or audio system in sight, filling the travelers’ ears with old rag time music and at times bludgeoning their minds with thunderous, chaotic noises.

One by one, they begin falling prey to the contagious madness that seems to not just be spread throughout the woods, but is emanating from the very air they breathe and the land they roam, and soon they begin setting their frustrations and aggressions on each other.

YellowBrickRoad is not a fake documentary like The Blair Witch Project but it could have worked as one, at least for the majority of the movie. The ensemble cast worked well enough together to where you knew they wanted to kill each other but whether they ever really like one another is another question. The directors/screenwriters Jesse Holland and Andy Mitton did a fantastic job of using the landscape to their advantage whether if it was showing tension from feeling confined despite being in such a giant vacuum of open land, or from feeling completely hopeless when all you see is just more fields to cross in every direction.

There is really only one scene that embraces the brutality of a crew members insanity, the rest of the time it is merely implied violence or light on the bloodshed which actually fits the movie really well since it is about the atmosphere of this seemingly endless venture. There are a few computer graphic moments that make you laugh rather than stun you because the technology looks completely outdated, but other than those few scenes the rest of the effects are all natural.

YellowBrickRoad is the story of madness; of how good people go insane, and whether you believe that some of them make it out alive or not, you wonder if it even matters at all given the radical state of mind they have succumbed to. At first, I wanted to fast forward to see where it was going but once I settled down and watched these people slowly lose their minds I was intrigued, and for a movie about being lost in the middle of nowhere the pacing was rather steady if only for a couple of scenes that were probably slowed down on purpose. It is a movie, I feel, that you are either going to like it or hate it; there is very little room for in between. I just so happened to like it, but it wouldn’t surprise me if there was a majority that did not.

Kill Katie Malone - Movie Review

2012-01-02T17:45:00.001-06:00

The spirit of Halloween has settled in at Mission University. It is a few days before the annual Halloween dance and Jim (Stephen Colletti; One Tree Hill) has fallen for one of the more popular girls on campus. Unfortunately, she’s already involved with someone but doesn’t mind using Jim for small favors, such as helping to decorate for the upcoming dance. Meanwhile, Jim’s two closest friends – his roommate Kyle (Jonathan ‘Lil J’ McDaniel), who’s nickname is Dixie, and Ginger (Masiela Lusha; The George Lopez Show) keep trying to set his head straight and focus on just having fun and passing his classes.

While searching for pointless buys on E-bay, Jim comes across a mysterious box for sale that supposedly contains a ghost that grants wishes for its owner. Jim decides to purchase the box, but after being outbid by another potential buyer he asks Dixie and Ginger for a loan which enables Jim to become the top bidder, although now, technically, all three friends are owners of the box. Once the ox arrives, the darkest desires of the three friends begin taking a toll on the students and faculty at Mission University as the body count begins and will not stop climbing until Jim figures out how to undo what he has unleashed upon the university.

Kill Katie Malone is directed by Carlos Ramos Jr.from a script by him and Mark Onspaugh (writer – Flight of the Living Dead). Both of these men have spent the majority of their careers working on television shows with less than a handful of movies under either of their belts and it really shows throughout the movie. Watching this movie feels like a throwback to the early nineties when David E. Kelly was the hot commodity in Hollywood and the Scream franchise and all of its putrid spawn such as I Know What You Did Last Summer and Teaching Mrs. Tingle were being turned out like fury babies at a rabbit orgy, but at least they had the decency to be rated R, leaving behind bloody messes. Kill Katie Malone has no gore and only a few hints of blood, which I would not mind at all. I generally prefer a good story over pointless bloodletting, but if the story drags and has no sizzle at all, like this one does, then I say bring on the visceral debauchery. There are no scares. The scenes that are supposed to be frightening substitute noise for suspense. There is absolutely zero character buildup. If we were supposed to care about any of these characters, someone forgot to let me know. Non-spoiler spoiler: The climax adds extra lame sauce to the cinematic dish.

The acting is about what you’d expect from a TV cast, sometimes wooden but not completely terrible. The shining light in this whole movie, and I say this strictly as a single male who likes looking at women, is Masiela Lusha in grown figure glory. Her hair is dyed blonde but there is no mistaking those adorable cheeks of hers and those puppy dog eyes. She still has the girl-next-door look but thankfully now she’s all grown up and we get to see just how grown up she is, albeit in a tasteful manner which I respect very much. In reality she is a beautiful young woman of high intelligence, definitely a superior intelligence to the majority of males. It’s a shame she dyed her hair blonde, though, but we do get to see her in a bra to which I say “hooray.”

Kill Katie Malone offers no payoffs whatsoever unless you’re a sexually frustrated - I mean sexual enthusiasm foaming from your ears kind of horny – sad little man. It is background noise at best, and even then you’re better off with music than this movie.

Peter Weller

2011-12-31T11:01:00.001-06:00

There’s a fluctuant charm about certain actors that tend to play every role with the same face. Audience connection definitely allows them a bit of leeway. Robert De Niro is considered one of the greatest actors of all time but it is without any doubt that he has been phoning in the majority of his performances during the latter of his nearly four decades long career. Not everyone can be a chameleon the likes of Daniel Day Lewis, but then again it may take an insane offer for a Daniel Day Lewis to appear in a movie directed by Michael Bay and not Steven Spielberg or whichever director is primed for Oscar glory.

Instead I refer to the Christopher Walken’s of cinema. Thespians considered brilliant by their peers sometimes simply because they are very likeable people and when it comes time to chew up some scenery they deliver in top quality fashion. These actors are often considered cult favorites.

Robocop will probably always be my favorite movie starring Peter Weller, but it’s not a Peter Weller movie. It’s a Paul Veerhoven movie with all of his trademarks deeply embedded throughout the feature – satirical commentary of the modern world and a heaping ton of gorgeous violence. However, the man is a first class director even without those things as he has proven with films such as Black Book. Yet, if it were not for Peter Weller being the man beneath the metal, or plastic and rubber coated to look like metal, the character would have had a completely different feel to it.

One of Peter Weller’s greatest strengths is the ability to lead an ensemble cast such as in Leviathan, a science fiction film that borrows from Ridley Scott’s Alien plot but instead of being in outer space with a murderous creature the crew is trapped underwater and becomes just another monster movie, but the cast with Peter Weller at the helm helps sell the movie. He walks around with the swagger of James Cagney but takes charge like John Wayne. He’s smooth and intense. This is very apparent in the movie Screamers, a movie about self-reproducing, homicidal robots that slowly start overtaking a military compound. All the lives in that compound are in his care and that’s all right because his attitude says everything is all right, but when push comes to shove he’s the first one out guns blazing.

Carrying this aura of oddness about him, Peter Weller enjoys the unconventional roles – the conflicted personalities and tortured souls. David Cronenberg did his movie adaptation of William S. Burrough’s Naked Lunch pure justice when casting Weller as the lead. Weller made me want to be convinced that giant bugs were planning to overthrow America, and again Peter Weller took front and center amongst a well rounded cast that included Judy Davis, Ian Holm, Julian Sands, and Roy Scheider.

Peter Weller has been working steadily in movies and television for thirty-nine years. Starring in everything from crime dramas (Shoot the Moon) to blockbusters (Robocop) and will always have a cult following thanks to the underground classic The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8^th Dimension. He has one of the most recognizable voices in all of cinema, one that is layered thickly with authority and class and there will come a day when his star will shine brighter than before as he is currently appearing on the hit cable TV series Dexter and will be appearing in the upcoming J.J. Abrams Star Trek sequel. Peter Weller doesn’t need a catch phrase like “I’ll be back” because Peter Weller has never left.

Keep Smiling, Wade Phillips

2011-12-12T22:15:00.000-06:00

Houston Texans owner Bob McNair
with defensive coordinator Wade Phillips

Being a lifelong football fan, one part of the business (and it is a business, make no mistake) that brings me down is when good coaches get fired because the players are too stubborn and lazy to perform up to par. Yet, isn’t that part of a coaches job – to motivate the players into a conquering, tail kicking mindset?

During last year’s NFL season, when the Dallas Cowboys, under Wade Phillips, were playing the game like a bunch of drunk frat boys at the beach doing a keg stand for every touchdown, the writing was on the wall. It was clearly going to be Wade Phillips’ final year, but Jerry Jones didn’t wait that long. He fired Wade Phillips after a dismal 1-7 start for a team that was practically a consensus to reach the Superbowl, which ultimately was won by the Packers who coincidentally were the final team the Cowboys faced under Phillips’ term, losing the game 45-7.

Thank you, Jerry Jones. That was the greatest thing you could have ever done for this football fan.

I have been a Dallas Cowboys fan my entire life. I was born and bred to be one, but when it came to watching fun games my taste always ventured more towards the grittier, flashier, yet low key Texas team – The Houston Oilers. Warren Moon was my main man, Bruce Matthews was a beast, Lorenzo White was unstoppable, and all of them continued the legacy of Bum Phillips (Wade’s father).

Dallas was Hollywood while Houston was projects, the blue collar guys that busted their butts day in and day out for little to no respect, unless you lived in Houston. Sadly, the team was moved to Tennessee and began their own history as the Titans. Years topped on to years and Houston was hungry for a football team. Finally, Bob McNair made the city’s dreams come true. Unfortunately, the Oilers name had been retired by Bud Adams when he moved the original team to Tennessee after changing the name to the Titans.

Eat my ass, Bud Adams.

Bob McNair and company eventually settled on the Texans, which used to be the name of the Dallas team in the original NFL before moving to Kansas City and becoming the Chiefs. Personally, I can’t stand the name, but reading the list of the ones that were available (Bobcats, Apollos, Stallions, and Toros), I can proudly live by the Texans.

Low and behold here we are now in the present day and Wade Phillips is the Houston Texans’ defensive coordinator. They are currently the number 1 ranked defense in the NFL while the Dallas Cowboys are still underachieving just like last year, and the year before that, and the year before that, and the year before that, etc., etc. Yet, Wade Phillips is nowhere to be found in the Dallas locker room. They have Jason Garrett as their head coach who was Troy Aikman’s backup during those Superbowl glory days under Jimmy Johnson, and they have a hot commodity and supposed defensive genius in Rob Ryan, both of whom have fans and analysts scratching their heads wondering, if these guys are so good, why are the Cowboys still struggling?

What’s the problem with the Cowboys? Are they not performing up to their talent? Perhaps the problem is that they really are not that talented at all.

Whatever it is, again, thank you Jerry Jones for firing Wade Phillips. He took a last place defensive unit and took them to the upper echelon of the NFL, the Houston Texans are the 2010-2011 AFC South Champions, and have clinched their first playoff appearance. Wade is back home where he belongs and at least for this year, the stars are shining brighter in Houston.

Ganja & Hess - Movie Review

2011-12-10T15:06:00.001-06:00

After returning from studying the ancient civilization of Myrthia in Nigeria, Dr. Hess Green (Duane Jones; Night of the Living Dead) is physically assaulted by his assistant who stabs him with a germ-infested artifact and then kills himself. Soon after, Dr. Hess awakens woundless and begins experiencing unusual cravings, the kind that only human blood can satiate.

The scornful wife of Dr. Hess' assistant - Ganja (Marlene Clark) - grows weary about her missing husband and conscientiously begins a relationship with the last man to see him alive – Dr. Hess himself. Their relationship elevates into something that neither of them is prepared to handle.

If Ganja & Hess was to be mistaken for a Blacksploitation film of the 70’s such as Blacula and Shaft it would be a great misdeed for this movie. It isn’t simple to call Ganja & Hess a typical horror film either. Dr. Hess does crave human blood and his wounds do heal, but that is as far as the vampire comparisons go. He doesn’t grow fangs, there are no transformations into other animals; he is a solitary man hoping to survive with a regular life while harboring this newfound bloodlust.

The violence is minimal yet poetic and is kept in a real world tone with guns and knives, hookers and bars all the while fleshing out the transition of Dr. Hess from human to blood drinker. The audience feels the crippling psychological toll that this curse is taking on the doctor and feels his burden lifted when the cantankerous Ganja starts playing a romantic role in his life.

The slow pace hurts the film and is a reoccurring nuisance throughout the feature but the direction of Bill Gunn (who also portrays George, Dr. Hess’ assistant and Ganja’s husband) is a worthy, beautifully shot effort with a musical score that chills to the bone and festers inside the mind. Duane Jones is the true standout actor, pouring his glazed heart and foolish pride into the role of the soul tortured doctor.

Ganja & Hess is a psychological journey rather than a bloody park ride, but it is definitely unique – not a typical horror film, not an all out suspense-thriller – just the tragic story of a man and his thirst for blood.

My Horror Family

2011-12-06T23:14:00.001-06:00

Being six years old, living eight miles away from the closest sack of flesh and bones I dared to call a friend, my weekends revolved around backyard excursions, learning the various cleaning methods of laundry day, using my imagination to escape the fact that my grandmother demanded her lady garments to be hand-washed with soap and water in an aluminum tub with a washboard.

My Aunt Belinda and Aunt Anna never had any younger brothers, only older ones whom they (along with their other two sisters) despise to this day, so naturally since my innocence was still pure they felt persuaded by the lords of the underworld to pummel my precious spirit every chance afforded to them. They never worked alone; no – they were a finely tuned wolf pack – one provided the distraction, the other swarmed in for the kill, and both fed off my humiliation, like jackals off a dead tigers hide. They smashed fruit pieces in my face, tickled me until I cried, sat on me until I choked; even made me use the bathroom outside in the rare cold mornings and then locked me out of the house. I was their personal chew toy, emotionally and physically. They thought they were preparing me for a childhood filled with intrepid fear and a loathsome lifestyle. Their plan backfired.

We were one of the last families to purchase a VCR as my grandparents saved every penny they ever earned for emergency situations. It wasn’t until my aunts bought one that my love for all things film would consume a large portion of my life.

Quickly, Saturdays were movie nights and one fortuitous weekend, the two witches of South Bowie Street decided to rent horror films - The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Children of the Corn 2: The Final Sacrifice – all in hopes of watching me squirm like a conscientious bull lined up on the killing floor. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre was first. I never made a sound. Halfway through Children of the Corn 2 my aunt Anna finally asked in a sarcastically dominant tone, “Are you scared?”

“This is awesome,” was my reply.

Those Saturdays went from our movie nights to their date nights and my movie nights. After gaining tiny bits of sweet revenge by playing practical jokes on their dates, usually by pretending I was the son they never mentioned before, I had the VCR and television all to myself, and soon my new family began taking shape; my new family of horror. Jason, Freddy, Michael, possessed homicidal dolls, demons, homicidal maniacs; they were all welcomed into my room, the more the merrier.

The older I got the more interested I became in the actors and creators behind the masks and makeup. Robert Englund became one of my favorite actors (he was excellent in the original V mini-series), and while Ari Lehman was the original Jason Voorhees it was Kane Hodder that defined the beastly, heavy breathed demeanor of the hockey mask killer, although the potato sack mask from part 2 was a nice touch. Then, I started thinking about the directors, the men and women that pulled these wicked and sometimes misunderstood creatures out of their imaginations and life experiences, and transformed them into what was onscreen. Suddenly I had a new family.

This is all based on personal experiences and self-studied views:

Wes Craven feels like the fatherly type. His films are the least physically grotesque but he loves to mess with your mind while he himself is a kind hearted, soft-spoken man who enjoys vintage literature and classical music. He’s not strict but is stern and cautious.

John Carpenter is the cool uncle you like to hang out with because he’s going to let you do things your dad wouldn’t let you do, and neither one of you is going to tell on the other(Halloween). He speaks his mind and doesn’t care whose listening (They Live) even though he sometimes doesn’t know when to stop (Ghosts of Mars). He’s delightfully sarcastic, slightly bitter, and demands to get paid for his work.

George Romero is the other uncle, the quirky one with the big glasses. He tells bad jokes that you can’t help but laugh at (Land of the Dead, Diary of the Dead) because you know deep down he’s good at what he does (Martin, Knightriders), and he can make something fantastic out of toilet paper, chewing gum, and a paper clip.

Dario Argento is that foreign uncle, living in the old country and doing his thing. He had flares of greatness (Suspiria, Deep Red) but time has taken its toll on his skills and he’s lost track of what made him special so long ago (The Card Player, Mother of Tears). Plus, he has that daughter that you hope isn’t your blood relation because she is beyond sexy (Asia Argento) and displays her own unique filmmaking skills in the most flamboyant fashions (Scarlet Diva, The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things).

I enjoy sports, spending time outdoors, and anything to do with the arts. Growing up inside a house dominated by women, other than my grandfather male role models were scarce, so I had to rely on what I knew and growing up I knew horror more than anything else, and seeing as how I spent the majority of my childhood alone I found myself another family to keep me occupied - my astonishing horror family.

Future Uncertain for Donovan McNabb

2011-12-03T15:46:00.001-06:00

For the third time in two seasons, former pro-bowl quarterback Donovan McNabb finds himself unemployed with what might be the most smash mouth reality check of his turbulent career.

On December 1, Donovan McNabb requested his release from the Minnesota Vikings where yet again he found himself being replaced as the starting quarterback much like last season with the Washington Redskins and the season before with the Philadelphia Eagles. The reasons for McNabb’s benching are just as clear now as they were then. He is not the same player he once was – age has stomped on Donovan’s hero cape and dragged him down through the muddy earth. He is not in the dominant playing shape that took him to 6 Pro Bowls and with the Eagles to 4 NFC Championship games with 1 Super Bowl appearance. The majority of his passes in 2011 landed in the dirt or over people’s heads instead of his receivers’ hands, and the headache inducing escape ability his mind and legs stunted defensive players with over the years is now a rickety, sluggish mess.

Donovan still feels he has starting potential in the NFL, but after being unclaimed on waivers by the Vikings, perhaps he has received the wakeup call he didn’t want or perhaps it is the call that he needs because truthfully, barring some unfortunate injury, there is no team that will place him heads and shoulders above their currently assembled quarterback lineup. The Dallas Cowboys and the quarterback plagued Houston Texans both passed on him. So did the playoff hopeful Chicago Bears who just lost their starting quarterback Jay Cutler. It would have been interesting to see how McNabb performed in front of his hometown Windy City crowd, but even they passed on his fading skills.

McNabb was booed by Eagles fans when Philadelphia drafted him in the first round. He has been overly criticized by both sports and political analysts on his talents but never on his leadership skills, and whatever detriments the media, the fans, and even coaches have begrudgingly thrown at him, Donovan McNabb has always remained the consummate professional.

Maybe it is time to hang up the helmet and pads and join his former NFL brethren in the ESPN studios on NFL Live, or maybe Donovan McNabb has enough gas left in the aging tank for one more run to do what he has done time and time again – prove people wrong.

Bodybuilding.com - Gridiron Guns - Thomas Jones Arms Workout

2011-11-28T17:33:00.000-06:00

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Ndamukong Suh's Motor City Message

2011-11-27T22:22:00.001-06:00

On Thanksgiving Day it became the stomp felt around the sports world when Ndamukong Suh repeatedly shoved the head of Green Bay Packers’ offensive guard Evan Dietrich-Smith into the turf and then stomped on his arm before walking away after being ejected from the game.

Initially, Suh attempted portraying his actions as being misunderstood, just as he did when he ripped the helmet off of Bengals quarterback Andy Dalton, and just as he did when he drove Bears quarterback Jay Cutler into the ground after the whistle had blown. These stunts led to Suh being internally labeled one of the dirtiest players and biggest trash talkers in the game. Ndamukong was fined for both violations and is now facing multiple game suspensions and potentially mandatory anger management classes for this latest holiday game incident. That is what the NFL needs to do in accordance with their regulations, and many NFL stars such as Hines Ward are offering Suh advice mostly asking him to tone things down, and while in the name of sportsmanship most people are inclined to agree, but for the fans and players of the Detroit Lions perhaps it’s a way of asking other teams “Do you get the message?”

Detroit, Michigan is not a happy place. It is a once prosperous community now burning on the fumes of the Ford industry. A city that was once known as the murder capital of the United States has experienced hardships and misery that are reflected in their sports teams. You have to be tough and thick skinned in order to survive in a place like Detroit. That’s why the Detroit Red Wings are considered one of the greatest franchises in sports history, they have a reputation for being skillful athletes and brutal, violent competitors; and it has brought them multiple championships. No one has asked them to tone things down.

Ndamukong Suh wants to be seen as a friendly big man. It helps his marketability, but for those that have played with and against him they all know that he is far from a gentle giant. He is a ruthless, cutthroat opponent. Most of his college teammates in Nebraska didn’t even like him, but he is playing in a franchise for a city that knows all about grinding the day away, never taking time off for the sake of luxury. Detroit is a blue collar city with blue collar people that don’t know the meaning of the word luxury and experience very little in the ways of compassion, so why shouldn’t they have a player and a team that reflects these things.

The Detroit Lions were winless only three years ago and are now trying to make a run at the playoffs. When Suh was ejected from the game after his unsportsmanlike conduct, there were no coaches, no players chastising him on the sidelines; maybe they did in the locker room, but normally they don’t wait that long. If you’ve done a serious wrong you’re likely to get an earful on the sidelines right then and there. So maybe there are some folks that do not object to his behavior, but they do prefer that he channels that anger into his gameplay, like fellow wide receiver Calvin Johnson, instead of becoming a grid iron terrorist.

At first Ndamukong created an unbelievable excuse for his actions against Dietrich-Smith, saying he lost his balance, and only on Saturday did he finally admit that his actions were over the line, but I’m not sure if the city of Detroit cares about him going over the line. They care about winning, but more importantly no one’s laughing at them anymore. So, hopefully for Ndamukong Suh and the opponents of the Detroit Lions – message received.

The Last Circus - Movie Review

2011-11-25T17:15:00.001-06:00

The Last Circus shows us the tale of a man named Javier (Carlos Areces) who has chosen to follow in his father’s footsteps of being a circus clown. Unfortunately, Javier has never been a funny character or understood humor, not even as a child, so he is forced to play the daunting role of Sad Clown.

After joining a small-time circus, the shy Javier begins to grow affectios for the circus’ acrobat Natalia (Carolina Bang), but Natalia, an adrenaline junky, is already head over heels in love and lust with the circus’ prime performer and moneymaker Sergio (Antonio de la Torre) who is Happy Clown. Sergio is a vicious alcoholic who reminds everyone that he rules the circus and when he is not busy abusing other circus members, or beating Natalia, he terrorizes Javier both in character and in reality at every turn.

Javier attempts to rescue Natalia from Sergio’s violent ways which enrages the cretin even further, and soon Sergio’s spiteful actions unleash a hidden vileness inside Javier that he has never known, setting both clowns on a blood filled collision that puts not only Natalia in danger but some of Spain’s most important political figures thanks to the legacy of Javier’s father, a former Happy Clown and militant butcher of National Soldiers over 30 years ago.

The Last Circus is a violently twisted, passionate film. The circus life and the mentality of its compatriots are in full demented effect throughout the movie. They do not think the way most people do because they do not live the lives most people do. All of the dementia and carnality is created and captured eloquently by writer/director Alex de la Iglesia (The Oxford Murders) with grim cinematography reflecting the mood of the story and a melodious, spiritual soundtrack that will haunt the viewer long through the night.

Some viewers might not understand the brand of humor in The Last Circus, which is as dark as the subject matter, but that is a regular staple of Alex de la Iglesia’s movies. The performances were well executed by the whole cast but Antonio de la Torre shines through it all as the incomparable, dastardly Sergio.

The movie is well paced as new discoveries and adventures are being made around ever turn, but as the story progresses it becomes difficult to know who to root for as reasoning and logic are manipulated by the mental state of these characters, but once the movie is done you will ask yourself “What the hell did I just see?” and if you’re mind can handle it, you may just sit back for a repeat viewing, but I would recommend a mental breather. There is no movie like this yet this year or forthcoming that I am aware of, and leave it to Spain to have the brevity to deliver a film of this high quality insanity. No one in America has the nerve or the talent to pull off something like this, and even if they did, no North American studio would ever go near it.

The Cleansing Trail

2011-11-24T23:42:00.001-06:00

A story I thought up during my morning jog....

When Greg stepped outside at four-thirty that morning, the temperature was much lower than the weather man had previously said it was going to be, which made Greg even more excited for the upcoming eight mile jog.

Feeling blessed to be currently living directly across the city’s modified river canal, it would be a crime for someone in Greg’s peak physical condition not to take advantage of the two mile radius encircling the naturally discolored water.

Greg felt blessed about many things lately. His short stay in county prison reassured his meaningful value on life and the honorable code of ethics taught to him by his father. Everyday Greg awoke behind his cell door he carried the weight of shame his father would have felt had he lived to see Greg in those conditions. What made things worse was that Greg felt right at home in those conditions, even made several friendly associates that helped him cope with prison life, but in his heart Greg was not a prisoner; he could never succumb to such a mundane, overly supervised lifestyle. He needed fresh air, transcending daylight, and the ability to make simple decisions without asking for permission.

As he walked across the street to Lincoln’s Trail entryway made of vermillion colored dirt, outlined by side-standing bricks, which reminded Greg of the yellow brick road from The Wizard of Oz as green bushes and fully loaded Fichus trees cascaded the open field peripheral to either side of the bright dirt and rocky trail. By the time the dirt met the parading trail of pavement ensconcing the water, Greg had programmed his mp3 player to his wickedly motivational workout mix comprised of an eclectic variety of upbeat tunes ranging from groovy and soulful to hate-filled and speedy. Once his jams were set, he stuffed the mp3 player in the left pocket of his dark gray hoodie.

At such an ungodly early hour, Greg expected to be the only patron using the trail, but growing up in the barrios he had learned to always be prepared. Strapped around his waist was a knife holster loaded with his ten inch survival knife given to him by his grandfather when Greg was entering his teen years. No one in his family ever went hunting, but they knew what kind of socially cloaked town that they lived in and just because they weren’t hunters didn’t mean they were not ever going to be hunted. The rules changed everyday. Greg began his jog.

He turned left where the Solstice Street met the river, and left again shortly after, following the curved path, passing by fishing docks to his left and swing sets, slides, and other children’s playground attractions to his right; park benches were spread out all along the trail.

In the center of his right there was a basketball course adjacent to a shaded rest stop that could seat at least two dozen people. A weather worn canopy shaded the pavement laced quarters while fencing shielded any potential users from wildly flung basketballs. Across the street from all of that was El Estrella, the rough barrio where both of his grandparents had spent their own teenage years and where Greg visited his great grandmother, Nana, every weekend as a child before any of these neighborhood amusements ever existed at Lincoln’s Trail – before Lincoln’s Trail itself even existed.

The kind of people that lived there now were the kind of people that Greg had spent his whole life walking around while empathizing with; the kind of people he spent six months with in county jail. They were the new generation of self-entitled, unethical thug wannabes. They gave real thugs a bad name. They were too cowardice to be real criminals and too stupid to be anything else. They were the lost generation that was becoming the utterly hopeless nation, thinking that the government’s welfare checks and Medicaid offerings equaled a king’s ransom and a low brow morality.

Greg hated them, but he knew how to use them.

In fact, in a nerve alerting moment, about seventy feet before Greg turned left on Colon Street; Greg noticed one of El Estrella’s newly lost souls walking along the sidewalk. Greg startled the young man who thought he was the only one walking the park at this hour, and instead of keeping straight along the sidewalk, the wannabe thug dressed in a white jacket, black baggy, butt-sagging shorts with a matching black shirt, shoes, and beanie decided to step on to the pavement trail and pretend to stare out at the river in the chilly morning moonlight. This made Greg nervous, but from the way the wannabe stiffened his posture and tried being nonchalant with his purposeless business; Greg noticed the wannabe’s nervousness as well and kept on jogging.

Returning to Solstice Street, Greg spotted his usual, anonymous compatriot – an older gentleman who walked only on El Estrella’s side of the trail. The first three weeks that Greg had jogged around Lincoln’s Trail, the old man assisted himself with a cane. He would politely wave at Greg either as a gesture of kindness or simply letting Greg know, “I see you,” but knowing the neighborhood and the culture, Greg interpreted it as an act of kindness. It was the same kind of gesture his grandfather made to every person that walked past his house when he would sit on his front porch and absorb the scenery, appreciating life and all the little things that made life matter to him.

These last three weeks, the old man had forgone the use of his cane. Greg was proud of him.

When Greg made the left on to Solstice, he witnessed a new arrival to the early morning exercise group. Another old gentleman whose body looked haggard in comparison to the man who used to use a cane had just embarked on his exercise walk with a hunched over torso and rickety knees that made his steps seem painful, but there he was, pushing his frail body along in the morning’s cold darkness. After passing the physically delicate man on the trail, Greg continued on and noticed that Wannabe had moved over to the canopied eatery area next to the basketball court. He was sitting down; his torso slumped over the table top with his beanie covered head lying flat on its side.

Fucking waste.

Greg continued around the corner of Colon with his mind still on the worthless waste of air that was housing itself beneath the canopy.

Even in prison, there were wannabes that learned how pathetic they had made their lives; though many of the wannabes, it wasn’t completely their fault. They had been raised by their neglectful teenage parents to rely on the government and other hard working folks to keep their greedy pockets full and their gold-toothed mouths fed. And the more Greg thought about it, the quicker his pace became.

Another thing he learned in county was anger management; how to control his temper when under the most infuriating circumstances. When he made his third turn at Solstice Street, Greg noticed that the old man that formerly used a cane was just passing by the basketball court as Wannabe was still loitering under the canopy. Meanwhile, the fragile old man was beginning his first trek down the other side of the trail.

It was with this fortunate timing that Greg slowed down to a walk, paused his mp3 player, and took out his earbuds. Wannabe never heard his footsteps or the unsheathing of his survival knife. The dumb bastard never even had time to lift his head from the tabletop before Greg slammed the ten-inch dagger through the pathetic slacker’s neck, straight through the wooden table’s surface. Unable to scream and too terrified to move, Wannabe’s blood dashed across the table’s surface. Greg could hear it pouring off the edge down to the concrete. He adjusted his stance so he could maintain pressure while avoiding contact with the blood. He twisted the blade inside Wannabe’s neck to ensure a quicker and slightly more painful death.

When Wannabe’s body stopped completely moving, Greg checked for a pulse (again, avoiding any bloody contact). The stars were bright enough to allow Greg to look into Wannabe’s eyes. They were totally devoid of life, not that there was much life to begin with. This trail was for people that embraced life.

Greg yanked his blade from the fresh corpse’s neck feeling relieved - one less societal leech; one less waste of flesh. He swiped the blood from his knife off on a clean portion of the corpse’s blood soaked jacket, checked for any signs of new walkers or runners, and when he saw none he completed one more turn at Colon and retreated back to the vermillion dirt road feeling rejuvenated and excited for the blessing that was a brand new day.

Equinox - Movie Review

2011-11-22T21:27:00.001-06:00

Four college friends venture into the woods to make a day out of helping their geography professor when they stumble upon a mystic tome with ties to a parallel dimension within the forest whose creatures and spirits have invaded our own world in search of the tome. David (Edward Connell) is the sole survivor of the group and while being monitored in a psychiatric ward, he assists a local detective by telling him the story as the movie progresses through a series of flashbacks, but the tales of demonic creatures and invisible castles are too farfetched for the officer and the psychologist to believe.

Equinox is a movie that I have had on my must-see list for the longest time. I knew how terrible the acting and special effects were going to be when I saw it, but it’s one of those horrible classics that one must see for themselves to truly appreciate not only the horridness but also the effort to do something epic on a miniscule scale.

The acting is terrible by everyone involved, and with the handful of fight scenes and action sequences it’s amazing how everyone maintains such prim and proper attire. The creatures that the quartet encounters are the homeless man’s Ray Harryhausen concoctions. There’s an undecipherable jumble of clay that looks like it came out of a terrible Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer meets The Kraken from Clash of the Titans and a Satan-like winged demon that could have fit right along in Davey & Goliath Go to Hell. The one shining lucifer of hope is the leopard clad toga wearing Incredible Hulk gorilla, which was a live action creation using an actor, a heck of a lot of makeup, and what looks like a shredded car seat cover.

I enjoyed Equinox for its ambition as well as its cheese. There are several ideas and scenes that lead me to speculate that this film may have had a hand in inspiring Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead, so if you need a good laugh or are just in the mood for something a bit off kilter, Equinox is a fun watch and should not be taken seriously at all.

The Iron Rose (La Rose de fer) - Movie Review

2011-11-22T20:51:00.001-06:00

Two exciting young lovers out for a walk decide to add more stimulation to their flamboyant lives by taking a stroll through the local cemetery of their French village where they are hoping to find a lonely area for some passionate alone time.

While exploring the eerily scintillating side of life underground near a tomb, they lose track of time and as they wander around the cemetery they realize that they cannot find their way out. They end up being locked inside the graveyard; and as the night creeps over them, their senses become infected by the morbid atmosphere. Their fears become manipulated by the cemetery and soon their love turns into suspicion, and then into a game of survival.

The Iron Rose (La Rose de fer) is not outright a horror movie. It is gothic artwork expressed through film. A horror movie purist is likely to discard this movie after the first forty-five minutes or so because, while the tension is keenly expressed and detailed, the fact that the movie is made mostly of two cast members will leave body count enthusiasts disappointed.

The artwork, however, is captured excellently on camera through director Jean Rollin’s eyes. Rollin is known more for the sleazier horror offerings such as The Nude Vampire, The Living Dead Girl, and fifty other films with The Iron Rose being regarded as one of his most serious efforts. The train scene in the beginning is a beautiful, engaging piece of cinematography that would equal the finest paintings of the modern era and he uses all separate quarters of the cemetery to their fullest with a dancing routine around staked crucifixes and a countless row of plain tombstones signifying a hopeless situation.

Francoise Pascal and Pierre Dupont (aka Hugues Quester) play the paranoid couple. Their acting isn’t much to root about. They even provide some unprovoked laughter at times as they struggle with set pieces as well as each other. Francoise Pascal’s beauty is in full effect throughout the movie, particularly during her stylishly nude monologue on the beach. Her beauty is truly mesmerizing.

The Iron Rose is not a typical horror film. If you and your significant other are both movie buffs, this might actually make for a good date film if you can handle subtitles as the entire movie is in French. It is not a film meant to scare but rather meant to be explored. The limited cast does cause the movie to slow down sometimes too much, but for art lovers the enchanting scenery is worth absorbing.

Undying Message

2011-11-19T16:59:00.001-06:00

The steps of the undead waltz penetrated the apartments’ paper-thin walls, from the first floor all the way to the second. A stomp followed by a dragged foot, and as it had every Wednesday for the past three weeks, the creepy rhythm halted at my front door.

Then, the knocking began.

Before, the raps were persistent and tough, like a life altering message was about to be delivered, and considering my reaction the first time I answered the door under these outlandish circumstances, my life was definitely altered forever. This time, however, the raps were slower; the life was being filtered from the remaining depressed spirit. The visitor’s message wasn’t so important anymore.

I raised my head from my science studies, unsure if I should answer the call this time. While I pondered the issue, a second highly assertive set of knocks pounded the door, shaking the entire structure. I felt forced to answer it before any of the neighbors chose to investigate the rude noises.

The locks were quickly undone, the door was opened, and once again there stood Uncle Phillip whom had been buried at Leslie Palms’ Cemetery one month ago. His skin tone was closer to ash, dried and sagging more than last week with well defined holes in his flesh where the subterranean creatures had begun feeding on him.

“Hello, Michael,” he said.

“Hey, Uncle Phil,” My stomach started turning from the pungent odor that seemed to be a few steps behind him. “C’mon in.”

He limped to his favorite section – the sofa in front of the television. His left foot was turned to a ninety degree angle, explaining the dragging noise, but I didn’t want to think about how it became contorted. I did wonder if anyone had seen him tonight or the previous nights, but I had neither read any nor seen any related reports in the news. The navy blue burial suit had tears in it, probably from being snagged and ripped on unnoticed pointy surfaces and scraped against building surfaces.

“What is that smell?” he asked. He could smell his own festering stench? “Are you having tea?” I guess not.

“Yes,” I was officially befuddled. “Would you….care for some?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” he politely accepted. Even in death, some of the undead still practice manners and not brain consumption.

We reconvened at the dining table which was just a few steps away from the sofa, as was the kitchen quarter of the apartment, both with a fresh cup of warm Earl Gray in front of us.

“How are you?” asked Phillip. Seeing him in clearer light, I noticed the right side of his face was starting to sag; the muscles in that respective side of his bottom lip could no longer sustain the muscle tissue. He looked like a partially paralyzed stroke victim with its top corner portion of their lip bitten off, revealing teeth at all times.

“Fine,” I answered, though I couldn’t stop leering at his left eye. It looked like part of the retina had detached. It swayed a bit whenever he spoke or moved.

Then, Uncle Phillip asked the same question from the three previous visits. “How’s Sonjya?” He always asked how his wife was. It seemed that the part of his brain that told him he was dead had eroded or been eaten, because I had told him that he was dead and that she was trying to move on with her life. What I had not told him was that she had already moved on. She was dating again. They didn’t have a perfect marriage, and if Uncle Phil hadn’t died first, he would have continued living a lie because their marriage felt like it was over a long time ago to everyone except Phil, I guess.

“She’s fine. She’s – she’s doing just fine. She is coming to terms with the situation, all that’s happened….” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Good,” he said as an earthworm cascaded down his right cheek, poured from underneath his right eyeball. It chewed on his rotting cheek.

“She’s happy,” Whether it was a question or a clarification, I couldn’t tell. I think he just needed to hear it from someone else besides me, even if it was himself.

“Good.”

That was the last night Uncle Phillip visited me. Part of me was disappointed; I enjoyed his company, but I understood that he wasn’t a person anymore, just a hurting soul. The other part of me was thankful because the other tenants and the landlord no longer accosted me with ugly, damning looks in regards to the muddy trails leading from the outside and ending at my front door.

I visited Uncle Phillips grave site after classes were done that day. I could see the ruptured areas from where he had risen from the ground, only now instead of stressed out imprints of hands digging their way out for salvation, flowers were blooming in their place. Uncle Phillip was leaving a new trail, one that recalled the goodness in his life; one that led him to a final sense of personal peace. I hope to leave a trail like that behind some day, but right now I’m planting the seeds that will blossom into what will hopefully be a beautiful, memorable trail of my own.

Goodbye, Uncle Phillip.

Demonic Techno-Warfare

2011-11-11T01:11:00.001-06:00

Standing on the rooftop of a building high enough to showcase the landscape of the whole city, I am distracted from the speckled city lights and depressed colors by the sound of police sirens and gunfire. At a street corner blocked from my view I see police lights accompanied by additional gunfire. Soon, three convicts, chained together, roll into my vantage point; one of them writhing in despair – the heaviest one. The other two try dragging him down the abandoned city block but his heavy carcass doesn’t gain them any favor. A second convict is then shot and immobilized. The third fleeing offender is left alone to contemplate what this frightened attempt at a mistrustful freedom is truly worth.

Miguel, the wounded prisoner, is shipped to the nearest hospital for treatment. While in recovery, three flashy individuals enter his hospital room. Two of them appear to be the entourage – a man and a woman, both dressed in black; the woman fashioning a tight dress, the man in a fine leisure suit. The head of this mysterious trio is wearing a black three-piece with a red long-sleeve underneath; his hair black and slicked back to a fine point. All three of them bore the flesh of sun deprived statue.

The main man handled a briefcase which he slammed on the wounded Miguel’s legs, rudely awakening him. Before Miguel could shake the cobwebs from his i.v. drips, the main man established the trio as representatives of a private company hired by Miguel’s father to look out for Miguel’s current best interests. Main Man opened the briefcase, revealing built-in functioning laptop with a hi-def monitor. It played a video recorded by Miguel’s father explaining that if he signed with this organization, all of his medical bills and legal issues would be dealt with and absolved if he were to attend a dinner seminar. Naturally, the morally feisty Miguel agreed and signed his name on the electronic writing pad.

That evening, a fully healed Miguel and I arrive in a cul-de-sac of a slightly upscale neighborhood. We approached one of the less flamboyant homes and awaited our hosts. As we waited, we were soon joined by three men dressed in prideful leather western gear from the tops of their freshly steamed cowboy hats to their shining, horse-kicking boots; thick mustaches sprawled across all of their upper lips with the thinnest one draping the peripherals of his cheeks and lips with a Fu Manchu style.

“Don’t think they’re gonna be servin’ tacos at this shindig, fellas,” said the shorter redneck, directing the discouraging remark towards Miguel and myself. Neither of us responded, which left him a window to add to his racist tirade. “Whatsa matter boys, no speakin’ ze Engless? Well, you know how to wash a dish you’ll do just fine in this place.”

Before I could stab him in the throat with my fountain pen the door opened. We were greeted by Main Man. He welcomed us into the home, delighted we could attend. While his two assistants prepared the seminar he led us to the dining room. The table was sprawled with delectable entrees, foods and fruits of all kinds – turkey, apples, oranges, and dishes filled strawberries and various assortments of nuts, cheeses and crackers. Certainly I had never set eyes on such a delightful smorgasbord, and judging by Miguel’s drooling mouth neither had he. However, the three rednecks saw fit to ruin all pleasantries before any of them could even begin.

“I don’t need no picture show,” spoke the same one that heckled Miguel and I outdoors with his thick, southern country boy accent. “What’re y’all sellin’ here and what’s it gonna cost me and muh buddies, because, frankly, this is all a little too fruity for us. So, what’s the deal?”

“The deal,” said Main Man through snow-colored lips and increasingly infuriated black eyes, “is that I do not like rude people, sir. And ever since your arrival, you have proven to be anything but.”

While the four men stared one another down in a game of commercial cat and mouse, from down the hall of red carpet and red walls approached a staggering figure untouched by any light. It moved as though a sordid will overpowered its broken legs as it stomped and slid its way towards us.

What were once three rednecks had mysteriously become two; no one aware of what had happened to the third, but there was no time to ponder as this ghoulish creature continued creeping its way towards out location until finally, it’s true form showed itself in the light. It was an undead duplicate of the Fu Manchu redneck dressed in a gray, tarnished and torn space suit.

“What the fuck?” gasped Fu Manchu Redneck.

“What fuck, indeed,” said Main Man, stepping closer to Fu Manchu Redneck. “Your sexual tastes are no secret here, nor are the methods you practice in acquiring your sweet, sick treasures.”

Main Man swooped into Fu Manchu’s personal space with enough nervous force to knock him into one of the kitchen seats which immediately produced black leather straps, binding his arms behind the chair, spreading his legs wide and in welcoming fashion.

“How bout a taste?” asked Main Man.

Zombie Space Fu Manchu Redneck lunged at Fu Manchu Redneck’s crotch, tearing into his pelvic flesh and proceeded to administer a bloody, gore soaked oral sex session.

Racist Redneck stumbled in shock and horror while Miguel and I looked on, slightly frightened but definitely astounded more than anything else.

“You aren’t without your own faults,” Main Man switched to Racist Redneck.

With a summoning blink, Main Man’s two assistants took hold of Racist Redneck by his arms and in the blink of a hummingbird’s eye, he was transformed into a mutant frog the size of a baby pig, with horns protruding from its head like those of a bull.

“But before we can cook the meal, it needs stuffing.”

With that, Main Man’s assistants each grabbed a hind leg and pulled heavily, splitting the frog’s backside wide open, blood spilling to the neatly polished white tile floor. Main Man dipped his hand into the stuffing bowl and began applying it to the insides of Racist Redneck Frog’s posterior, sampling a bit of bloody stuffing every now and then; even feeding his two assistants a crimson handful.

As this happened, Fu Manchu Redneck achieved his climax from Zombie Space Fu Manchu Redneck’s violent crotch play, and as he ejaculated his head exploded with an uncontrollable volcano of semen erupting from his neck, spilling all over the dinner table and its delicacies.

Miguel and I were devastated. Then, Main Man turned his attention towards us, converting our devastation into outright fear because it was at that moment that we eventually realized we were in the presence of wickedly demonic forces, possibly Satan himself.

“This way,” directed Main Man towards the sliding patio doors. Stepping through them threw us into a different dimension. We were now thousands of feet above land on a castle’s tapestry reaching above storm bearing clouds occasionally flashing lightning and crackling thunder.

Main Man went on this diatribe of how they were gathering the pieces necessary for the annihilation of everything touched by heaven – Earth, space, technology – everything was to be damned, and they needed right minds and bodies for the job. That’s when Main Man grabbed Miguel and tossed him over the ledge, but to no one’s knowledge, Miguel’s form shifted into an albino insect-like creature. It clutched a piece of the tapestry’s brick and swung to safety, securing itself to the side of the tapestry’s neck. He was then blanketed by a white aura and vanished.

I, on the other hand, was led within the tapestry’s dwellings. Long gone was the suburban household with the scrumptious spread and mutilated rednecks. Now, we were in a scientific warehouse where silver lined every inch of walls and floor, and silver computers filtered information while researchers studied lab results.

Main Man walked me towards a testing box. I was placed within, clueless as to what was about to happen. I heard machines gearing up and suddenly the box began tearing my skin from my body yet I felt only a tinge of pain, like getting a tattoo, but then more tools – saws, scalpels, and tubes emanated from the damnation box and began boring into my very soul, slicing at it, stretching it inside and out. All the pain was in my mind. I went numb.

The door to the damnation chamber opened. Weakly, I exited the same as I had entered, if not for a lingering buzz in the back of my head. There was something different though – the room was brighter than before. Main Man and all of the scientists were nowhere to be found. A blinding light had sprouted from outside and all of the computers were downloading new information.

Miguel had come back. He had been an alien angel sent to lead his platoon into this dimension. The buzzing in the back of my head grew larger and louder, and continued doing so until I awoke in my bed.

Dancing with the Damned

2011-11-07T23:21:00.000-06:00

Vulture needed his screening room and film projector running perfectly. All the masterminds in the genetics field were in attendance as well as some potential backers from all over the world with pockets that dipped all the way down into the planet’s core. Vulture’s future in science and my future in outstanding paychecks rested on today’s presentation.

While attending to my final inspection over the projector, I heard heavy rustling in the air vents above. Reena attempted slithering past me as if we were playing a demonic hide-and-seek game, and while the spoiled odor of her slime trail masked any specific location, her pale, happily demented face caged behind her straight jet black hair exposed her whereabouts ever time. Sure enough, there she was up above, staring at me through the grated barrier gleefully, eerily; smiling so hard, her teeth seemed about to shatter and her eyes ready to burst from their sockets. Reena was too loud for the darkness.

The projector’s lens needed one more cleansing which allowed Reena the opportunity to slither one of her pale, purplish tentacles through the vent and smacked the side parietal of my skull. It brought her great joy. She laughed like a witch gutting a Kansas orphan, scuttling all the way down the eastern air ducts. I, on the other hand, could only smile. I was looking forward to decapitating her later.

Lackey answered my radio call. My projector maintenance work was done, Lackey would see to the actual running of the presentation. It was time for me to deal with the real problem I had been assigned to elucidate.

Walking down the spottily lit corridor, I held on to the cool air emitted by the air conditioner despite Reena’s filthy stench soiling the overall placid atmosphere. To the right was the exit door, and after opening it the heat blasted all across my body while the bastard of a sun blinded me temporarily. After my eyes readjusted, I unsheathed my Jericho 941 and set myself in the ready position. What good that did me. I turned the corner of the building descending the stairs – AnoMolly still got the drop on me, pumping a slug brutally through my right shoulder. I didn’t think I was that much out of practice but if a half-witted, malformed, genetic jigsaw could get the drop on me, I was definitely out of practice.

Downstairs was Vulture’s back entrance. Apparently he had already hired one cleanup crew to take care of Molly, but it appeared she greeted them with a rocket launcher. That would have explained the charred hull of what used to be an automobile and ashy remains of its passengers. The driveway extended to a cemented slope where the staircase ended. The slope led to the backdoor where Molly sequestered herself. From that section she had access to the kitchen and from there, any part of the house she desired. I needed her to stay put, so naturally I did the most irresponsible thing anyone could do in that situation. I rushed the corner, opening suppression fire to keep Molly from having a clean show while I found cover between the charred car and the wall flanking right from the open gate.

As I reloaded the backdoor swung back and forth from open to close. I was able to get a good look at Molly. She was sporting a cleaver angled through her forehead, blood soaking her dirty blonde hair and pink bathrobe, holding a 9mm (Bersa Thunder, I think). She looked like a zombie but she was fighting like a modern gladiatrix, and behind her was the last of Vulture’s money. Molly didn’t know what it was; she only knew it was important to that smarmy, egotistical wretch of a man. Whatever she had planned for it, I needed to stop her. My paycheck was in jeopardy. Why she hadn’t set fire to it or chopped it up was beyond me, and frankly I wasn’t in the position or the mood to question why.

I timed the swinging of the door, took aim, fired; nailed her just below the cleaver’s blade. That sent her brains smearing and her head rocking. Unfortunately, it also sent her running to the kitchen. I hauled ass down the slope and through the corridor. I couldn’t lose her. I entered the kitchen quickly but at a squatting level. I cleared the room. I’d lost her.

SHIT.

I lost her.

My gun was ready, my ears attentive. The kitchen was surprisingly spotless. I would’ve been proud to store my food in such a speckles abode.

There was silence, and then the sound of sneaky, hustling footsteps along fluffy carpet. I aimed in that direction, catching a glimpse of the tail-end of Molly’s bathrobe. I sank to a crouching position before turning the corner. Gun ready, I sprang the corner to discover an empty hallway with three doors to choose from. What doubled my frustration was that I hadn’t heard any doors slam.

I hadn’t….HEARD….ANY….doors…..SLAM. You think I would’ve gotten the hint, but again – I was out of practice.

Molly came crashing down on top of me, piercing my back with one of Vulture’s trophy blades. The pain was powerful, but my adrenaline and animosity was overflowing. I had no idea this bitch had learned to climb walls.

She tried carving the blade down my backside, but I hoisted both of us on to my feet. I kept thrashing to keep her from gaining any leverage on the blade’s handle. Finally, I was able to grab the back of her bloody robe and flip her over, down to the ground. Her head landed near my feet. I unloaded my gun clip in her gut and stomped the cleaver through the remains of her skull, and I didn’t stop until her face was a pile of red and white mush and teeth.

The money was in the rear entrance, where Molly had left it. I walked back out into the damning heat, I think the blade was still in my back but my body was already going numb, I’d lost enough blood to save a homeless vampire colony; I had the shirt to prove it.

I walked up the slope and collapsed where the edge met the bottom of the stairs. I may have passed out for a while because I suddenly saw all black, but I heard a scraping noise. My eyes opened to see Walthorpe dragging the burnt car out of the drive way with a single hand.

Walthorpe was a huge individual. If Bigfoot became a professional bodybuilder, he would be Walthorpe, because Walthorpe was a creature that could be taken for a Bigfoot; brown bushy hair all over his gigantic body structure. And he did enjoy weightlifting.

With the car out of the way, the medical unit came in to do their thing. I just wanted someone to get me out of the god forsaken heat. I still had some decapitating to do.

Journeying through a Dead Tree Nucleus

2011-11-03T22:36:00.000-06:00

In the deadest heat on land that was either the ass-end of Nigeria or the Brazilian-waxed scrotum of Arizona, my associate dressed like an indie record label producer and I accompanied the witch doctor back to his dead grass and dead tree hut. The entire landscape felt raped; frequently, violently cindered by man’s war and nature’s luck. The shaman had built a fence of dead grass and trees, like his hut, which served as the nucleus of his planetary existence, and an escape from all the savages beyond it.

We entered the hut, greeted by an enflamed spirit pit spitting fire between the elephant tusks that enclosing the ritualistic blaze. After us three became situated around the pit the shaman presented me with a smoking pipe the length of my uncle’s sawed off 12-gauge which he politely named – Killer Horse Cock.

After lighting it with the pit-fire, a secondary journey began. The inside had served its purpose, we ventured outdoors; the circling fence had grown sharp teeth along the hedges. Associate Producer and I walked into the mouth of this nature’s spiritual plane, accepted an uplifting into the spirit plane, and we were now stumbling all across the spirit plane. I disappeared from my own sight and time.

I awoke atop a heap of boulders with a higher, larger boulder shading me; all of us nestled in a natural resting spot near the outer core. Sundown was underway.

From that trajectory I noticed a large concert stage in the southeast. I couldn’t see people but I could differentiate the music instruments and as eclectic as they were, the music was maddening. Nowhere else on the planet was anyone hearing these noises, such brilliant noises that could be created by only some of the most untamed spirits and I was privileged enough to savor them until sight and time disappeared again. They returned in the mouth of this nature’s nucleus and from what I could see from the teeth the fence grew a previously short time ago, this mouth had enjoyed itself a tidy feast while I had been discovering the loveable jams.

Between each tooth were dead tree wrappings with human bodies cocooned inside, definitely a minimum of ten; all wrapped and positioned upright as if prisoners of an obsessive-compulsive spider. Doctor Sham An and Associate Producer traded fart jokes behind me while I walked around the dead, mouth of this fed nature’s nucleus. Sooner or later, I halted in front one of the lifeless husks. I tore away the wrapping at the chest, aware of exactly what I was doing, and I did not stop digging and ripping away until I saw bones – the chest and ribs. I looked around them, within them and I felt relieved without knowing why, as though an epic question had just been answered.

Doctor Sham An embraced me with a brotherly arm over my shoulder and with Associate Producer, we all embraced the new happiness.

Halloween

2011-10-31T21:01:00.000-06:00

Tonight, this night,

The night of gruesome delight;

On a day when the sun makes short its earthly stay,

Blazing a trail for the moon and its milky way.

On this night

Darkness is the new light,

Returning fun to all wicked frights

As there is sweetness behind and within

Every gnawed piece of flesh and candy bight.

Some shall don masks,

Others will shed skin,

Both revealing a truth to the underworld;

This is who we are within.

Thus, on this night,

The ultimate night,

We trade secrets.

We exchange identities to create a night of infamy.

From celebrating the festival of Sam Hain

To surviving religious disdain,

On this night of nights

Might the moon be bright;

However, take heed,

Beware the unseen

For tonight the familiar and the strange

Are one and the same

On this night of nights,

This night called Halloween.

Sweatshop - Movie Review

2011-10-24T00:47:00.000-05:00

Sweatshop brings to us the tale of some independent entrepreneurs swaying in the rave business. They break into an abandoned factory to set up for their promoted event and during that time their personal secrets begin driving them apart and right into the hands and really big frickin' hammer of the factory's unregistered occupants.

Sweatshop is a story that you know how it is going to end and you don't care because there is too much fun going on. The characters are not the smartest bunch in the world, but because they're so young and naive you can't help but feel sorry for a few of them when they finally meet The Beast and his two ghoulish assistants. The movie is really an introductory piece for these three anyway, and I am personally so glad to have met them.

The movie is brought to us by Stacy Davidson who co-wrote it with Ted Geoghean, both having worked in only a handful of other movies but could be on their way to making a significant imprint ont he genre very soon. Davidson is a visual effects specialist and it shows because all the mutilation and kills scenes in Sweatshop are special. I'm not the type of person to rely on gore alone to sell me a horror film, I do care about the quality of the story, but there is always an exception to the rule and Sweatshop is a damn fine exception. There are several outstanding splatter moments in this film and it left me wanting more.

Sweatshop is a jolly good gorey time. I can't get enough of it right now. And I want that big frickin' hammer.

Nailgun Salutations

2011-10-15T17:46:00.000-05:00

The more I venture out into the swampy marsh of the public mass the more I realize – to hell with Disneyland – home is the greatest place on Earth. Disneyland completely blows, by the way. It’s hot, boring, humid; a dainty, sparkly black hole filled with only bright colors and loud noises hoping to brainwash your senses into believing that entertainment is disturbingly large creatures wanting to be photographed with you before they usher you to the exit, handing you a single-bullet revolver so you may use it on yourself once you get home because there is no place more fun than Disneyland. It’s a good thing they hand the guns out outside the exit gates, otherwise it would be a full blown, foam-stuffed massacre every weekend.

Today’s new discovery in the evolution of basic social contact is that apparently the phrase, “Well, take care,” and others resembling its context of farewell no longer means farewell. Now, it is a segue used by people with the most uninteresting things to say to continue saying uninteresting things. Long gone are the days when the complementary “Take care” and generally complacent “See you later” took the place of the somewhat depressingly ultimate “Goodbye.” Fortunately, “Goodbye” has maintained its unmistakable context – Good god, I am so glad to be finished talking to this prick.

One more new social ritual has begun irking my ire – holding deep conversations in a door’s threshold. People needing to enter and exit at a steady pace are forced to either hold fort until the two brainless talking ass-scratching posts are finished with their talk of the weekends sales at the outlet malls and about their children whom really either parent could care less about the other person’s child.

If it was a rare occasion I wouldn’t mind so much, but three times in one day, six times in a week this happened. The good thing is that after the last one, everyone that needs to know is now informed to get the hell out of the way if they see me coming, especially since I will be holding a nail gun. If they like talking between doors so much, they can hang there and talk all day long. At least they won’t be blocking the path any longer.

Declining Ascension

2011-10-12T22:04:00.000-05:00

Climbing the clouds by stepping on the wind,

Kicking windows while the rush of the flight makes it difficult

To breathe in.

So I turn my back to the ocean blue skyline

Only to see the same picture leaving me

Further and further behind.

I turn again,

It is a glistening blue;

A sparkling surface with a definitive end.

The mirror shatters, then my bones.

Ascension anew, now I begin,

Abandoning the obliterated wreckage

Seen as a sin.

Emptied flesh mixing blood and shards,

The likes of a blooming flower is what I see,

Looking from on high and afar.

Tis a shame no one else can view this painting

Regardless if it is morbid.

I left something beautiful behind,

Even though no one would ever know it.

Berserk - Partial Movie Review & Partial Wet Dream Rejection

2011-10-10T15:53:00.000-05:00

Fell asleep during the second act of a horror double feature. I barely stayed awake through the cinematic abomination She Freak, and I don’t mean the creatures were abominations; it was truly an awful, awful movie. Yet, I was most looking forward to the second offering – Berserk, with Joan Crawford.

The movie was billed as a horror, though it was more of a suspense/mystery; and to take it one step further it may even be an accidental American giallo. The story centers on a callous, money-driven travelling circus ringmaster – Monica Rivers - portrayed by the wickedly endearing Joan Crawford.

Slumping profits are forcing Monica to make difficult choices over which acts to keep and which others to let go, but soon grisly accidents begin taking the lives of her performers which sends ticket sales rising, making Monica very happy, but there is still a mystery to be solved. Who is killing her performers?

The movie was filmed brightly, showing off the brilliant bright colors of the circus atmosphere and outfits, much like the tone of a giallo film, and you have the unknown killer roaming the circus grounds murdering victims in sadistic ways. For movie savants there is a special treat as the film also features the late Michael Gough as Albert Durando, Monica’s ex-lover. Michael Gough is most likely best known for portraying Alfred Pennyworth in Tim Burton’s and Joel Schumacher’s four collective Batman films.

From what I did see, the movie as a whole was well done, unfortunately the lazy plot and even lazier writing was its undoing. I dosed off but I wasn’t done seeing Joan Crawford just yet.

In my dream I was experiencing a romantic evening with a red-haired mystery woman, but the body and movements were undoubtedly influenced by Joan Crawford, and my assumption would soon be assured.

After cleaning up downstairs I entered the bedroom. My lover looked to be drifting to sleep as her face was turned away from my sight. I lifted the covers and nestled into bed next to her. I leaned over and planted a row of kisses starting at her shoulder and down her arm. Quickly, she turned around and slapped my face; I swore it was like a two-by-four had snapped against my temple. Her enraged eyes doused her fury all over me and all I could do was cowardly turn away and hope I could sleep without the fear of being stabbed in the back. Even when I awoke, I was turned on my side and I could feel the warmth of her body on my back, but as I turned around, there was only the unoccupied half of my bed.

I got rejected in my own wet dream!

Definitely my kind of woman, though.

A Spoiler-Heavy Rant about Zombieland

2011-10-07T22:11:00.000-05:00

...so, spoiler alert for all overly-uptight uptight movie quacks.

I’ve never felt the same thrill out of the movie Zombieland that the majority of the general movie-loving population did, or even the basic liking that most horror enthusiasts welcomed.

Granted, it’s not a terrible film, far from it really – in fact most of it is enjoyable if you are willing to accept the fact that despite a cross country zombie epidemic, human beings are still the dumbest creatures on planet Earth, and I will not accept the excuse “I need to shut my brain off to enjoy it,” because the basic practical error executed within betrays not only basic intelligence and common sense, a constipated chimpanzee wouldn’t be dumb enough to do what a couple of these characters did.

The ultimate stupidity, unfortunately, lies with the two young ladies, Wichita and Little Rock, whom throughout the majority of the movie seem to be the smartest of the travelling quartet. Tallahassee is a truly likeable badass thanks to Woody Harrelson, while Columbus could’ve been played by any of the current popular film geeks who all seem to share the basic DNA of Michael Cera who this time was portrayed by Jesse Eisenberg. Switch them out in the middle of the flick, I couldn’t tell the difference and couldn’t give a mouse’s pubes if he ever made it to Ohio.

During the rising action setting up the climax, the four decide to split into pairs going their separate ways. In the middle of the movie, Wichita and Little Rock express their manifest destiny of settling at an amusement park, which already through me off for reasons I hope would be obvious to most reasonable individuals because remember, they are still trying to avoid contact with zombies.

They arrive at that amusement park, partially armed with sufficient weaponry for battling a handful of the undead, and what do they do? In order to be at peace and zombie-free they choose to power up the entire amusement park – ALL of the lights, ALL of the rides – and partake in the typical fun one looks for at an amusement park. However, it never seemed to occur to these brilliant females that the loud noises and bright lights MIGHT…just MIGHT…attract, oh, I don’t know, perhaps a zombie or two, because it does. In fact, it attracts what I imagine to be every zombie within a two mile radius – several dozen to be specific. The zombies invade the park – who knew they were fans of rollercoasters and cotton candy, I thought they preferred human flesh?

Fucking idiots!

I’m willing to bow down, occasionally, to the humorous whims of reality-defying Hollywood – I still enjoy Armageddon from time to time, and when dealing with horror movies on a regular basis it’s almost instinct, but igniting the largest flashing beacon for all mobile, flesh-eating creatures to see and beckon to is just too ridiculous even for me, and I liked the movie Strange Wilderness.

Fucking idiots!

Honesty Gets You a Smile to Your Face and a Bullseye on Your Back

2011-10-03T23:09:00.003-05:00

Sometimes I wonder if I’m trying to be creative or if I just let things fall into place. It’s a bit of both, I’m sure. Either way I wind up frustrated, wanting to chug my body weight in whiskey intent on snorting, smoking, and sticking every drug within phone’s reach into my body because part of being creative is weeding out all the crap – and there is tons of it - and this newfound sobriety kick isn't very difficult, but bottom line - sobriety blows - but I'm stuck with it, like it or not.

People look to the news for ideas – I’ve never been partial to the news. No one ever tells the whole truth, but that’s good because it leaves perceptions open to all types of interpretation, which in turn I hope would lead to interesting writing, but more often than not it leads to more frustration. Even now I’m working on a story that has no ending. I’m breaking one of my core stipulations – never begin a story until you have an ending. It doesn’t mean that’s the ending you’ll write too, it just means that there is some kind of destination to be reached. The most thrilling part about writing is the journey – the characters – the language – it all consumes the writer; the story tells the writer where to go.

I try not to follow politics because it pains me to believe that anyone with a slim chance of making the United States a better country will ever get elected and do just that – make the United States a better country, not just for their rich, tycoon, scrotum-licking business associates, but for most people in general. And if they do try make the U.S. a better place they'll only be mysteriously killed for their troubles, but to make it a better place, everyone has to take a hit as well as a receive an upgrade. Someone always has to take the shitty hand, but instead of dumping it on the middle and lower classes, of which there are none – you’re either top class or bottom class, there is no middle – much like spreading the wealth around, you have to spread the shit around. Everyone is going to have to eat a slice. They don’t have to like it, just accept it and be thankful for the more fortunate parts of the deal.

But that’s not America anymore. People used to believe that the American Dream was being successful by making a living out of good ideas and hard work; now, it’s all about good ideas and how to make millions of dollars by pissing gasoline on the workers that earned the entrepreneur a chance in hell and thanking them by puking fire all over their hours of pressured perseverance.

I’m not telling you anything any other established writer hasn’t said in the last three centuries. The only difference is I’m not established, but unlike established writers I have my mechanics down. My grammar and common knowledge of basic spelling and research saves me from an editor’s grace because, quite frankly, the American lawyers hired today by major law firms wouldn’t know how to use a semi-colon if a Singapore-born disease eroded half of their own ass. I listened to a federal judge call in to a highly regarded law firm on speaker phone to a room full of top dollar earning lawyers and verbally trounce all of their written statements over the lack of knowledge over the basics of grammar and wordsmith. It was hilarious and sad – bittersweet – I’m twice the writer any of them are, but I struggle to crack the fiber glass ceiling of acknowledgement, which I can say is fine by me. I don’t have to play by anyone’s rules. I am literary chaos, I am brutal honesty. I am the person you won’t read or listen to because I speak the truth, and because it’s not on Twitter or Facebook, you’re de-evolving brain and its diluting capacity for informatory intake can’t handle what I’m saying, and no internet petition or blog will change the world. It could light the spark for change, but a spark is all it will be.

Eventually, force will be necessary, cell phones will have to be used for more than slingshotting disgruntled birds across a screen, or taking pictures with the same friends you've known for ten years at the same damn bar you've been frequenting for the exact same amount of time, but when that time comes, most of us are already doomed because the majority of us do not think for ourselves anymore. We always believe what the loudest person in the room is saying even though the context is sparkle covered gibberish, but since they’re loud and have a YouTube account with over three-thousand hits they must be right, right?

I know I still have to spell it out for most of you, but at this point I’m better off putting a bullet through my head, or six through yours – unlike literature, math has never been my strongest subject.

Delicious Pizza and some Mini-Reviews

2011-10-01T13:58:00.000-05:00

Not just five minutes ago did I bight into a deliciously prepped, thoroughly baked meat-lovers stuffed pizza from one of the local pizzerias in town. Being from deep southern Texas, people don’t think we have pizza to compete or compare with Chicago or New York, and while those two are globally known as the dual Mecca of North American pizza – and they are incredible – my whole body quivered and I may have experienced a tiny death of the French expression.

And for those of you that don’t understand what I’m saying, I may have had an orgasm, and if you were any more ignorant I would’ve projected the fluids directly into your face for being so lame.

With that, I’ve been catching up on music and movies as of late, and while I rarely write full reviews anymore I do like sharing my opinion, or rather beating my opinion through your ear drum with my keyboard.

On the music end of things, the new Anthrax album – Worship Music is an absolute blast. It is Joey Belladonna’s first album with the group since departing in the early 90’s, replaced by John Bush. The music is a fine mix of both old and modern Anthrax, and you can tell that the band was able to broaden their writing skills by writing in higher keys to appease Belladonna’s voice. Originally, they lowered them in order to make it work for John Bush. I have been a lifelong Anthrax fan and by now after so many singers, guitarists, sounds; I thought I might have tossed them to the wayside, but the nucleus of their sound and energy is still alive and well with Scott Ian, Charlie Benante, and Frank Bello. They are still great.

Scooped up Foster the People’s debut – Torches – they are picking up where Gregg Alexander left off with The New Radicals but adding another layer of retro sauciness that does them well. I just fear that anyone listening to this band and others such as Fitz and the Tantrums will think that these sounds are fresh when they are truly not. Nothing has been fresh since the mid-70s.

The Other are a blend of punk and hard rock, the likes of post-Danzig Misfits. Actually, they sound exactly like post-Danzig Misfits, but that’s no reason to discard them right away. They do well for what they are.

I’ve taken a great liking to Arsonists Get All the Girls. They mix black metal with new wave and their attitude is all punk. I’m really enjoying this band. Powerwolf is another power metal group that seems to owe their sound to Iron Maiden, much like Iced Earth, but they too are good for what they are.

Finally, Switchfoot has put out yet another new album – Vice Verses. Ever since they released New Way to Be Human back in 1999 each album has either surpassed or has been as equally good, most of them have blown that album away; and Vice Verses is no different. It is a great album and their songwriting skills continue to obviously mature.

On the movie front – I recently watched and reviewed Bereavement from Steven Mena; decent story with typical plot holes and intense kills.

I got to see Stakeland the other night: a movie about an older man and his young sidekick trekking across a post-vampire-epidemic America. Money is useless; the only credit is bartering or vampire teeth. The creators did a good job of transforming their locations and the overall mood into a destitute living with only the characters reliance on one another providing hope. Good for a character study rather than a typical horror venture.

The Killer Elite was a good, if dry espionage thriller. There was something off-tier about seeing Jason Statham and Robert De Niro acting together, but considering neither of them veers far from a basic on-screen persona, it worked out well enough. This Statham is The Bank Job, Snatch Jason Statham; the one that puts some effort into the acting part. I’m hoping to one day see a larger portion of the Jason Statham that had a minor role in London. That guy had hair and was still intense. Although, the entire time I was watching The Killer Elite, even though it is based on a true story, i couldn't help but think that we have Jason Statham and Clive Owen, just bring in Gerard Bartler and Sean Bean - we could have an extended British version of The Expendables.

My favorite film this week though has to be Drive. It is flashback to a 1980’s Italian gangster film, from the pop-heavy 80s-style soundtrack to the flashy, vibrant cinematography and bright pink lettering on the credits, right down to the unapologetic brutality and nerve-flinching gore. Ryan Gosling once again makes you fall in love with his fragile psyche; Ron Perlman and Bryan Cranston yet again prove that they have always belonged in the upper echelon of great actors as they go stride for stride with Albert Brooks. Nicholas Winding Refn did an outstanding directorial job.

Back to work I go….

Bereavement - Movie Review and Critique

2011-09-24T23:31:00.000-05:00

There are stories that are familiar, some that keep you guessing – Bereavement falls into the rare category where the familiarity is used to cushion the chaos. Bereavement is the deranged story of two people: Martin Bristol (Spencer List) and Allison Miller (Alexandra Daddario).

Living in a destitute Pennsylvania town, Martin possesses the rare condition called congenital analgesia – he is insensitive to pain. He can feel a touch, but his pain receptors are completely useless. At the age of six, Martin is kidnapped by a stranger and over the next five years, while living in an abandoned slaughterhouse, Martin is forced to watch this madman torture and butcher women.

One day, Allison moves in to town shortly after the death of her parents to live with her uncle Jonathan (Micahel Biehn) and his wife and daughter. She takes no thrill in living with them and finds solace in training for the track team, running down long lifeless roads day after day. While running, she passes by the slaughterhouse and sees a young boy standing behind a broken window, staring out at the world not knowing that her world is about to take yet another devastating turn.

Bereavement is written, directed, and scored by Stevan Mena, writer and director of Malevolence. He does a good job of depicting the isolation felt by the two main characters with the cinematography capturing the vast emptiness of the small, out of the way town.

The beginning is rough, slow paced as the piece is as psychological as it is bloody. He draws from such films as the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre to emphasize the presence of gore rather than act of it, but for all the gore hounds out there, there is plenty to be witnessed. Bereavement also seems like a love letter to John Carpenter’s Halloween, and after watching this film, personally speaking, I think I would have chosen Mena to direct the remake instead of Rob Zombie. And judging only by the story, it seems Mena likes to study serial killers.

The plot holes are apparent but not damaging, even laughable. At times you start wondering if Uncle Jonathan has a day job since all he seems to do day and night is continue building the new additions to his family’s quaint home. Plus, the shedding of Allison’s remaining innocence is parallel with the shedding of her running gear and the enlarging of her breasts capped off by a short, eye opening stay in a meat locker.

The musical score captures the atmosphere of a lonesome dirt town while the thriller sequences are standard striking melodies. The acting ranges from bad to believable, but sometimes the bad acting is what makes some scenes believable.

Even with its faults, Bereavement is a well made film that makes you squirm and even though you have seen these storytelling techniques in dozens of horror movies, the pacing and execution (heh heh) are well played.

I wonder if Michael Biehn ever walked up to Edward Furlong and asked "Who's your daddy?"

Destruction Frequencies

2011-09-24T11:10:00.000-05:00

Thinking about the power of sound, what first comes to mind is the old trick of the opera singers shattering a crystal glass using their vocal cords. This is possible as long as the glass is crystal. You tap the glass, and the pitch of the sound that is made is the frequency necessary for shattering it. Then, I started thinking about other forms of matter. Do they have their own shattering frequencies? What would they be? It isn’t so easy to find them. You can’t tap a polyester jacket to find its shattering frequency.

It is possible to shatter most forms of matter not through frequency but through sheer force of sound. Unfortunately, the sound needs to be so loud a human being would shatter their own eardrums first before tapping through the density of, say a computer screen or a brick wall, but if there were a way of tapping into the proper frequency necessary in splitting other forms of matter, the world would be so much more fun.

We would seek the frequency of a planet, find it, and the rest destroys itself.

Lazy Journalism - Know the Rules Before You Criticize (MMA vs. Boxing)

2011-09-21T21:57:00.000-05:00

I wish sports reporters would do the one aspect of their job which makes them actual reporters - research - which they seem to think is too time consuming and totally beneath them. Why work when they can just record sound bytes and through social networking diarrhea regurgitate someone else’s story. At least the kooky sound byte netted their Youtube and Facebook pages a few thousand more hits despite obliterating their credibility as a journalist.

My main ire with these cud-spewing leeches is the general ignorance and bias towards trying to understand the rules of mixed martial arts and how they are designed to protect the competitors. Unless they are fans of MMA they automatically dismiss the sport as lawless; having no rules while holding boxing’s rules to such a pristine standard.

Bottom line – the rules of mixed martial arts are structured to stop a helpless fighter from taking needless, possibly career-threatening, even life-threatening punishment. It is at the referee’s behest to decide when a fighter is no longer capable of defending themselves and because the punishment they endure is slightly more severe than in boxing, an MMA referee is likely to end the fight quicker. However, in boxing, if a defenseless fighter can stand up and feign functional composure before the count of eight, they are sent back into the fight where they’re brains are allowed to absorb further punishment, usually ending up in long-term brain damage.

The facts do not lie, more boxers suffer much more severe head trauma – life altering head trauma than mixed martial artists.

MMA injuries vs Boxing injuries

Brass Monkey Business

2011-09-19T23:34:00.000-05:00

The tuba sounded the note that I wanted but the octave was out of control, far too high. I pulled my head back, noticing I had implanted a baritone’s mouthpiece by mistake. Probably a drunken mistake stemming from the previous night’s drunken endeavors and pill-laden candy corns.

I continued playing the tube with the incorrect mouthpiece; the octave was still too high, it was quite the clueless conundrum, but after I pulled my head back I noticed that there was a baritone’s mouthpiece inserted within the air tube instead of the regulated tuba kind. Probably because of all the dope and booze I’d downed the night before.

After settling the tube inside of its crimson-cushioned case and hurling the baritone’s mouthpiece through the sliding door, consequently shattering the glass and circumstantially splitting the gardeners head open with the mouthpiece, I disrobed. Then, clad only in my red silk panties and an angrily awoken hard-on, I descended into my tuba pool. The pool itself was modeled after a tuba’s rim while the curving tubes served as steps and the fingering stations as diving boards.

Music had been good to me. As for the unrecognizable trio passed out in my pool, their treatment of me was hazy at the moment. All three were brunettes; two of them were momentary strangers while the one with her chin dipped into her breasts was Aklana – a flutist from the orchestra I was performing with. After my first lap through the pool, I looked at the backs of the other twos heads and recognized them immediately. Joanna – a cellist and Elizebel – a violinist, both from the same orchestra.

I hoped they didn’t mind waking up naked, strung out on the homemade cocaine my agent had brought along. That was how I found them; birthday suits, powdered noses and all. That yayo left quite the impression on one’s five senses. I once swore that my heart was beating so fast that I travelled back in time and performed an undiscovered concerto with Antonio Vivaldi entitled Hallowed Dildo in Winter.

Joanna soon awoke while I was dipping into the share of the homemade narcotic forming race lines across her chest. Luckily she was still remarkably thrashed; she smiled and proceeded to dip her head underwater, remove my favorite panties, and performed a tongued rendition of Johannes Brahms Cello Sonata in F along my grumpy cock. Fineldo, the gardener I had accidentally brained with my incorrect baritone mouthpiece made a gurgling noise which wasn’t a good sign, so I grabbed an empty, over tipped champagne bottle and brained him again. That shut him up.

Unfortunately, it was also time for me to make my way to the stadium where we were performing that evening. I hoisted my self onto the pool’s edge with Joanna clinging to my un-grumpy dick like a catfish to a log of meat hooked to a fishing reel.

My fishing enthusiastic friends were right; you have got to get them early when they’re hungry.

I dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, threw on some sneakers and my favorite black trench coat all the while searching for my favorite tuba mouthpiece, but to no avail. I kept a spare in one of the stadium’s lockers for such an occasion, so I ceased probing for my favorite one, but the mystery of its location left me uneasy, but a bump of home-cocaine and a mouth-rinsing swig of scotch perked me up. I told the ladies to see themselves out and call an ambulance for Fineldo, saluted my photograph of me and Vivaldi holding a dildo shaped like a Christmas tree, and headed for the bus stop.

The bus ride was pleasant. I stood so as not to pass out and miss my stop like I had two days ago after the night the conductor invited me to his home for a dinner party/transvestite modeling show, which was quite impressive, and trannies always have access to the best drugs.

I was dropped three blocks from the stadium. At the second crosswalk I dug my hands into my coat pockets. In my right one I felt something metallic. It was my favorite tuba mouthpiece. I was elated, then I sniffed it – I always sniff it when I first hold it – don’t know why. It smelled like Joanna’s mouth, which was perplexing but not uncommon. I’m just wondering how the hell it wound up in my coat pocket.

Newsy Stuff

2011-09-19T22:22:00.000-05:00

Sign me up!
Our No Merchant Victims campaign is designed to earn your business with a value proposition that is unmatched in our industry today," says Kauzlarich. "This special program is designed to protect merchants against robberies, employee theft, hackers and credit card processing rate increases,"

It works. Just because politicians can't figure out how to get their cut of the money-pie is no reason to let beneficial human beings suffer.
Peyton Manning actually took a private jet out to Europe to get stem cell therapy," Glazer said on air Sunday.

Don't Act Like You Know Me

2011-09-12T23:55:00.000-05:00

People continue to use the word "intimidating" in their description of me. "Nice," "kind," "smart" also pop up, but "intimidating?" I don't see it, I don't understand how they do; yet, I 'm not going to change.

I tend to live a solitary life. It's the only life I have ever really known. The day that I was born, I was the only infant birthed that day in that particular hospital. I had the place to myself. I grew up as an only child, and while I may be spoiled in some mental aspects - I can be stubborn when I want to and my well of sympathy is drizzly at best - my grandparents ensured that I was not going to be the brat throwing a tantrum in the middle of the store because mommy wouldn't get me the candy I wanted. They instilled within me a sense of honor and discipline heavily lacking in these last few generations.

After recently partaking in discussions with my circle of close lady friends, they all agreed that I am an intimidating figure; that I'm too smart for my own good, and although currently I'm not at my physical peak due to circumstances beyond my control (a medical procedure coupled with a sparring injury have kept me out of the gym these last two months), I am able to perform a rigorous cardio workout at the local park which I designed myself, incorporating the local structures and landscape, I'm still in above-standard shape.

The one thing that truly bothered me; no, not bothered me - flat out infuriated me - "You're too smart," she said.

Well fuck you too. If I'm "too smart," feel free to be "too smart" with me. The only one running away is you. I'm an easy person to find, but when I choose to disappear you won't even notice my footsteps when I walk behind you. You won't recognize my profile because you never wanted to see me in the first place.

If I'm going to find a woman that I love and respect, they will feel the same way for me either because of or in spite of my intelligence and the eccentricities included with it.

As far as friends go, I have enough friends. I have the greatest friends in the world. I don't need any more friends.

I refuse to lower the standards that I have set for myself. I am willing to experience this planet alone. I go out to restaurants alone. I attend all varieties of junkets alone - museums, concerts, operas, plays, movies, sporting events; I travel alone. Anything that catches my personal interest I usually experience alone. If you are the type of person that cannot, that's fine, I respect that, but I don't sit around waiting for anyone. When I want to do something I go out and I do it.

I will not sink down to their standards, they need to rise up to mine.

Five Drafts Later and All I Want is One Bullet Chambered

2011-09-07T23:44:00.000-05:00

It’s been several years since I’ve ever had a story give me such a hard time. Normally I get the babbling out of the way and the characters lead me on the journey, but Cemetery Ballroom has proven to be a cantankerous, donkey-dick-slapping-whore. What began as a Loose Idea is now a full blown short story, but it has not been without headaches.

Things being what they are, I have a shrivel of hours to spare into a piece of work be it a written piece, a drawing, music – whatever – I can’t put as much effort into it as I would like, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to finish what I start. I read all four Hobbit books by the highly overrated and holier than thou J.R.R. Tolkien, so I’m pretty sure I could follow Dante’s footsteps and map out the entrances and backdoor warehouse of hell.

Cemetery Ballroom has gone through five different drafts; four handwritten one typed, but each time I had to strip it to the bare bones, study it from all angles, and try and try again. I seriously doubt that the finished product will be any good, but at least I will have completed it and have told a story that I wanted to tell. It’s a piece that is character driven except the characters are a high school student and a cemetery. The cemetery has an attitude, it springs to life, but I feel that I’m just not capturing the essence of it all.

I know I won’t be happy with the finished product, and there is no assurance that I won’t return to it later on down the line, but as sure as my heart is jaded and my mind is tainted I will finish this story.

We Can Talk Horror

2011-09-03T01:13:00.000-05:00

We can talk about horror movies. We can talk about their effects on audiences and individuals. We can discuss the relationships created with these characters from all sides of their existence; from the creators, to the actors, to the viewers.

There is a primeval wonderment that is associated with fear. Existence is partially based on survival. Alligators and sharks have no natural known predator, only mankind kills those species by the thousands every year. What is mankind’s only known natural predator? It’s the same thing that kills alligators and sharks by the thousands every year. And, occasionally some of our brethren get eaten by a bear, an alligator, or a shark; however, we can experience a tiny fraction of that fear within a controlled environment like the movie theater or the living room.

Fear causes the human body to instinctively increase the flow of adrenaline throughout the body as the brain shifts its flesh and blood host into the fight-or-flight persona. Knowing that we are secure in our own personal space, we lightly tread into danger because the taste of fear is far too compelling, nearly addictive, but in a real life situation common sense says run, but thanks to movies we have people with a subconscious death wish or a guilty conscience willing to tackle these reprehensible murderers. Their sacrifices are sometimes heroic, comical, or well deserved for just like any other movie that is vastly respected or deemed watchable by consensus, a good horror movie is driven by a basic, plain ideal: likeable characters. The audience needs a person that is relatable, someone they can connect with on some sort of level; aesthetic or psychological. These character are meant to remind you of someone you know, even remind you of yourself while telling what is hopefully an interesting tale; whatever it takes for you as a viewer to identify with them.

Of course, within every cavalcade of future corpses there needs to be those scoundrels that deserve seeing their intestines tugged through a hole in their throat. They reflect the pieces of society that the masses find unbearable; the snobby rich kid, the loud mouthed thug, in-laws, and the crabby old maid that keeps all of the sports balls that land in her backyard. However, these are the fun kills, we look forward to these. The kills that we still expect but feel sympathy are a horror films true test, and it always doesn’t come down to wanting the character to be a good person, the actor needs to win the audience’s support which is difficult because most horror films are plagued with terrible acting, but it is terrible acting by people who work cheaply which is the main reason most of them are retained.

In horror films we have seen people devoured by animals of both realistic species and completely imagined species mechanically engineered into existence. We have seen mothers, children, pets, trolls, and demons enact gory fury upon beloveds and complete stranger, but being able to cling to someone in a movie viewing environment excites the mood instead of manipulating it because there will be no axe-wielding maniac coming for us, but we are lucky enough to catch hint of what that might just be like. Embracing fear is an acquired taste, but we all feel it and at some point we all give in to it.

Bilo's Family Tree

2011-09-01T01:14:00.001-05:00

Unwrapping the present, hearing the gunshot; at the end of it all Bilo felt that in some superficial way he unleashed hell on his family.

It was the first present his biological dad had ever given him. Bilo dropped the box when the gun sounded, sending a slug through Aunt Iris’ latest husband – fifth times the charm.

Well, maybe not for Aunt Iris – her brains got mixed with the potpourri.

Bilo’s mom had salvinated for this day for 19 years, the day she never believed could happen was now in full gear, but she waited for Bilo’s dad to off the annoying relatives. THEN she came out swinging with her daddy’s axe. The axe Bilo’s grandfather had used for 49 years with the fire department.

As a little girl, Bilo’s mom once asked her fireman father if he ever wanted to use the axe on people. He replied, “Sometimes.”

“Me too,” said Bilo’s mom.

Mushroom Clouds Over Haarlem, Holland

2011-08-22T21:42:00.000-05:00

On the morning of August 16, this ominous mushroom cloud appeared over the sky of Haarlem, Holland. Most meteorologists suggest that it was caused by a temperature inversion, where there is a derision from normal temperature changes in any atmospheric properties with altitude.

Basic temperatures are warmer the closer they get to the ground, colder the higher up they go; however, the warmer temperatures in this cloud are at the top.

Such a wicked visual. Boise, Idaho had a similar incident earlier this month.

Evolution is a Funny Business

2011-08-18T23:09:00.000-05:00

Bad placenta! Shame on you!

"Brave Megan Stewart is also at risk if she wears polyester clothing and can't touch balloons at parties as static electricity could cause her brain to shut down.
The 13-year-old suffers from an extremely rare condition called hair brushing syndrome."

Sometimes, scientists need to just let some things slide.

"Scientists have undone the progress made by evolution by altering chicken DNA to create embryos with alligator-like snouts instead of beaks."

If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

"A new species of eel has been discovered which is so old that it retains its dinosaur-era characteristics and has been branded a 'living fossil'."

Sharks Being Sharks and a True Hero

2011-08-17T23:02:00.000-05:00

I think this shark has dealt with humans before.

Ian Redmond, 30, was attacked by a shark in the Seychelles early this week, according to media reports. He was on his honeymoon.
Michel Gardette, a Praslin development official told the news source, "I have been diving for the last 40 years and I have never encountered any problems. Sharks are actually very rare because they are hunted for their meat and fins."

Good people exist.

"The man came running to us and said, `They stole a little girl.'"
Phillip Garcia, 29, had snatched the girl moments earlier on Monday afternoon in Albuquerque, taking her away in a blue van, police said.
Diaz's husband, Antonio Diaz Chacon, jumped in his black pickup and gave chase.

Alone with Essence

2011-08-16T23:30:00.002-05:00

Walking nature's lane, which mirrors the night,
Which mirrors my steps;
A long, lonely session defines this insightful trek.

Around tree and stone,
A fragrance curls itself along the color-colliding, dusky horizon's mist.
A harmonious brew
Concocted by nature's own appetite for a sensually scented delight.

An exciting urge untapped by a lady's fingers.
A relaxing sense of a little death that starts with a little kiss.
A feral soul where wild pleasure's linger.

Now, campfire spreads,
The moon bedazzles,
As the essence of night begins to unravel.
This is how I am alone with her along my lonesome travels.

News & Such

2011-08-16T23:02:00.000-05:00

Breastfeed them until their fifteen while you're at it. The White House's Office of Management and Budget have been using these laws as gootch warmers for the past nine months because that's how far below the ladder this thing is. Child labor laws need to start being rescinded.

Accidents happen because of personal neglect and completely unforseeable circumstances, such as the tragedy at the Rangers game, but there are signs posted throughout the seating area advising the fans to never lean over the rails. Accidents and farms are synonymous with one another. These are high-industrial pieces of equipment meant to do things only a few of today's animals and more of prehistory's creatures are capable of, but they are under human supervision. Accidents are inevitable.

Dumbest question of the day - "Could U.K.-Style Destruction Happen in America?"

And history repeats itself. We are due for something doomy. Enjoy the ride.

Cemetery Ballroom (polished)

2011-08-04T01:12:00.002-05:00

Ethan’s family buried Gran Fern only three weeks ago. He didn’t mind passing through, though. Dorado Middle School was in the same direction down the winding portion of Lionel Lee road as the cemetery. Ethan always bid salutations to the peacefully cryptic residents, and about half after three, the ice cream van passed down winding Lionel Lee to catch customers from Port Fern Elementary getting dropped off by the busses. On Saturdays it wouldn’t cruise by until around five. Ethan would hum that ice cream song until he got home almost daily. It reminded him of the calmness found only in a cemetery.

When Ethan began ninth grade, he began forgetting that song. High School’s direction was opposite Shady Luxuries Cemetery. There were no tunes to recognize in that direction. There were no winding roads.

Novembers were numbingly cold, a beautiful blister representing the positively frantic local spirit – We’re here; deal with it, man and weather united. The weather started suiting Ethan’s personal favor near Halloween, representing Stage 1 – Heavier Winds.

A week before Thanksgiving, walking home from a perky evening at some suburban darlings’ parent-less house party in Thorn corner, known as such because within that neighborhood bore the only homes where thorns grew naturally in the greenery. If you didn’t know where to turn, it’d be an instant miss, but Ethan stood every elementary school morning at the graveyard’s edge and was dropped of f there accordingly with Thorn Corner only a hidden block away. The road turned only east, a tree’s limb obstructed the sign naming the street, but no one ever complained about it. The people in Thorn Corner were often considered different by the other folks in town. It was an upscale community, but that was never an issue; the fragment of tension between the people went deeper, into the soil and the soul of the town where it seemed like the tension boiled into hatred.

Yet, all of that tension eased once Ethan reached the chain marking the start of cemetery ground. He was able to step over it now since his growth spurt, planting his feet on the docile territory he felt all of that uneasiness shed like a mature snake’s skin replaced by a calmness that he realized he had missed and not even known. It was a good feeling, like being reacquainted with friends long-thought-abandoned. Ethan was jovial about his return. He decided to visit his grandparents ‘plots, feeling succinctly guilty since he had not visited them either since transferring to high school. He still thought about them, he knew they were watching over him at all times which justified his excuses for not visiting them when the opportunities presented themselves.

Cemetery Ballroom (work-in-progress)

2011-08-02T03:05:00.000-05:00

Ethan’s family buried Gran Fern only three weeks ago. He didn’t mind passing by, though. School was in the direction, might as well bid a salutation to the cryptic residents. And from 3 in the afternoon ‘til about half after, the ice cream truck passes by to catch the busses coming from Port Fern Elementary.

The day Ethan progressed to high school he forgot that ice cream tune. High School’s direction was opposite Shady Luxuries Cemetery. There were no tunes to recognize in that direction.

Novembers were cold, a beautiful blister representing the positively frantic local spirit – We’re here; deal with it, man and weather united. The weather started suiting Ethan’s favor near Halloween. Every year there was a shift; there was never a shift all the years in that other place. Ethan loved being cold.

A week before Thanksgiving, Ethan’s walking home from a perky evening at some suburban darlings’ resident in the Thorn cul-de-sac, known as such because within resides the only home with thorns in their greenery. If you didn’t know where to turn, it’d be an instant miss, but Ethan stood there every elementary school year – at the graveyard’s edge. The road went only left, a graveyard’s tree’s limb obstructed the sign naming the street, but the voted to keep the tree intact out of respect for the lifeless tenants.

It was a good city to test a person’s will. Death was a steady business, Ethan recited. He’d forced himself to create a slogan for an idea. The chain blocking Ethan’s leg-stretching override was lower than he’d recalled, his memory salvaging itself – the mornings at the graveyard’s edge, plucking the chains, waiting for the bus; talking to Shannon Ann; still simultaneously the most beautiful AND strangest name you’d ever heard.

Slangin on the Go

2011-07-28T00:42:00.000-05:00

Driving through town today I witnessed a hilarious drug deal. I couldn't tell who was the slanger or who was the buyer but two men were walking on the sidewalk towards one another showing no indication of an association, none of any kind.

Usually, you see a friend or someone familiar you acknowledge them in some obvious manner, but these guys appeared obliviouis to one another. They meet in the middle and in the blink of an eye exchange a handslap, and faster than they converged in the center of the sidewalk the instantaneously turned around, heading in opposite directions. I laughed all the way to my destination.

Picked up a new cell phone today, too. It was an intriguing experience. The young woman that helped me had the most hypnotic, elegant crystal blue eyes. I wondered if they were contacts - they were astoundingly gorgeous, and she had a voice so soothing I felt myself becomiong intoxicated the more she spoke. I started nearly slurring my words. The more she spoke the more I focussed on her eyes, and slowly, like a crescendo in a sonata, our lips began spreading into grins, grins into smiles; smiles into attraction (for me anyways). Her customer service was exceptional to boot.

I walked away without complementing her on anything. I was disappointed in myself. The opportunity has passed and now it's up to bizarre circumstances if we ever meet again.

Those kinds of second chances are the rarest kind.

Pencils for Death

2011-07-20T01:49:00.001-05:00

Have been working extensively and vivaciously on the Texas Death project. After half-a-day yesterday of fumbling wtih the foreground to the forefront of frustration (see what I did there), I settled on a nonchalant, imposing fixture. I'm about ready to tackle the atmsohpere.

Must keep blasting music.

Insufficiently, while taking a snack break, enjoying a ham sandwich, I happened to witness a rogue male hippopotamus get castrated. I chuckled at the situation. Life is just too funny.

Could've gotten further along with Texas Death if I hadn't blundered by losing my last twist-pencil. I absolutely love sketching with those things, their leads are just slightly thicker than a click-pencil, and they're fantastic to scratch your ears with. After today's work I was exhausted, but the caffeine injections of Code Red and Dr. Pepper from earlier were still working their abusive, bowel disrupting magic. I wasn't nearly in any sleeping mood and any trying attempt would have only wasted time. Instead, I went for a walk to get some groceries. This would have been around half-past-midnight; I returned shortly after one. The journey was ghostly and serene, cars in single sets drove past me on their way to where people desired them, and others to places where they desired a certain person; to place where they should have been, and others to a place where they have no business being. Such is the human condition. Either way people were going to awaken with new diseases the next day.

The greatest surprise was that punk-rock-girl was working tonight. I had not seen in her many months, her hair still fashioned in a black-length, white-bangs style tied back in a ponytail that completed the cuteness of her overall appearence while her eyes, as sweet as her look, but they told the truth. She is one tough soul.

Quite the attractive feature.

Unfortunately, I found no more twist-pencils. Luckily, after returning home I discoverd my lost one beneath a clutter of unpacked tools and other household objects that can force someone to scream.

Back to Texas Death, a temporary coma, and then training. Keep blasting music.

Oingo Boingo & Alligators

2011-07-19T01:41:00.001-05:00

Wondering what it means to "have a good time," these days. I'm a simple person, gimme four walls and if there has to be company may it be pleasent.

But if I could ruthlessly indulge myself without consequences, on my application for Heaven's entrance, regarding the Hobbies section, there would be: Alcohol, Amphetamines, Weekends, Alligator Pits.

2011-07-17T01:50:00.000-05:00

It was during one of my skill-earned trips to Austin when I came across the Escape from L.A. soundtrack.

It was high-school, ’97 – it was at a CD Extra, I was flippin’ through their soundtrack selections (new/used) and came across the Escape from L.A. soundtrack; blazing cover with Kurt Russell in his awesomeness that is Snake Plissken, who was last seen in that shit in Cleveland.

I’d never found this soundtrack back home. I should’ve but I didn’t. The other sad bastards that followed cd releases beat me to it, probably by waking up. I refused to do that for anyone. OR, I just didn’t go to sleep. Either one was fine with me.

Regardless, I love this soundtrack and really like the movie. Can I have my axe back, please?

Fucker.

Escaping Silence

2011-07-14T16:53:00.000-05:00

This song inspired this particular piece. I have some plans for dear old Dan.....

Cassy was quickly running out of hallway and light. She slowed herself and the only audible was her winded breathing but inside her mind still echoed the thunderous footsteps of the maniac that had killed everyone, everyone but her. For a few more relaxed breaths she would rest, but was far from safe.

The hunt was becoming tedious. Dan had erased most of the names as he silenced their voices on Earth. The young lady was the last one – Cassy. His blood-caked glove pushed open the kitchen entrance to continue searching for the deviled misfit. Her voice needed to be silenced. Dan needed to sleep.

Cassy kneeled low before dipping her head around the corner, checking for the psycho – nothing to find but more carpet leading down another dimly lit passage, and for being a seaside resort she couldn’t believe the lack of windows in an inn as gigantic as the Haveshum, but she felt a spit-worth of hope when she came across the stairs leading downward. It was familiar to her, and anything familiar felt like a way out.

When there were multiple voices, Dan could function suitably, but when there was a single drone buzzing throughout his consciousness the harsh memories flashed in front of him, the memories of grandmother and grandfather listening to their radio all day long everyday. As a toddler lost in his own mind inside his crib he could hear the talk radio from the living room. Occasionally, one of them would enter his room to feed and change him, but always with them did they bring their radio god until the day Grandmother and Grandfather stopped appearing, yet their radio kept talking. They would rather listen to their silly radio god. Then, increasingly more flies began to appear particularly when the putrid stench consumed the household. And then, the men in uniforms appeared and took him away from the voices. But the voices followed him. Whenever he turned on a radio, the voices would regenerate, but now the voices spoke names. They were the names of the wicked and the guilty, the kind of wretched decadents that Grandmother and Grandfather said his mother was because she refused to listen to the word of their radio god, and they needed to be punished. Dan would write their names and silence their voices.

The lobby was a sweet sight. Cassy leapt off the third stair step on to the floor and sprinted for the open door leading outside. Once her feet touched the sand she could sense salvation’s nearness. Her voice cried “thank you” aloud to anyone listening, but as she tried to cry out again she couldn’t muster any words, and she slowed to complete halt which was when she felt warmth trickling down her body and as she gazed down she witnessed a crimson flood powering down her shirt. Cassy reached behind her neck and felt the knife handle emanating from the back of her throat. Her body could no longer create tears for Cassy to cry. Her voice had been silenced because Dan had been listening the entire time.

Unclogging

2011-07-07T00:36:00.000-05:00

Unsure what the next art piece should be. The samurai is the likliest candidate, but it'll be the most complex piece I've attempted in a lyong time; plus, there's research to be done.

Figured out a new deltoid workout. I tried it, and I'm excited with the results. The rotation works the deltoid in a twisting motion, taking the muscle to it's tightest peak; possibly beneficial to a gymnast. Also gonna try a personally new protein from Nutrex - Muscle Infusion Black (ah yeah), cookies n'cream flavor (Chyeah!), but I selected it because it has all the positives of a Syntha-6: the isolates, egg-whites, whey and such, however, Muscle Infusion Black (M.I.B. Haaa!) contains far less carbs, sugars, sodium, cholesterol; I'm looking forward to that as well.

Work to do, work to do....

More Movies

2011-07-05T04:16:00.003-05:00

Before...and deeennnn?...

....

Continued movie viewing with the original Bad News Bears - the authentic nature of the vulgarity couldn't be recaptured in the remake, only simulated.
While cooking breakfast I was trying to figure out the mood, so I settled on Ed Burns' The Groomsmen - excuse me, EdWARD Burns...but a good way to pass the time. It's a movie that questions the definition of being a man.

Legion - Sucked. Big ones.

Devil - A flashy 90-minute movie with a 30-minute plot that actually pulled it off. Fuck you comic books.

Ketchup? Catsup? Catch up?

2011-07-04T02:53:00.001-05:00

Tonight's soundtrack was provided by....

....and while they haven't been the same since the first album I've still enjoyed their sound.

Been catching up on movies; recently watching 2001 Maniacs: Field of Screams (yeahyuuuuh), Somewhere in Time (shweeet), Open Road (noyce), The Door in the Floor (overly sentimental but cool), Three Amigos (clllassic), Hot Tub Time Machine (new clllassic), Poolhall Junkies (constant rotation), They (good effort), Batman ’89 (still shweeet), Despicable Me (I liked it better this time around), Evolution (always a pleasure) ….

.....Aaaannnnd……

Shakedown – A new Peter Weller fave, he delivers, and Sam Elliot’s acting yet again makes all functioning alcoholics proud and looking good (acting, teehee).

Sssss – A charming 70’s thriller that stretches into the horror realm, with Strother Martin playing the nicest serial killer ever, Dr. Carl Stoner. Aside from a casual stick-model, all of the snakes were real and used splendidly and still cautiously. Dirk “IAMFACE” Benedict plays a naïve college student assigned to Dr. Stoner’s assistance. Poor bastard.

And finally, Green Lantern; that movie earned itself a Whataburger, I tell yuh. Loved it, and what saved it was the pacing, because there was a lot of shyit goin on – good editing. What was UP with the HAIRSTYLES? Angela Bassett’s overpowering sexiness made hers bearable; Tim Robbins’ made the aliens’ and Hector’s gigantically mutated dome normal looking.

Despite lackluster numbers the sequel is thus far a go, I am glad. They need to tell Sinestro’s story. He’s too important and they have the best actor possible for the role in Mark Strong, good casting all around. This felt like a DC film, a fun atmosphere with insanity all around you.

Been re-editing Sympathy Circus; polishing, editing, adding, consciously averting overkill but not without testing the waters. Completing the sourcebook and first chapter outline for Drunken Monk, got a new idea for another novel, but first things first and that is an endless suck in itself.

Have also been watching and re-watching documentaries on these fellas........UP THE IRONS!!!

Crusher

2011-06-25T02:48:00.000-05:00

It was three weeks since our superfluous break up. After five years of greatness I kept expecting to smell her in the morning, taste her in the afternoon, and love her for the rest of our lives.

I lifted Crusher from the fish bowl. The slick turtle crept along my palm, too curious for its own good. Whether it was male or female didn’t matter; I respected its privacy. I stroked the armored back of the pleasantly dull reptile bastard, envying the thickness of the shell. I hoped my skin and soul would grow as malleable, but if I wasn’t feeling pain then what was the point of being human. God would have made me a turtle, and the dismay would have rocked the clouds because I wanted to be a Komodo dragon.

We wanted to still be together. Love wasn’t enough; it was only the beginning. Time, biology, and faith had betrayed us – so I believed at the time – but Crusher, Crusher kept on probing the surroundings, slowly, thoroughly, care freely.

She had her new life now. I had Crusher.

2011-06-17T00:36:00.001-05:00

Our Lady Peace can/could get as heavy as heavy as RageATM and as soft as bunnies skipping on clouds.

Circling Purple

2011-06-12T02:56:00.000-05:00

Circling him wound him down.

Typical if you’re fighting a larger opponent; or the closest thing to it.

Wisconsin was a good place to train, but it didn’t provide the sparring partners you were hoping for; and you know you can always rely on country-folk, but for whatever reason(s), that one time was an unfortunate bust; but the Canadian borders are consistently reliable.

The 2 a.m. flight took us back to Houston, and from there things got silly. Houston has always been kind to me. It’s a bit jittery for my taste, but once you grasp the heart inside your hands – I love Houston, particularly during Christmas-time. And the yearly purple.

Smart Zombie Zumba

2011-06-03T02:37:00.000-05:00

The zombies had evolved.

Fucking brilliant; they occupied the intelligence of whatever learning tissue existed on them from time of death to last slithery drop or crackling erosion.

We were individually strung with our arms folded across our chests, like straight jackets, hooked to a walking post across our backs. There was a three-piece zombie sentry carrying the bastard leading us to what I could have sworn was a soda machine, but towered with it was a blender quite capable of devouring a fully grown human being, with room for pets.

The fleshy outcomes drizzled, curved downward into the machine where it filled the bowl of the Smart Zombies’ queen. When filled, the bowl is hoisted onto Smart Zombie Drones’ shoulders, and the bowl is handed to Smart Zombie Queen so she might feed as heartily or lightly as she hoped. She still wanted to have a figure….yuh know...Something manageable.

Could always give Smart Zombie Zumba another try.

Whistling Jameson

2011-05-20T00:26:00.000-05:00

Whistling Jameson

1935 – 2007

Whistling loved the ice cream truck song. It reminded her of Daddy when he was the ice cream man for the town of Rollick. Whistling’s family lived about seven miles away in the neighboring town - Frisk. Daddy’d have to pass Memory Mounds Cemetery everyday on his way to Rollick and again heading back home.

World War II took Daddy away. Whistling didn’t get to know him well, but he had to go fight them Nazis “…so’s you, and Mom, and everyone we love can keep living our lives,” Mom always told Whistling, but what Whistling’s experiences with her father (that she can recall) were wonderful; even in her adulthood they inspired dreams. And Mother always assured Whistling that Daddy was a wonderful man.

Keepin' it Nappy

2011-05-20T00:01:00.000-05:00

The best listening times for this song are the hardest times. I’ve relied on this tune on several occasions, several days, and conscientiously I will get tired of it, but when I need either reassurance or just a plain ole reality check – I will be hearing this song.

Aaannnd we be keepin' it Nappy...

Honest Jealousy

2011-05-14T01:31:00.000-05:00

A senseless gesture interpreted

As a heartfelt contribution

To a conceived hostile unity

By an open-mind travelling for two

Down a one way road.

A flower in the hand,

Once believed to be an omen

Of better things to come,

But it wasn’t the first time,

Being in the wrong place

With the right smile.

---------------------------------

Currently jamming: Namie Amuro - Come

I used to awaken in the middle of the morning to this song - sometime betwixt 2:30 a.m. & 3 a.m. as the end-credits of Inuyasha rolled.

It still sounds lovely. .

The Magical Hooker of Swishpit

2011-04-26T23:36:00.000-05:00

Walking out of Lindsey’s was never an easy endeavor. If you made it past Whalin’ Jack and his pool-stick-leg of a thousand-and-one origin stories you had to deal with Big Hurt’s grabby hands, and she didn’t earn the name Big Hurt for her gentleness; she was Swishpit’s tri-county, bare-knuckle, walnut smashing champion.

Tonight, however, I was prepared. I had Leslie poor Whalin’ Jack a shot of his favorite rum and serve it to him just as we were about to cross paths, and I distracted Big Hurt by pointing to the television and yelling LUMBERJACK TOURNAMENT. I felt slightly disingenuous for about three seconds but rejoiced when I opened the bar door and walked out with pain-free-soon-to-be-numb testicles.

With a sigh of relief and a cheerful buzz I travelled homeward down the pavement. Shortly thereafter I stumbled past a prostitute. Typically, I offer no interest in these women. While holding no qualms against their profession, being the mayor’s speech writer I didn’t care to be incidentally caught on a camera phone somewhere and splayed on a social website. I wasn’t one of the people in the spotlight but I was responsible in part for the upkeep of the mayor’s image, and me being caught pain-free-testicles-deep inside a streetwalker wasn’t the best way of honoring my duties. Especially if I wasn’t even shit-pants-hammered or wigging out on a bad batch of LSD; if I were to be caught sober or just slightly buzzed (as I was that evening) – not only was I going to be seen as a deviant, but a sociopathic deviant as well. No thank you.

After a couple of hours of rough sex and good weed behind closed curtains and depowered cell phones, I paid her and sent her away from my apartment, and then showered.

I wasn’t sure what had famished me more, the sex or the weed, but my stomach growled. The weed’s effects reminded me to get a blood test within the next few days. The fridge was nearly barren as I’d been avoiding the market during its pique busy hours. I preferred to shop early in the morning or late after hours to avoid crowds.

My stomach gargled again – blood test – and rejoiced I was to find a batch of apples in the crisper. I grabbed the peanut butter jar and proceeded to spread its contents on to the apple. I took a bight, embracing the crunchy, cold, creamy goodness of it all and as I was about to spread more peanut butter on to the ripe red fruit the ripe red bitten fruit turned to gold.

Timidly curious, but still hungry – blood test - I grabbed another apple from the bag, but after about a minute of passing it from hand to hand there was no transformation. I even spread peanut butter on it, but I wound up with only sticky hands and a stomach demanding more food – blood test. I bit into this latest apple, and that was the key. Instantly the partially consumed apple turned into gold. I bit into another new apple and the same reaction occurred, although momentarily I was disheartened because this most likely meant that I could no longer eat apples, and I enjoyed them quite a bit – sweet ones, sour ones, bitter ones, the ones we made into bongs at office parties, staff meetings, and speech writing sessions.

Sure enough, after a few days of testing out this bizarre gift of turning used apples into gold I discovered I was cut off from consuming a full apple as the gift didn’t apply to any other fruits or foods that I ate, but I was unsure if this gift was a permanent one. At night I walked past the block where I met the Magic Bearing Hooker, but I never saw her again and there were dozens of sleepless nights that were filled with questions, questions about why I was granted this unusual ability: What happened to that hooker? And did all hookers grant magic powers? Should I pick up the next one I happened upon? Although I didn’t want to be barred from eating any other food that I liked, so I decided to allow that last one to play out on its own.

What I did do, I amassed a small fortune quickly and quietly. I began selling these golden specimens as art pieces to the filthiest of the rich; even sold some of the bong-fashioned-apples to several empire established musicians and well known authors.

Despite having all of this money, I continued working for the mayor’s office. Life without purpose was far too boring for someone like me, but I was looking forward to disappearing from society. I never cared for any kind of spotlight, positive or negative, and thanks to a generous, magical hooker, my dream of anonymity was to come true. Thank you, Magical Hooker. Thank you, hookers everywhere.

2011-04-23T18:50:00.000-05:00

Something new I learned this week – New Zealand is void of any reptiles. What I found to be even more than most interesting was the bullheaded fortitude of one of New Zealand’s most aggressive predators – the Longfin Eel, native to New Zealand and most recently introduced to the southern parts of Australia.

The Longfin Eel, I find to be, a remarkable animal. It can live in absolute darkness, bottom feeding in the deepest lake of New Zealand, Lake Hauroko, and still slither-swim its way towards the shallow ends of New Zealand lakes undeterred by the presence of other predators or even humans. These creatures can sense a blood within a 2-mile radius which makes them prospective eaters in concurrence with being omnivorous eaters.

There have been tales & factual accounts of these Longfin Eels feasting upon other eels and even human beings, and it is the way that these creatures feed on larger prey that excites me and forces me to respect them so much.

Longfin eels grow up to an average of five to six feet, there are records of as up to eight feet, which are rarer than most – but if they are to grow to such a size they require the proper nutrition, and that is unachievable by feeding off of bottom dwellers and herbivores. These eels are highly capable of feasting on larger victims, and it is their method that I found most intriguing.

A Longfin Eell has several rows of hundreds of back-curved teeth, which allow not only instant penetration beneath the flesh but also an instant snag – and since these creatures can swim backwards as equally as well as they do forwards, they are more than capable of dragging an unsuspecting meal through the water.

Once they have established their toothy grasp, the excitement begins. While pinching down on their meal’s flesh they violently rotate their bodies, much like a power drill, tearing chunks of meat from their captive, and don’t think that these eels are alone for too long because they travel in packs, and once blood hits anywhere near their dwellings – a swarm of Longfin Eels are soon gorging upon a newly made carcass.

Bloody awesome.

Midnight Nature

2011-04-15T00:18:00.000-05:00

It’s funny whom you meet close to midnight. I’m more accustomed to midnight and after, still working out the kinks for this stuff.

Proof that I am a force of nature: I returned from a walk around the trail betwixt eleven and half- past-midnight and lounged my homebound steps right into the company of an unknowing black cat.

I crossed its path.

The eyes widened, eyes as dark as its fur, and it sprinted towards the neighbors yard, leaping the fence right into their backyard where it provided their two Pit Bulls something to claw.

Following Perfection

2011-04-13T22:39:00.000-05:00

There is project I’ve been trying to get off the ground for a few years now, and by a few years I mean the last fifteen. However, work schedules, deadlines, and other more lucrative projects have kept me from delving deeper into this half-planned creation, but behind all of that is a single, nearest-to-perfect entity that has kept me from pulling the trigger.

Being a lifelong horror fan, I have been fascinated with the gothic arts. The finely detailed architecture suitable for death by impalement, the reality bending, orgy flexing mythology, and the depressing, rage inducing music that can make its listener cut themselves dozens of times over before fornicating with a bat in hopes of contracting rabies and herpes so as to leave a lasting message to both animals and people.

Mostly, I’ve been fascinated with gargoyles, which is the basis for this project that has been hibernating in my long list of untouched/unfinished works. I have no qualms with telling a story that’s already been told because honestly, every possible story has been told – murder, love, greed, satire, comedy – they’ve all been done, just with different twists and alternate takes but deep down they’re all the same stories.

The reason, though, that I keep pushing this gargoyle tale to the backburner is because of Greg Weisman. Greg Weisman is the creator and writer of the animated series Gargoyles from Disney. He was also a writer and producer for the short-lived (and equally excellent) Spectacular Spiderman on the WB network.

I was fortunate enough to catch this show on its premiere one weekday afternoon and instantly I was a fan. The story was melodramatic, the characters were layered and complex, the animation was groundbreaking and breathtaking, and most importantly there were damn good stories being told - too damn good. I never attempted a gargoyles tale of my own until about five years after the show was cancelled and yet all I could still do was compare it to the excellence of Greg Weisman’s Gargoyles. Within the stories, which were very human, Weisman wove in all kinds of mythology from across the globe; from Shakespeare’s creations to Native American symbolic rituals to plain old urban legends, and he was able to make it all make sense and serve a purpose to forward the development of the story and its characters and to this day I still return to it for inspiration or to simply be entertained.

Gargoyles even stirred my current love/hate relationship with comic books as the story from the tv series was continued in a series written by Weisman and published by Slave Labor Graphics.

Last night, I began to explore the world in which my own gargoyle tale would be taking place. I know that any gargoyle epic will instantly and forever be compared to Greg Weisman’s Gargoyles. It set a standard for those of us that prefer working in this genre, and if anyone is to comment that my stories are similar to Greg Weisman’s own gargoyles mythology, I must say I am flattered.

Thank you, Greg Weisman. And damn you for being so good at what you do.

Strange Chew

2011-04-09T00:44:00.000-05:00

Chewing and chewing, sometimes it’s the next best thing to fornicating – not that the former doesn’t happen during the latter.

The past, I could care less about – I have no qualms, no quarrels, questions, nor quandaries about it. I lived it. I was there. It was boring then, needing to question it is boring now.

Sometimes it's best to not know. Sometimes control means detachment. Always, honor has consequences.

It's a bitch.

SchizOld Lady

2011-04-08T00:33:00.002-05:00

I sensed the soul of my brother prior to his conception. At first, I thought it was the toddler version of spit-up, and then it presented itself as bodily gas before revealing itself to be a singular mental ward associated with pure evil.

That was the night I chose to never sleep again.

The crib was never a place for sleeping, the house was never a place for living; the sun was never for seeing. The night is my fully armed hammock, offering endless comfort, neighborhood accessibility, and volatile projectile trajectory.

The old lady talked to herself. Occasionally the three of us shared a conversation, but we each had our own agendas. All of them ended in gunfire.

Hazing a Moth

2011-04-08T00:28:00.000-05:00

What the hell were we talking about outside? It was something significant; I think we even fit sports into the picture.

My Nuggets keep rooollin’. Hope the Spurs finally fixed the kinks in their Tejas Voodoo.

I don’t regret my upbringing. Its wickedness accentuates its awesomeness.

The doctor loves my insurance. Yet, it’s the best conversations I’ve had in a multitude of months.

Certain people get worried when they feel the wind between their teeth. Certain people think breathing is easier without teeth blocking all of that potential vacuuming space, could probably discombobulate a moth if you really tried.

An Abundance of Moose

2011-04-02T23:19:00.000-06:00

In regards to social commentary and caring my interests are few, but time after time I find it necessary to be informed. Strangers seem to think I’m approachable, acquaintances feel like they know me; I feel the need to be informed, particularly for business situations.

I don’t care for small talk. I know there are decent folks in this world; it doesn’t mean I have to chit chat with them. I’m a conversationalist in an explorer’s sense. I like picking peoples’ brains, exchanging conflicting views while solidifying a guaranteed drunken experience, and whether it ends in bloodshed or not is irrelevant; how much fun we had that night as individuals with similar views, some conflicting opinions, and mouths that never go dry until the hangover kicks in. With small talk, the evening usually ends with the air raid alarm sounding while explosions bombard the city as I’m roaming throughout the catastrophic neighborhood with my hands dutifully throttling someone whom I’ve made my own personal squeaky toy. I still get a kick from watching their eyes bulge from their sockets whenever I forcefully squeeze.

Business is business.

Yet, to progress in this state of humanity one must be prepared for idle chatter. Slightly gone is the appreciation for courtesy silence. It’s the kind one can find now only while traveling on an elevator or perhaps a capacities-full escalator, even in a movie theater. Keep your conversations to yourselves, although being completely alone and still dictating a conversation will throw general onlookers off. The best part of it all though is that they’ll leave you alone, naturally because they think you’re one body away from being considered a mass murderer. In actuality, alienating the general public sometimes becomes an evolving art.

Politics, social media, forms of entertainment; just a few categories that I stay up to date on not because I care about these things but because I know people are going to want to discuss these things before I can seclude in my own private world where none of those things matter because they have no bearing on my survival or my loved ones’ survival, and rarely do socially conscientious subjects enlighten me in the ways of eliminating negativity because most of the societal seeds that have been planted were spawned from negativity, particularly on the internet – so much downtrodden personal aspects and wasted negativity located all over that technological whirlwind.

If only assisted suicide by Skype would begin trending; that’s when I’d be tempted to begin acquiring computer hacking skills. There’s an ornery moose in Wyoming that is well aware of my other hacking skills.

Shit On Your Windshield

2011-03-25T23:12:00.000-06:00

Currently jamming...

Lines get thinner, thicker, crooked; each one an intimate, painful crackling scream by the city, but humankind doesn’t feel it and wouldn’t recognize it until it shivered a bird fiercely enough causing it to shit on humankind’s car’s hood; and in better cases the windshield.

Those lines define relationships between us. It defines what is a friend, an associate, a confidante, the endlessly endearing acquaintance; a stranger, and a stalker.

Television is usually the last media on my mind, mind you I rarely watch it but the noise is priceless. I need noise, that’s why I keep a television. I have music, music instruments, headphones, things that are more dangerous when shattered, and things that purely go BOOM.

The neighbor-baby shrieked. It bellowed a handful’s more. One of the cars left the house, Neighbor Baby occasionally screeching now, but occasionally, harmoniously grunting. Silence settled for an impressive amount of time, even long enough for the missionary car to return home just in time for them to continue being a family – if they choose.

Potential Dismemberments

2011-03-19T18:25:00.002-06:00

I never craved the taste of raw flesh until that Soilwork concert in Croatia. That entire summer I drowned my urges beneath my subconscious, but when she and I were out in that gigantic crowd; embracing the pulverizing energy on display I couldn’t help myself.

We danced, we grinded body-on-body, but when she turned to kiss me on the cheek goodnight I lunged for the back part of her neck, bit oh so delectably in and tore out her life. I gnawed on her beefy torso chunk, sucking down the bitter-tasting life-force while she slumped downward through my arms.

She stopped clawing at me once her head met my chest and her arms spiraled down my own like raindrops downside a windshield. For several minutes I stared at her lifeless body, and it no longer interested me. My attention could focus only on the jumping, breathing, heart-beating bodies that remained, which made my stomach churn; not because it hungered but rather because it was full, it was pleased.

I never looked into anyone else’s eyes in the crowd afterwards because I didn’t want to remember any potential dismemberments; I only wanted to taste them.

Accepting Success

2011-03-11T01:25:00.000-06:00

Success is earned. Quite true, success is indeed earned; yet, strangely enough, success must also be accepted – accepted by the individual, by society; by anyone capable of thinking.

I could plant a Cerebral Palsy patient to witness air hockey, and even that twisted cat would find one reason or another to say about a contestant, “This dude sucks.”

Millions of novels have been written, and there are more unread novels in the world than there are price-tagged ones. And while they may follow the path of a dying breed, they also follow a survivor’s path.

There are people in the real world that love to turn a page; written word will never die, it’ll just get digitized while continuing homogenization, paving the way for continued newness; but we'll still be bored, mainly because Destiny hasn't presented itself and Fate hasn't killed us. But we still choose to walk that numbered middle trail; the one that stretches from six o' clock to twelve-thirty, nine-fifteen to three-fortyfive, and two names for every six. Some people are addicted to it.

Success has more than two names. Success always beats the clock.

Abused Industries

2011-03-02T23:40:00.002-06:00

The coffee was bland enough for me to believe that no one has pissed in the pot yet; didn’t mean I was still disease-free. Keechy’s is a unique diner, but it’s centrally located in a city where progress had long since passed, and it has a bathroom where the sink is an extra urinal.

I popped a synaptic enhancer so I could make a call. It was cherry flavored this month. The appointment to see my bio-enhancement therapist was still on. I really didn’t need it but it’s required after every individual procedure. Even though the capabilities for engaging in bio-enhancement have been widely available for over a decade, people are still people and every one of them reacts differently.

Although, mostly everyone forgets that bio-enhancement began as an underground fetish movement in dank garages and rickety tool sheds all across the Northeast. But once Hollywood accepted it – yet another revolution was abused and sold for spare parts.

Surfing Blurs

2011-02-28T22:57:00.000-06:00

Surfed the expressway on my way home, relived the blurs.
I went looking for it this time.
I hadn't driven that way since after going mutually oral in the university parking lot with Shaileen.
I smoked a clove that day,
Drinking a coffee,
The bittersweet aromas lifted the elation; she was that damn good.
We blurred.
I was tired of driving,
It was time to surf again.
Surfing brings back blurs.

Responsibility in Action

2011-02-25T23:45:00.002-06:00

I had never experienced anything like that avalanche. Watching brothers dash their heads past the sheltered hut, losing their lives; all pointless.

Luckily, the rendezvous was buzzing a-plenty. We had taken the daily opportunity to invite every single, potentially lesbian female throughout the base to this shindig.

Making out with a Lieutenant isn’t everything it should be. Sometimes they’re better, even worse; but rarely are they dull; so I have only high-octane explosives to think about.

The ocean’s THAT way….

Smelly Digits

2011-02-24T23:30:00.000-06:00

Enjoy this. .....

Whilst you read this....

I didn’t feel like cheering for the Knicks. The Melo trade didn’t burn much because it became inevitable, but when I found out Chauncey Billups was going as well – DAMN.

Denver’s win was a proud one last night.

Bulls beat dem Heat. AROOH! Deng backed it up tonight.

Watched Big Willie’s Hancock – see what I did there – really enjoyed it.

Exchanged conversation with a recognized number, but oblivious to the name. I’d lost the number in a swimming pool during the summer.

YES, you are all numbers to me.

Picked up Dylan Dog Casefiles...the movie made me do it. It's Buffyd up, but I'm still watching it; am also wondering which story to read next. I'm non-fictioned out, could use some make-believe now.

Now leave, you smelly, meaty digits, got Regular Show to watch. Do not deny yourself the greatness of Regular Show....

....numerous numerical bastards.

The Thrill of the Hunt

2011-02-10T00:09:00.001-06:00

Before instant gratification through mass media, internet, and downloading, there was the treacherous, dismal, forced association prison known as high school. Throughout these years I was blessed to be surrounded by some of the best friends I had ever known. We all took pleasure in different genres of music and respected everyone’s own personal musical abilities and all around intelligence, although some of us chose to shadow our skills and our smarts when an outsider disrupted our circle.

Another musical commonality we shared was our passion for the underground. The undiscovered, the unaired, and the unheard of bands of that time, and with this being the mid-nineties the stuff we preferred hearing was harder to find than a car phone.

One of the hardest records to find was Racer X’s Second Heat (and to a lesser extent, Extreme Live: Volume 1 of their two live albums).

The internet was about to boom in a few years but back then, one could only find these rare and precious gems through magazines, record stores, and other personal collectors who usually took out ads in the rock magazines.

On the easily available Extreme Live Volume 2 was a song called Heart of a Lion. That turned out to be a Judas Priest song that Racer X had covered, but Jimmy being the biggest Judas Priest freak was clueless as to which album this song existed. We searched every one of our known resources, mainly other collectors and more magazines, but we were without luck in finding the song but did discover an older Judas Priest album that Jimmy didn’t own – Rock & Rolla.

Hastily, Jimmy ordered the album, and while it was a good one, Heart of a Lion was nowhere to be found. We felt betrayed; we felt nearly raped and splayed for the entire world to stare and laugh at our hapless high school doinks.

Neither of us was sure if this song was even on Racer X’s Second Heat album, but it was our mission to find out. Racer X Had released only four albums at that time – two studios and two live albums.

Monthly, we scoured the rock and metal magazines in hopes of finding Second Heat in the back-catalogues sections, and monthly the ad that contained the album for purchase always read “SOLD OUT”, and whenever we tried ordering it through the record stores the clerk would tell us it was out of print.

Our disappointment wasn’t so enraged that we wanted to thrash the record store clerks because they were actually very cool individuals who usually praised us for listening outside of the norm, so we would enact our primal anger on our musical instruments because, quite frankly anyone could kick our asses back then.

On a fateful trip to San Antonio, or maybe Houston, or perhaps even Florida – Jimmy and I were two grumpy-go-happy teens wandering a mall that was bigger than the neighborhoods either of us lived in when inside a record store Jimmy cried the elated rocker’s cry – “Duuuude!!”

Racer X – Second Heat, Track 6: Heart of a Lion. And, that’s right; ON CASSETTE.

In accordance with our group’s unwritten law, the first one to find it was the one honored in buying it, unless they were broke; then usually all bets were off and it was first come first serve, but we were all typically broke anyway so the law usually stood firm. But Jimmy did have the funds on him and we both quickly rushed to counter for him to make the purchase.

But our mission was not yet over. As soon as Jimmy bought it we tore the packaging like vultures through a rotting vagabond’s corpse in an Australian desert. Jimmy opened the cassette case and flipped through the cassette jacket. The bi-lines informed us that Heart of a Lion was originally set for release on Judas Priest’s Defenders of the Faith album but remained unreleased. It was a thrilling dead end conclusion.

I love technology, but I don’t put my faith in it, and I don’t have too much fun with it; and while I do enjoy immediate knowledge at my fingertips and having the capabilities of locating any album that I choose to, technology will never replace the thrill of the hunt. There’s just something invigorating about the feeling of disappointment, the agony of a fruitless pursuit, and the excitement of browsing a room’s entertainment offerings and finally unearthing that lost treasure, that priceless gem that you know you will covet and cherish as a unique conversation piece.

Fuck you internet. Fuck you and goodnight.

New Tunes and Some Sickness

2011-02-08T00:42:00.000-06:00

I am currently perousing through my newly acquired Dagoba albums; a French metal-industrial-very damn heavy band introduced to me by a friend. They're definitely one of the better new headcrushers that I've heard in quite a long time, fusing the ambient electronics with the soul-stomping riffs while the vocals aren't the average, instant growl-to-melodic transition. The singer likes to experiemnt in between while basing the foundations of the vocal melody on either ends of the extreme.

I am also battling a virus that I probably brought on to myself during a four day "happy juice" binge. It crept up on me, and before I knew it I was 3 days into editing my book, 2 bottles down (not to mention the drinks consumed during the friendly outings in between), and 5 drawings done. I wondered why I stopped but then I recalled the chunk of meat inside my chest called a "heart" that was ready to explode. Even now with every hacking cough I feel my chest tighten, like it wants my chest cavity to develop fault lines.

The book I'm editing is still my Parrish character and his band of night club and noire misfits, but I'm ready to start working on my Drunken Monk concept. Maybe this last weekend was a subconscious soul searching tool, hoping to inspire ideas for the Drunken Monk story. And if it wasn't, too bad because that's what happened.