“A boy’s best friend is his mother.”

Since last we spoke I’ve graduated college and made some steps towards a big change in my life… blah blah blah. Many would see this as a leap and/or bound into getting older, but I see it as a transition into a blog entry that people may actually give a shit about: Modern Day Horror.

Back when film was black and white, CGI was probably a term for an intestinal disorder, and you could get away with beating your wife, horror movies were much more simple. The dashing leading man on the silver screen fought actors in rubber suits or giant insects superimposed against some city skyline, so as to save whichever blonde love interest that was in harms way. It’s not to say that alterations of this formula aren’t still rampant today, but Hollywood mass produced these projects left, right, and center back then. Actors fought fantasy creatures in film, not real monsters. In 1960 that changed forever.

Alfred Hitchcock brought real life horror to the nuclear family. Adapting Robert Bloch’s novel Psycho, Hitchcock introduced an onscreen villain that we’ve all lived next door to. Anthony Perkins played Norman Bates, the soft spoken and polite owner of the Bates Motel, embodying that awkward individual that we have small talk with every so often. The true to life inspiration for the character of Norman comes from Ed Gein, the Midwest serial killer that gained notoriety in the late 1950′s. A grave robber who eventually murdered two women, Gein’s house was investigated by police, where a grocery list of preserved human remains were found. Ed Gein also went on to inspire other famous cinema killers like Leatherface (The Texas Chainsaw Massacre) and Buffalo Bill (The Silence of the Lambs).

Psycho had a disturbed man dressing up like his dead mother, mentally becoming the deceased woman, and knifing people that were seen as threats to Norman. That’s demented, but today if that was the big scoop on the 5 o’clock news you’d probably make some offhand remark, then go back to eating your Bugles. And if you read a synopsis like that on your Netflix instant watch, it’d probably come on as something to fall asleep to after the bars, but in 1960? Holy shit, no one could shrug something like that off. This was a piece of film that was set in reality with a stranger than fiction appeal. And what was the big kick in the dick for the movie going audience? The main character of Marion Crane played by Janet Leigh (Jamie Lee Curtis’ mom for those uninformed) gets some knife love halfway through the picture. Yes, central characters had died in films prior to Psycho, but it was typically at the end of the film after they’ve gone through their complete characters arc. Here we have a broad who has run off with a bunch of money that isn’t hers, is waiting for the next step in her plan, and as the audience is waiting along with her she is stabbed relentlessly by a lunatic. After this moment in cinema history nothing was sacred.

Horror has a way of reflecting what’s going on in the world and how we as humans choose to deal with it. I’d go into further detail but the documentary Decade of Darkness (it’s in three parts) tackles this topic much better than I’m willing to (I got some drinking to get to). What I can say is that Psycho pulled a Jack Torrance and chopped down the door on what can be expected from a horror movie or just film in general. Norman Bates transvestite driven slayings paved the way for the satanic shenanigans of rabies fueled raunchiness in I Drink Your Blood or the psychedelic rabbit hole/mindfuck that is Jacob’s Ladder. Psycho gave directors a new perspective on what can be a truly frightening experience in film and the lasting effects it can have on the psyche of the audience. Psycho forced you to keep an open eye in the shower, Jaws made you wary of open water, and The Hitcher asked you to think twice before picking up a stranger.

What I’m trying to get at is how a lot of horror is grounded in reality these days, which can be directly attributed to Hitchcock’s arguable opus (it’s actually Rear Window if you were wondering). All this jabbering the last few years about “torture porn” is a big part of this topic. It’s just a matter of relabeling a trend in film that is nothing new: Exploitation… but that’s a topic for another day. The most recent movie that can thank Psycho is Kevin Smith’s Red State.

A direct attack on the Westboro Baptist Church (can you fucking believe their website is www.godhatesfags.com ?), which opens like a moderate teen sex comedy, but quickly settles into the dark recesses of religious extremism. It reflects on a group of hatemongers run by one Abin Cooper (Michael Parks deserving a gosh damn award for his role) that believe killing the human “insects” of the world is a righteous act that God is asking of them. Besides the obvious correlations with the protesting of military funerals, there’s incidents like the murder of Matthew Shepard, bombing of abortion clinics, and other tragedies to remind the audience that this is a work of fiction, but it’s eerily close to the real thing. Red State is a lot like the twisted half-sibling of The Devil’s Rejects: they both had a fucked upbringing, just they came out of different wombs.

I think I’m realizing that I really didn’t wanna get all deductive with this post here, but instead just wanted for anyone reading this to go watch the movies I mentioned. I’ve been finding out over the years that a decent amount of people don’t know the twist in Psycho. That honestly baffles me. It’s like not knowing that Vader is Luke’s dad or that Andy Dick is gay. Huh…

Anyway, I hope to breath and/or hump some new life into this online archive of my words and rants, so let’s hope it gets better than the work I did here. How about I make up for it with a pin-up of Marli Renfro?

She was the body double for Janet Leigh’s shower scene in Psycho and was the cover girl for the September, 1960 issue of Playboy. I think she’s foxy.

“I threw a bunch of Grandpa Chip’s war medals off the bridge.”

You see, when I was a kid Star Wars life.  I’d sit cross-legged in my bedroom racing my speeder bike around the room until Chewie would pop out of the “underbrush”/stray clothes draped over my chair and take out the enemy with a well placed shot from his bowcaster blaster.  Eventually my favorite Wookie would jump into the landspeeder (first Star Wars toy I ever got) and race off to whatever adventure I thought up for him next.  All those toys are boxed up in my parents attic now.

Remember Bubblicious?  Watermelon was my favorite.  It was harder than Hell to fight the urge to swallow a piece when I’d be only seven chews in at the least.  My house is a couple miles out of town back in Rainier, so if I wanted Bubblicious of the watermelon variety I’d have to bike in and lay out some hard earned weekly allowance.  Walking out of the market with that treasure that takes seven years to digest, I’d never tear at the annoying wrapper barricading me from what I wanted.  No sir, I surgically picked at the little tabs and exposed it to the world before popping it in the direction of my chompers.  Now gum is nothing more than an item used when I forget to brush my teeth in the morning.

When in the fuck did I grow up?  What happened to chopped up hot dogs being gourmet food?  Why can’t I get out of bed before 9 o’clock and be excited for something, when I used to be dressed, bowl of cereal in my lap, and cartoons bombarding my eyes all before 7:01 in the AM?  Where’s that urge to go out in the woods just for the sake of going out in the foods?  Shit.

Sitting on top of my toilet is the Calvin & Hobbes Tenth Anniversary Book, which I’ve had for years.  I flipped through it when I was younger, but it didn’t feature any new material, thus it was never read.  Now I’ve been going through it and ingesting all the commentary Bill Waterson has to offer.  A lot of the writing has to deal with childhood and how it can be scary, enlightening, but most importantly new.  Everything when you were young was new to you, at least at one point and time.  Perfect example:  the zoo.  Animals you may have only seen in photographs are now walking, breathing, and eating right in front of you.  The Point Defiance Zoo & Aquarium was my first zoo and I can never forget the sharks.  Their big tank had a dimly lit viewing area with the giant wall of glass and numbers of sleek killers only feet away.  I knew the glass wasn’t strong enough and I KNEW if I got too close one of those Jaws Jr. may come at me and that would be that.  It’s been years since my last zoo trip and it’s a bummer wondering why.

Calvin and Hobbes bestow this energy of being young, dumb, and full of fun.  Those books follow two characters that can never get old and diluted by the evil world that never seems to seep into their shenanigans.  God, I’m jealous of that.  My best friend Chris Carson and I used to mad dash down my gravel driveway in the riding lawnmower, just like Calvin and Hobbes in their red wagon.  We’d attach the black metal trailer to the hitch on the mower, drive it to the top of my slopped driveway, kill the engine, crank it into neutral, and hope the exponential building of inertia didn’t send us into a patch of brambles.  Now whenever I see Chris we typically end up getting drunk as sin and he gets all salty towards randoms keeping an eye out for a fight.  We’ve grown up, but still attempt to dumb ourselves down to reckless kids.

So what am I trying to get at here?  Unless you lucked out and don’t have to work most days out of the week, but still can support yourself and all your addictions (come on man, you’re not kidding anyone), you’re probably worrying yourself with a bunch of “adult bullshit” that shouldn’t be your main concern(s).  Why not play with some LEGOs?  You know you wanna.  Get a game of kickball going.  Make sure you bring an extra ball because those damn balls aren’t as strong as they used to be.  Once the weather gets warm I’m gonna be out throwing water balloons like a motherfucker.  And you can bet your ass that you will not be safe from my watery wrath.

I turned twenty-five this last December and some how survived a quarter of a century.  I liked to think that I haven’t lost my dinosaur.

“The point is don’t lose your dinosaur.”

“I don’t collect comics! Comics are for kids!”

I have a problem.  This problem/addiction costs me a lot of money.  For some their paychecks go to hard drugs, loose women, or sex toys that look like President Obama.  When it comes to me laying down hard earned cash for something that I wish I could stop (but just can’t) it has got to be comics.

Every Wednesday I walk the two blocks to Central City Comics and pick up my pull for the week.  This last Wednesday I snagged something random propped amongst the titles with big guns, big tits, and big pecks.

Orc Stain is one solid comic overflowing with refreshing art and a decent opening to a story which can only be described as metal with a pinch of heart.  For a million millenia the world has dealt with the constant violence and general disorder that warring factions of Orc tribes have inflicted.  Like clockwork these beasts turn on their own in order to be the next head honcho, thus no true progress is truly made amongst Orc-kind.  Here’s where an orgasm inducing guitar solo sweeps through the sweaty jungles and the Orctzar comes into the picture.  This cheiftan unites all of his fellow brothers in order to conquer the “older races” who have been able to fend off the stain of the Orc.

The other character we’re introduced to is One Eye, who the Orctzar is told he much search out in order to gain his “prize”.  One Eye never bought into the whole idea of welding weapons and setting to slaughter just to make a name for himself; no profit in it.  He instead puts to use his trusty ball bean hammer and sticks to cracking safes.  Whoda’ thunk Orcs had any skills besides storming the gates of Helms Deep?

James Stokoe is the name behind this project.  I don’t know much about him besides his skills in drawing, writing, and coloring the whole package.  One of my favorites in comics is Eric Powell who has the same MO, which garners a bottomless amount of respect from this kid here.  All that means is that I’ll be keeping my eye on Mr. Stokoe.

This is a recommendation for anyone who knows all the lyrics to the Metalocalypse theme song, saw their first animated boobs from Heavy Metal, or wishes Dio was their uncle.  I got a lot of hope for this new read as should you, so scrounge up $2.99, go talk to Gus Foster at CCC, and pick it up.  Reading comics isn’t just for kids, it’s for kids who are fucking awesome.

“Yeah, be rational, sure. I’m a fucking werewolf, for Christ’s sake!”

A few years back I found myself drinking in Seattle with some friends.  We were at the old Cha-Cha before it had to move up the block to make room for all the lovely condos they’ve been putting in the place of buildings with actual character.  A pounder of Rainier and some well whiskey sat in front of me as my ears perked up from another conversation mingling about the room.

“Horror movies never win Academy Awards.”  This is where I got surly.

I leaned back in my chair and apologized for eavesdropping – even though I didn’t mean it – and asked the fellow if he was serious.  He stood by his guns and I shot into my diatribe.  I asked him about The Exorcist (Best Writing and Sound) and he told me “that one doesn’t count”.  My face went blank and I became very confused, but I kept going.  How about Jaws (Best Sound, Film Editing, and Score)?  ”I dunno if I’d call that a ‘horror’ movie.”  A thirty foot long great white is devouring people and only three men can stop it.  I seriously wanted to smack this hiptser piece of shit on the spot, but I held back.  My last attack was the most obvious and closest to my heart:  An American Werewolf In London (Best Makeup).

Now here it comes people.  I kid you not, this is what the fucking guy said to me:  ”That’s not a horror movie.”  At this point in the evening I had a good lot of booze in me and my patience for dumb people was dwindling, so I may have overreacted a little… if I considered this guy a real person, but he was an imbecile with a bad haircut; fuck ‘um.

“The title of the movie has the word ‘werewolf’ in it.  How can that not be considered a horror movie?  Are you a fucking idiot?  Seriously, are you a fucking idiot.”  At this point our friendly discussion was over and I’m pretty sure no one wanted to talk to me after that.  So if you haven’t gotten the picture yet, I hate hipsters and An American Werewolf In London is my favorite movie.

1981 is consider the “year of the wolf” to many horror buffs.  In the same year An American Werewolf In London, The Howling, and Wolfen were released.  Buy the first and watch it habitually, rent the second just to see some werewolf sex (no joke), and skip the third because they turn into actual wolves, which is stupid.

Now I can’t remember my first showing of American Werewolf, but it was probably around the middle school years.  It’s one of those movies that hits many cues within many genres, but never oveflowing them so as to ruin it as a horror film.  The comedy and romance sets the film into its own criteria because they aren’t happy accidents in the story or chalked up to schlock; they’re there and with purpose.  These facets alone left me so content once the film was over and held that quality which makes a movie watchable over and over again.

Two buddies go backpacking through Europe after graduating high school; let the fun begin.  It’s a simple equation that easily leads a narrative in any direction.  Thus, if it ain’t broken, don’t fix it.  David (David Naughton) and Jack (Griffin Dunne) move from a successful stint of hitchiking to hoofing it through the moores of England as the film opens.  They talk about the “love” of Jack’s life who won’t put out because she likes him too much:  Debbie Klein.  Here we got two walking boners on a three month stint in a foreign country and we already know these guys.  They’re the two who always get too drunk at a party or the pair that both pitch in on their very own go-kart; two dorks that no matter how hard you try you’ll always be friends with them.

I hate reading a review of a movie or book that tells all the good parts and pulls what I like to call a “Jan” so I’m gonna skip on that here and just run through what you need to know:  werwolves.  Honestly, who doesn’t love those little critters?  Just your normal schmuck for the majority of the month until the Moon is complete.  After a little skeletal separation/mutation, skin stretching in unnatural ways, and a fuckload of hair growth all over the body, we get something that is almost as scary as a shider.  Thinking about it now, werewolves are easily the coolest of all the monsters.  Yeah, everyone is loving on vampires and zombies now, but blood-suckers are either too cool or gay for their own good and the living dead?  ”Have you ever talked to a corpse?  It’s boring.”  Werewolves are a good introspection on what man would be if we didn’t have our nice suits, cellular telephones, or morals.  Only important matter is to survive and you only need to do two things in order for that:  kill and eat.  Keep it simple, stupid.

Here’s a photo of Nurse Price (Jenny Agutter) that does nothing more than make my day much better.

And before I go off to do something else, I’d love to share with all of you my second favorite lycanthrope movie that will always nip/slash at the heels of Werewolf:

I caught this at my virgin outing for All Freakin’ Night.  The ingredients:  British soldiers, werewolves, and automatic weapons.  You really only need a drink in your hand to make it any better.  Oh wait, look what I found.  I’d say a good lot have seen The Descent which is what director Neil Marshall birthed after Dog Soldiers.  The man does work even the Boogeyman wishes he could do, which is make amazing macabre and still scare the shit out someone in this day and age; “Hey, brah, check out this gnar clip of this dude getting hit by a car.”  Besides, these beasts don’t glitter in the sun or resemble shirtless Lou Diamond Phillips or do whatever the Hell they do in New Moon.

“It’s the hour of the wolf and I don’t want to die.”

“A quarter million years as a human stain.”

The opening of Dangers new album “Messy, Isn’t It?” is the track “Stay-At-Home Mom“.  It paints a picture of a mother that has “served her purpose” in the world:  she’s birthed a child, raised it, and now he no longer needs her.  The song screams the question, “Why didn’t you kill yourself today?”  Lemme explain further before you shoot the judging eye at me or the band.

“What cross, what coupon, what cathode ray
Put the joie de vivre in your diseased heart?”

Even though I got beef with the French, the use of it in this song sprinkles some beauty (yeah, it can “sound” pretty every once in a while) over exclamations of anger and distaste.  ”Keen or buoyant enjoyment of life” is what “joie de vivre” translates to and that lovely question is proposed because this “mosh pit son” – us stupid kids – have ruined this woman.  Someone who had near limitless options to what could happen in their life, one option stole them all away: a child.

“See, I know your children
Because I’ve been your children
And us children, hopeful children
Ain’t worth the stretch marks baby.
‘Cause we may sing these songs of protest,
Cast our ballots, too
Forgo meat and
Ride our bikes and
Get our band’s stupid tattoo
But it means nothing,
Nothing,
When we get eaten by the sun.”

We’re fucked and it’s as simple as that.  Our planet is falling apart from the inside out and we’ve pretty much set out our lawn chairs to watch it all happen in comfort with a tepid can of Bud Light in hand.  As children are snatched away from their families, force fed drugs, and told to kill the enemy with an AK-47, we’re Tivo’ing a whole season of Top Chef.  In no way are we trying to fix the problems of the world, so why waste time with reproducing when there’s going to be no world worth living in very shortly?  Why should a woman throw her body and dreams away for a child that’s going to eventually stop loving her in a world that’s going to end?  Bleak, huh?

“So what’s wrong
With a song
That asks wherefore and why have you lived this long?
A purpose?
You want a reason?
Stop believing.
Or stop needing the answers.
There are no answers
Except the sun, the sun, the sun.
While you sit on your couch
And wait up for your boy
We’re polluting his mind with this
(noise).”

This is where we get the answer to the problem.  The problem is the answer and the vicious cycle continues.  Dangers isn’t one of those bands that is trying to entertain, even though they do a damn good job of it.  They got moralistic stories to tell and a satchel full of messages that they want you to hear.  As Earth turns to shit with the young and old caring a little less every day, some of this “noise” that our parents, teachers, and neighbors pulled the plug on year after year is just trying to help.

“Stay-At-Home Mom” spouts out all these reasons to give up on this, this, or that, whether they be for selfish means or for the better good.  Hopefully what the listener can take away from that is a sense of mild disgust, so as to avoid allowing ideas like that to flourish.  This song is nothing more than a giant PSA to the masses.  Parents:  don’t let your dreams or what makes you happy disappear due to a child, yet don’t take away something from your children that you may not understand, instead learn about it because it may be something positive.  Kids:  if you’re involved in something that is trying to do good in the world, simply learning all the lyrics to a song and buying band merch ain’t gonna cut it; take those lyrics you learned to heart and physically attempt to change things for the better.  Holy shit… I just got deep.  That’s a weird feeling.

A few years ago was when I first listened to the demo Dangers put out that was floating around in the hardcore scene.  I don’t remember how I got it, but after hearing songs like “We Broke The P.A.” and “We Have More Sense Than Lies” I was head over heels.  They were one of those bands that halfway through the first song I knew I was gonna like them.  There’s only been a handful of acts that have done that for me like At The Drive-In and The Murder City Devils, which are two of my all-time favorite bands.  Now that was summer of ’06, so I’ve only had a demo, EP, and LP to sate me until this one coming out the first of the new year.  Goes to show that they’re doing something right.

Now, I didn’t expect to delve so much into just one song.  I was hoping to do a semi-review of the new album, but that obviously veered off the road to somewhere else.  Instead I’ll give some quick recommendations on tracks of theirs to check out, so hopefully you’ll be wanting to pick this puppy up in 2010 from Vitriol Records.

Saved By The Buoyancy Of Citrus:  A quick little number that’s fed up with rent checks and getting older just as much as you are.  It’s also a tip of the hat to Mitch Hedberg

Check, Please:  It questions love and slings some hate at the bullshit that can be dating.

“‘You clean up nice,’
she says to me with this
smug ass grin that means
she knows just how much
porn that it takes to get me off nowadays.”

It’s lyrics like that set this band apart from all the garbage that sullies the airwaves.

Goliath:  Al Brown (lead singer) willing to believe in Jesus if he could only be presented his skeletal remains.  This one makes me laugh.

No Vonneguts, No Glory:  An anti-war track that pleads for peace, but until that happens we’re better off taking cues from Kurt Vonnegut and turning the world to ice via Ice-9 (read Cat’s Cradle).

Well, today is this kids birfday, so do me favor and listen to the new Dangers, call somebody stupid, and buy me stuff.

“I live in a highly excited state of overstimulation.”

I’d say at least three times a week I browse through nearly everything offered instantly from Netflix.  Typically there’s a heavy glass of red wine sitting next to me on my floor – that needs to be vacuumed with something of industrial strength – that I’ll get to once I put my X-Box controller down.  My intention is to see what is new on “instant watch” and then start buffering up a movie that hopefully doesn’t suck.  A good lot of the time I browse for too long then flash through my queue and can’t decide on any one thing.  Why?  Too many options.  I’ll even work together with my roommate Jordan to widdle down the choices, but usually I give up and head to my room for a comic or two before bed.

Sometimes too much is just too much.

I was born in ’84 and I’ve seen the Super Nintendo (de)evolve into the Dreamcast then grow wings and become the 360.  Without having to read and recite a book about science, I’m saying that I’ve witnessed technology grow exponentially.  Today I have the option to watch hundreds of movies with the flick of joystick and a little pressure applied to a brightly colored button.  Oh, Band McMusic just re-released their live EP from the secret show they played in Hungary – circa ’98 – during that accidental aerial bombardment from NATO Y-Wing.  ”Type type type” then “click click click” and I have that album sitting on my desktop.  It’s obvious that we’re spoiled when it comes to the entertainment that’s a hyperlink away and I’m not sure how I feel about it.

X-Box Live just added Last FM as an application for it’s fancy Gold Members – who pay 40 some dollars a year – and are given many more reasons to never bask in natural light.  Not that this invention is anything new to the interwebs, but I can pick an artist, make a station via that artist, and listen to music within the same vein of said artist.  I know, this sounds like the radio if you were able to put it under the microscope and manipulate what you wanted from it.  It is, but sometimes it’s just too much.

When I was a kid I had the radio, a small book of CDs, and the local Video Barn for entertainment.  I was content too.  As the years have passed and I now put onions on nearly every sandwich I make, it’s obvious my likes and dislikes have expanded.  My Mom would slice onions in our kitchen back home and just the scent was enough to keep me away from our downstairs for hours.  What used to sate or deter me as a child isn’t the case anymore.  Now I need three new movies in the mail twice a week to keep me from clawing at the walls.  There has to be a refresher from some new band I’ve never heard – or given any time to – at least a couple times a month, otherwise I start biting my nails down to the cuticle.  I’m American, I drink beer out of the can, and I need to be fucking entertained 24 hours out of the God damn day.  Yeah, it’s true.

I think I kinda lost my train of thought at some point in this rant, so I’ll get to some kind of point.

We used to worship idols made of stone and wood then men who said they were actual gods filled in that spot.  After that we started to hear these stories from wise elders about these powerful beings that have always been and will always be, so it was the smart choice to praise them.  Now we have the internet.  The internet knows all, tells all, and does all.  What else do we need?  If this laptop I’m typing on had a vagina built into it, could pour alcohol out one of it’s many ports, and ejected the makings for a sandwich from the CD drive… yup, wouldn’t leave the house.

I could go on with this, but I’d probably end up running my words and thoughts into solid wall of nonsense, which would most likely drive me to making dick and fart jokes.  Let me save you from that and tell you about some music you should be listening to.

1. Bang Maiden, they’re from San Francisco (make some unjustified generalizations from that fact alone because that’s what I’d do).  On Halloween last month they played their first show at The Parkside in the Misson and they definitely fit the bill if you wanna drink, dance, and bang your head.  They just uploaded a three song demo EP for download and I’m a fan.  Hardcore  - and whatever sub-genre within the same realm you babble about – is one of those sounds that’s in a bit of a slump as of late.  Don’t get me wrong, there are many greats acts currently putting out original and good tunes, but the majority is nothing more than the same old riffs that started in the ’80s, got reworked in the ’90s, and has continued the same cycle into the 2000′s.  What do these guys have that sets them apart from the fodder?  They don’t have drums, they got beats.  Patrick is the programming wizard in the three-piece that mixes the backbone of sound , which gives the group an artificial rhythm that is danceable… like boner-jams danceable.  It’s not too often you can listen to something that cuts a rug all Samurai Shodown 2 (I suck at that game), yet urges your veins to replace some of that red with drunk and maybe punch some random, all in good fun of course.  It’s dirty and fun, so give it a listen, go get tested afterwards, and pay me the ten bucks you owe.

2. Now these guys just got dredged out of the dungeon – I call it my iPod – and put a real dumb smile on my face.  Since the mammoth performance I witnessed a while back at the West Seattle Legion Hall, Giant became Brave Young, but the sound hasn’t changed a bit.  I’ve been allowing my music to grow a little more grand these days (drugs are bad), so the music I’m seeking needs to consume me and wall me up inside of it.  Brave Young is an undertaking that weighs on your ear drums with its heavy guitars and bass.  The sound becomes one looming entity that is lumbering with each bang of the drums and it’s one voice roars just far enough from the instruments before it melds back into the mass of noise.  This is one of those bands that I may never see live again, but from that one show – whatever summer it was ago – I feel lucky.

3. Oh yeah, I’m doing it.  Oingo Boingo has been the musical “first ice cold beer of the day” for me lately.  It’s fun, it’s upbeat, it can get a little spooky, and it’s one of those aspects of the ’80s that I don’t hate.  I’m not saying the 80′s were horrible, I mean come on, Earth Girls Are Easy?  You don’t have to say anything, just try not to get lost in Jeff Goldblum‘s eyes, even though he does have mind powers.  There really isn’t any reason for me to explain any further.  Fire this shit up and let Danny Elfman do the rest.  Watch this too:

“What I’m going to need is your standard flame thrower.”

I think my 2nd All Freakin Night truly solidified my love for Olympia.  Drinking tepid rum and cokes out of Dasini bottles while leaning forward to throw trash off a 2nd floor balcony, all the time attempting to slur out a quip at a theater screen (as loud as fucking possible), which is playing a movie about space slugs that turn people into zombies; I even turned down taking mushrooms that night.  The funny thing is that there were at least four more movies afterwards.  What I’m trying to expertly transition into is my love for Night of The Creeps.

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This is one of those movies I always saw sitting up on the rack at the local video/liquor store when I was a kid.  I’d go into the stagnant shop once a week with my Dad to rent a NES game and if I’d been good that week I could maybe get a movie too.  When my Dad would browse the “walk-in closet” sized section of ever so fine spirits (always coming out with rum) I could be found gawking at whatever creepy or crazy VHS caught my eyes.  Some of my favorites that I can still remember today are:  Dead Alive, Evil Dead 2, and Nightmare On Elm Street 3. Of course I was never allowed to rent any of these movies and probably didn’t see most of them until I was 18.  My Mom told me about seeing The Exorcist in theaters when my oldest brother Andrew was a toddler (he just turned 40).  The movie fucked with my Mom so bad that she sped home right when the end credits started to roll, convinced my brother was most likely speaking in tongues and telling the babysitter that his/her mother sucks cocks in Hell (he does love Motorhead).  Anyways, it makes sense that I wasn’t priviliged these gems as a child.

Sci-fi horror is the basis of many of my nightmares growing up.  Once Andrew blossomed into the old brother that wished to enlighten/terrify his uncultured sponge of a sibling, I found – very bluntly – the ingredients to being frightened via film.  Let’s all give a hand for John Carpenter at his cinematic raping of the senses: The Thing. Even to this day I can’t think of a movie that hucks bundles of dynamite at the caveman side of human nature as his remake did.  I know at some point in my youth Andrew threw on what would become a film that rests comfortably in my top ten favorites and I couldn’t shit right for a week.  No joke; my Dad had to sit in on all my bathroom endeavors for a bit because I was afraid of Charles Hannahan‘s detached spider fuck-me-I-never-ever-wanna-see-that-thing-whether-in-real-or-fucking-Oz head.

Aliens is right there with The Thing when it comes to a movie that caused me to always run and jump on my bed when it was lights out.  How was I to know there wasn’t a facehugger under the box spring;  didn’t fuck about.  It also spawned my HATE for Paul Reiser even though I know Burke was just a character, but I don’t care.  Every time I watched Mad About You (don’t even ask me why, I don’t even know) I would stare at Reiser and think, “You lied to Ripley and so many good people were killed because of it.  I wish I could have punched you to death before that alien got you… prick.”  Guilty by association:  I hate Helen Hunt too.  Whatever, she sucks.

So when my parents would leave me home alone I’d dig through the pile of copied VHS tapes (my favorite had The Great Mouse Detective, Wayne’s World, and Addams Family on it) and usually end up with Aliens because The Thing disappeared once Andrew left for college.  Between the releases of these two sci-fi horror titans I was missing out on the teen/college equivalent:  Night of The Creeps.

Doofy college freshmen – whose best friend has polio – attempts to take out his dream girl for the formal, but of course zombie jocks/bros who are afflicted with space brain slugs derail the evening.  Solution?  A shotgun, flamethrower, revolver, lawnmower, and Tom Atkins.  I know for a fact I would have grown up to be a better person if I had this movie in my possession as a youngster.  I probably would have been nicer to people with disabilities too, but my parents insisted I play t-ball.  Thus it’s not my fault that I love Christopher Reeves jokes, but Mom and Dad’s.

Horror is the genre that I can’t get tired of and am always willing to watch.  If I wanna have trouble sleeping I’ll put on The Changeling (I’m actually a little uneasy right now just thinking about it) and keep thinking I see something just out of my peripherals.  How about bad people getting exactly what they deserve?  Then it’s Sleepaway Camp, just make sure no one spoils the ending for ya.  What keeps horror fresh is the blending of genres.  I’m trying to stay on the subject of sci-fi horror, but what makes a film watchable over and over again for me is the humor.  Re-Animator is a rare title that I could easily watch every day because it’s funny as shit.  A roommate justifies hiding a dead cat in his mini-fridge because he didn’t wish to leave a sticky note that read “cat dead, details later”.  Dr. West is a gentleman and don’t you forget it.

I’ve heard “splatter comedy” tossed around when talking about movies like Creeps, but The Return of The Living Dead was the first movie to be labeled by this sub-genre to my knowledge.  Without going off the deep end about it, they’re films that use gore and violence – not just funny dialogue – to heighten the comedic qualities as the story pans out.  To someone who isn’t big on horror it can sound perverse that laughter can come from someone being blown up, but with the right line delivered, piece of music used, or sometimes even the lack of both, humor can come spilling out in bloody abundance.

The real appeal in Creeps is writer/director Fred Dekker‘s stew of a tale that involves so many aspects in cinema.  You got two buddies who are bumbling around a college campus and all they really want is some lady-loving, which leads to partying.  Apparently getting into a frat gets you laid, so just like any “sex comedy” whacky antics need to ensue; a prank.  The prank brings us to a previous flashback of the cliche 50′s that is familiar as Hell because of old throwback black and whites.  An object jettisoned from an alien craft streaks over make-out point and of course it lands nearby; it MUST be investigated.  It’s a perfect catalyst to the ridiculousness that object – a singular space slug – will cause years later.

Once bursting heads start spurting out legions of wiggly-jiggles that dart across tile floors looking for an open orifice (my God that was fun to type) we need a hero and we get one:  Tom “Thrill Me” Atkins.  His character Detective Ray Cameron easily sits alongside dudes like Reggie, Peter, and Ash at the big boy table for bad asses in horror.  He’s full of one-liners, a fucked up past, and finishes every sentence with a shotgun blast (I’m on a God damn roll).  That’s the issue I have with many hero characters these days, is that they can’t be fun and kooky.  The ones that are a little odd-ball are typically very young characters, but rarely are they the old-timers with age in their face and stories to tell.

And don’t let me forget J.C. played by Steve Marshall (he was also on 21 Jump Street, so you know this guy is big time).  Now I always say he had polio in the movie – even though there’s no mention of it – so maybe I’ll just switch to “handicapped”… even though I wanna say “cripple”.  Having a character with a disability for no good God damn reason does add some realism to a film that is so far passed the limits of normality.  I hate when every actor in a film looks like they just got done tanning in the OC and are on their way to getting frap-a-fucking-chinos at some coffee shop before they zoom off to blow each other while watching Friends. The characters in this movie look like normal to partially awkward people, just like every other random you pass on the street.  Dekker threw in a guy who should easily be a shut-in, but J.C. turns out to be one of the better characters in the movie.  He pushes his buddy Chris (the actor Jason Lively was also on 21 Jump Street; P.I.M.P.) to actually talk to a woman and not be such a pussy that bitches about everything wrong in his life, but actually assists him in fixing all the bullshit.

I don’t think I ever wanna have kids.  I’m already too damn selfish as it is and if I have to fork out cash to some free-loader that can’t even walk or talk; don’t think so.  But if I ever become “responsible” and “stop peeing in the sink” which – God forbid – leads me into parenthood, my kid would get a VHS tape (yup, just because I’m an adult doesn’t mean I’m NOT poor) with three titles on it:  The Thing, Aliens, and Night of the Creeps.  Because isn’t the whole point of having kids so as not to be your parents or do I have that backwards?  I really don’t know.  Well I’m off to get a vasectomy; wish me luck.

“Reap What You Sow.”

Let’s do a quick music rundown then move on to something else:

1. The new Converge is blowing my fucking brain with the dentures removed and a satin hand cupping the metaphysical balls located in my minds eye.  Converge is one of those bands that I appreciate within the genre of hardcore and its offshoots because they’ve been doing their own thing for nearly 20 years, yet I’ve never been a big fan (don’t ask me why).  Axe To Fall is an album that infuses more metal into their familiar sound than I have heard before and it puts a big dumb smile on my big dumb face.  The later track Cruel Bloom features Steve Von Till from Neurosis doing vocals and I was convinced for this last week that it was none other than Tom Waits.  That song solidified my love for this album.  I’m a sucker for heavier bands throwing in something slow to the mix, yet still retaining the atmosphere and edge that at any moment they can break back into a breakdown, solo, or something that just makes me want to stomp a foot and slam my head around; this is one of those songs.  This album has also worked the magic of making me want to trek back to their earlier work and chronologically move forward until this release.  That doesn’t happen too often in my book, therefore I need to present a sacrifice to the Gods of Rock for bestowing me with this treasure.  I figure some corndogs and porno mags I found in the alley will suffice.  I’m so glad my Gods aren’t jealous Gods, just SUPER easy to please.

2. This is kinda old hat because I’ve been ranting about it for the last few weeks, but the sophomore release from Doomriders has been musical Viagra for me.  I’ve had this fit of impotence when it comes to new music in my life and Darkness Come Alive has brought the “umph” back for me.  It’s an album that makes me want to get up and do something.  I listen to it and wanna get into a fight, chug a damn tall beer, kiss some random hard on the mouth, or fight demons with a broadsword.  It has tracks that yell “FUCK YOU” at those helping hands out there that just want to assist in order to make themselves feel better (Knife Wound) and others that urge to keep a head up in a shitty world that just wants to take everything good and positive from you (Lions).  If I like something I’ll try to keep up to snuff with it – whether it’s a band, film, or the next release from Joose – and sometimes that ends up biting me in my succulent ass.  When you follow so closely to an interest in your life you’re bound to place it on a pedestal, hoping it’ll be the next best thing… that rarely holds true.  I’d been waiting for the next full-length from Doomriders since ’05 and in no way, shape, or form was I let down with this new one.  Daddy like.

3. So much awesome has been oozing from Vol. 3 of the Comadre Mixtape I wrote about a little while back.  I’ve been taking every possible chance to play the fucker for friends and whoever lately.  From the track list I’ve been stumbling over some great new acts like Hour of The Wolf, Finest Dearest, and Glasses, but the group Heartsounds has nicked a place in my heart that rarely gets any attention:  pop-punk.  I remember buying Blink 182‘s Dude Ranch in 7th or 8th grade and not wanting to leave my room as long as that album spun about in my twitchy CD player, the cordless house phone had enough battery to call a girl I liked, and there was Final Fantasy VII or Tekken 3 in my Playstation.  Heartsounds has that comforting sound I remember jamming along to in my middle school sanctuary, yet it doesn’t feel like I’m displacing myself to far from the person I’ve grown in to, which is nice considering they play music in a genre that typically works more like a time machine for me these days.  Broadway Calls is another recent band that has had the same affect on me.  Is this a sign that I’m getting sappy in my years?  Nope and to prove it I’m gonna go snort some razor blades.  Why?  Because I lost a bet with Nick Nolte.  That bastard doesn’t screw about when it comes to gas-huffing competitions.

After doing a wee spellcheck I remembered that this was supposed to be a quick little blurp about music and then I was gonna go on about something else.  Huh…  I guess I lied.

“You can’t kill us all!”

Coalesce has been one of those bands that I’ve listened to for years, but all that listening has been via one album that I can’t get tired of:  Functioning On Impatience. They have a decent discography, but I just haven’t been able to move on from that album.  Same thing with Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds.  Let Love In is one of those albums that hit my ears at just the right time in my life (going into a serious relationship and then getting dumped fucking hard), so it held some precedence in my life for quite some time.  Not until two weeks back or so was I able to jump ship with Murder Ballads.  Holy shit… Nick Cave is a storyteller to say the least.  That man has the ability to weave words with music and it creeps under my skin.  Like telling ghost stories and giving yourself goosebumps, that’s what Murder Ballads has been doing for me.  Let’s bring this around full-circle though.

Coalesce has the OXEP streaming from lambgoat (a great news source on heavier music, but sometimes you gotta sift through garbage soda-drinker bands to find the real meat).  It’s their new EP, which is following up the recent OX full-length that I’ve only put to my ears once – earlier today – and it jammed along just fine.  I gave the EP a run through twice and it seems like I may be making the move onto a new album finally.  The stream is only up for a short while, so don’t be lazy about it because you gotta do this “thing” for a friend, when we all know you’re just gonna get high and whack-it.  It’s obvious.

I found this in a book of illustrations at my buddies place today.  Kris went and saw Where The Wild Things Are at IMAX and apparently got a lot of free swag.  Skinner Davis is the man with the skills here and the work he has up on his site gave me a decent lot of eye-boners.  I’ve always dug bright colors in art, especially neon, dayglo, blacklight bullshit (beginning of Belly is the bees-tits, not knees) so it makes sense why I’d watch Busta Rhymes video for Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Can See countless times in middle school.  I doubt it had anything to do with the big, busty, bouncy, Black ladies though.  Oh Pam Grier, why won’t you return any of the imaginary phone calls I make to you in my mind.  She’s such a tease.

Shit son, music and art all in one swing.  I’d call that a God damn success in culture if you ask me.  Don’t you feel better about yourself now?  You can pour out all that Tang you’ve been drinking and stop munching on partially cooked fish sticks.  Even though you say, “I don’t mind that it’s cold in the middle,” we all know you’re full of shit.  It’s kinda sad.  You needa’ head down to the corner store and pick yourself up a 40 of Steele Reserve, OJ, and peanut M&M’s.  Now that’s a meal for refined people, which you can now classify yourself into.  Just find a nice stoop to post up on and share what you learned with a stranger or two.  Hell, offer them some of your drink too.  I don’t know anyone that dislikes a good ol’ Brass Monkey.  Except maybe Canadians; they only like the band Rush.

“The zed-word. Don’t say it!”

Let this statement absorb into your mildly retarded to intelligent mind(s):  Shaun of the Dead is a perfect movie.  From second zero until end credits, Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg created a masterpiece.  Name me a scene in that film that they could have cut out… yup, shut up.

Centering a film around zombies in the last ten years is a simple way to start a movie, which has become the center of much critiquing and BITCHING from fans and fuckers alike.  Yeah, I will admit that screenwriters, producers, and directors need to adjust their attention a little in the genre of horror, but how easy is it to get an idea, name, or message out into the mass populace through the invention of zombies?  Easy as a girl named Breezy (ask me later).

“Rom-zom-com” was a genre coined by Shaun of the Dead.  It’s fucking silly, but I allow it.  A romantic-zombie-comedy is something we all wish we thought of first, but alas, we didn’t.  Closest pick that could be lumped into this genre is Zombie Honeymoon, but that flick is a bummer to say the least (rent it though).

George A. Romero is a man that horror buffs tip their hats to because whether you like it or no, he brought zombie films into the mainstream and did it well.  Some of his films look a little dated – for the obvious reasons – with all the undead cinema flooding the market now, but Shaun of the Dead took the schematic of rotting men and women lumbering about and feeding on human flesh infused humor, heart, and headshots.  In my opinion Romero has been rolling down a slippery slope of guts and flesh since Land of the Dead, but after watching Diary of the Dead I got a feeling the man needs to put the camera down and start penning some screenplays or producing projects that are up his gore soaked alley.  His new picture Survival of the Dead has the potential of bringing him out of this mass grave of shitty zombie movies, which he has directed himself into, but sometimes you just gotta pass the torch and move on.  Let’s get back on topic though, shall we?

Edgar Wright is one of those writers/directors who knows what he loves and it isn’t afraid to create something that is merely an homage to those things with a little something else added to it.  His sitcom Spaced even has a subtitle track on the DVDs entitled “Homage-o-Meter” that simply references anything within the realm of film, music, literature, and a bunch of random shit because that’s what compromises majority of the show.  Genius?  A little less, but leaning more towards prophetic.

The sappy – but good kinda sappy – that is strategically placed amongst the fart jokes and disemboweling in Shaun plucks on the heart strings so well because there usually isn’t a need for it within the genre.  Your typical horror fan that forks out $6.50 for Saw 23 (currently in pre-production) doesn’t need emotional substance within the film as long as the violence grows exponentially with each severed Achilles tendon.  Yet, when Bill Nighy – playing the stepfather – “death bed” confesses how hard it’s been raising Simon Pegg, I know I started welling up the first time I saw it.  And don’t get me started about the Mexican standoff involving Shaun’s mother.  Reservoir Dogs, you have now been trumped.

We’ve all seen plenty of slashers and the such where you can pretty much wave a finger at majority of the players and figure who’ll be letting out a sigh of relief right before the end credits roll and who’ll be dirt-napping ASAP.  Now if you can actually write a decent character then flesh them out as the camera rolls on them – whether they get the axe or not – we’re at least feeling for them as they attempt to survive through three acts.  But if you watch any trailers for movies within the last 10 years, Hollywood loves to show us EVERY FUCKING THING THAT’LL HAPPEN WITHIN 93 MINUTES condensed to a two and a half minute stream of clips, especially every dumb breeder that’s gonna fall on a dick or knife in I Know What You Did Last Summer With Your Dirty Mouf .  I remember watching the Episode I trailer in ninth grade and being so pissed off because it was obvious that Qui-Gon eats it.  Once again, thank you Mr. Lucas for perverting nearly everything that was holy during my childhood.  Sorry… I get kinda angry most of the time when I go off on tangents.

Every character in Shaun fits into at least one stereotype or more, which works as long as you give them a soul.  The token black guy wouldn’t be such a disposable character in cinema, but when does the “black friend in the group” ever get more than five lines that aren’t silly or just jive.  Stereotypes and cliches in movies work – especially in genre films – because it can create a familiarity with the audience that is comforting, but the fun and talent comes when the write and/or director abuses that comfort and throws you into oncoming traffic.  Sometimes you’re taken from your idea of what is safe and sure in your life or simply lead down a path you didn’t see coming.  I wouldn’t say that Shaun is abound with twist, turns, and surprises, but when you take the idea of the “bumbling idiot” (Pegg) and give him a family, friends, wit, and then hordes of zombies to bash his way through, you start to give two shits about him.  Stir in that drama I was talking about from before and what do you get?  A damn fine character.  Now let’s throw a bucket of blood over the whole mess and you we got ourselves a right good film.  Now me personally, I just need a rack of $7.99 failure ribs from Safeway and some Simply Apple Juice, then I’m in fat kid Heaven.  Moving on.

Shaun of the Dead may not be on the highest of cinematic plains, but for a film that panders to gore-hounds, drunks/stoners, those who still think farts are funny (real Americans), and people who hate bad kissers, it’s a work of art.  It’s a movie that reminds me of why I still love all the sentimental bullshit John Hughes put out or why constantly quoting the Cohen Borthers three bowling alley burnouts never gets tired.  It brings me back to why I shielded my  five year-old eyes from Carpenter’s shape-shifting alien in the Arctic or how Landis made someones dead bestfriend the funniest aspect of London.  Simply put, it’s a movie that makes me love movies.