2013: The Unluckiest Year

Just wanted to wish my three or four readers a very happy new year.

That video of Captain Kirk fighting the "Gorn" showed up when I searched "worst new year". So watch that, I guess. It's . . . festive.

Hasta luego.

Playing with Fire

Gang! Here's a movie you should watch as soon as humanly possible, Brian Trenchard-Smith's Dead End Drive-In (1986)!

Dead End Drive-In? More like Dead End . . . I thought I had a joke for that, but I don't. Whoops!

The films of Brian Trenchard-Smith (BMX Bandits, Stunt Rock) were first brought to my attention by a great documentary called Not Quite Hollywood. Said film details the history of Australian cinema with a strong emphasis on genre pictures. Among the many strange and amazing-looking movies mentioned in Not Quite Hollywood was Trenchard-Smith's Dead End Drive-In, which Quentin Tarantino hailed as his favorite Aussie flick.

Actually, wait, my first experience with Trenchard-Smith's work was Leprechaun 3, which I once watched back-to-back with both Leprechaun and Leprechaun 2. I'm a d-d-daredevil.

My point is, Dead End Drive-In is a super-duper treat. It starts off as the (well-crafted) Australian equivalent of  Escape from New York -- replace Manhattan with a post-apocalyptic drive-in movie theater pulling double duty as a prison camp for new wave hooligans -- and then morphs into a transparently allegorical parable on racial scapegoatting, police corruption, manipulative girlfriends who look sorta like Sheena Easton, social welfare, getting in fights with 7' tall freaks with danger-mullets and skin-tight silver Rod Stewart pants, oh! and fascism.

Fascism?!

Maybe. Dead End Drive-In does go deep, and it goes hard (!). The metaphor involved is probably kind of, uh, on a remedial level in the sense that even I picked up on it, and let's face it: I spent at least half of the film's 92 minutes daydreaming about Christmas leftovers and that girl from Billy Idol's "Cradle of Love" video. That's an exaggeration, but only a slight one. Oh, and (SPOILER ALERT) I don't know why our hero crashes through a neon sign that looks like a slightly-angled star of David at the film's climax. Maybe it was already there. Maybe it was Trenchard-Smith's way of saying, "Fuck you" to the Illuminati.

S'kiddin'.

But, hey, check this song out:

Cool, right?

Lisa Edwards' "Playing with Fire" rocks during the end credits, as (SPOILER ALERT) the film's hero makes his daring escape from the drudgery of ghetto existence, and speeds toward the horizon . . . and a better life. Look, I'm not saying I tied a wool sock around my head and started furiously Phil Manzanera-air-guitaring on a softball bat I had handy -- but that's exactly what happened.

I dare you not to listen to it at least four times in a row. I-FUCKIN'-DOUBLE-DOG-DARE-YOU.

According to Wikipedia, which is never wrong, Lisa Edwards was a back-up singer for Kylie Minogue in the early '90s and had an Australian Top 5 hit in 1992 with "Cry" -- a cover of a Godley and Creme song.

Godley and Creme were members of the weird-but-affable British pop-rock band 10cc, and then went on to direct music videos during the early years of MTV. And that's an amazing coincidence considering I literally JUST finished reading I Want My MTV by Craig Marks and Rob Tannenbaum, which prominently features Godley and Creme.

Please forgive my sad adult ADD outburst/stream of consciousness retard-tangent. What's that? That's the thrust of my entire blog? Oh, snap. You're right.

I'm exhausted by my own stupidity, but that shouldn't stop YOU from marching over to your TV and adding Dead End Drive-In to your Netflix queue. Or you could do it on your computer, which you're presumably using right now. See what I mean about the stupidity? I'm insufferable even to myself!

Hasta luego and stuff.

(Worth noting: That guy on the poster has almost nothing to do with anything that actually happens in Dead End Drive-In . . . just a heads up.)

I Ruined Xmas

In my Christmas mix-tape post, I forgot to include perhaps the greatest musical collaboration since . . . I dunno, ever. I'm a turd.

And it's the Greedies!

That's Phil Lynott, Scott Gorham, and Brian Downey of Thin Lizzy, along with Steve Jones and Paul Cook of the Sex Pistols. Amazing! Arguably the greatest hard rock band teamed-up with half of the most influential British punk band to wish us all a Merry Christmas in 1979. On stupid Top of the Pops, where lip-syncing was the rule. Urgh.

Anyway, note the glee on everyone's faces. Note how cool Phil Lynott was, like, at all times. Note Paul Cook swatting errant soap bubbles with his drum stick. If Israel and Palestine can't learn something from this video, then there's absolutely no hope for the human race. Whatsoever.

Have a super great holiday, Internet.

Christmas Is for Homos

S'kiddin'.

Hey, here's a movie you probably don't care about...

It's worth mentioning that if you click on that poster image you'll get to watch a trailer that doesn't make a lot sense . . . unless you've already seen the movie. I especially like it when those two demented Aryan Kidz® snicker at the lil' ragamuffin's Christmas wish for a bicycle...

Fuck you, pauper! Your Caldor-brand stocking's gonna be full of coal -- or would be if your parents hadn't spent all the coal money on food stamps! Also, you're adopted.

Anyhoo, One Magic Christmas is a Disney film from 1985. It's pretty surreal, and probably deserves its current spot in the dustbin of misbegotten and unloved '80s family entertainment. Though, it IS kind of a hoot if you pretend Harry Dean Stanton's playing a mentally-ill transient instead of, whatsit?, a "Christmas angel?"

They're all Christmas angels in the Cuckoo's Nest, baby.

So, here's a Christmassy playlist I'm not going to upload because I don't want to go to federal prison:

01. Here Comes Santa Claus (Right Down Santa Claus Lane) - The Chipmunks
- It's kitschy for sure, but it's also a lot of fun. Like fondu, or gay men. 

02. Christmas Time Is Here (Vocal Version) - The Vince Guaraldi Trio 
- I once heard this referred to as "The saddest music in the world." Yep.

03. The Man with All the Toys - The Beach Boys
- At a time when things were going right for our friend Brian. Beatlesque and beautiful.

04. Christmas Wrapping - The Waitresses
- That Patty Donahue was something else. She died of lung cancer, aged 40. Happy Holidays!

05. Twelve Days of Christmas - Bob & Doug McKenzie
- "And three other days, which I believe are the mystery days." C'mon!

06. Blue Christmas - Elvis Presley
- The greatest Christmas album of all time that I know of...

07. Merry Christmas (I Don't Want to Fight Tonight) - The Ramones
- Kind of schmaltzy but, hey, Joey Ramone was a black leather Muppet.

08. Frosty the Snowman - The Chipmunks
- Awesome. I hope the intro has been sampled.

09. Christmas in Hollis - Run-D.M.C.
- Black people were excluded from Christmas until 1987.

10. Merry Christmas, Baby - Otis Redding
- This contradicts what I just said.

11. Another Lonely Christmas - Prince
- This was a B-side from the Purple Rain era. You're welcome.

12.  Joy to the World - Sufjan Stevens
- Fresh for 2012, from Stevens' five-disc box set of Christmas music. Not kidding.

13. Hark! The Herald Angels Sing - The Vince Guaraldi Trio
- The greatest Christmas special of all time that I know of...

14. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas - The Chipmunks
- As sung by "David Seville." Utterly heartwarming, and I'm not even pulling your chain.

15. Silent Night - Elvis Presley
- There's no better way to end a Christmas mix-tape. Great music to die with!

Honorable mentions (fun, but too NEGA for inclusion):

No Presents for Christmas - King Diamond
- This exists!

Fuck Christmas - Fear
- Belushi's choice!

Now, go steal all of that music from the Internet (or just click the YouTube links) and play it loud while you get wasted on that monster egg nog your brother makes with lighter fluid.

That's how you praise Baby Jesus in style. Merry Christmas!

E.A.R. #3: Lionheart

Residing at the intersection of 1970s AM radio and progressive rock, Kate Bush's Lionheart has turned me on to an artist I once disregarded as merely "Kind of interesting."

Released in 1978, when Bush was 20, Lionheart is the singer-songwriter's second studio album and is generally looked upon as a rush job. Bush's first album (The Kick Inside) had been released earlier that same year and was a critical and commercial hit, so EMI obviously wanted to capitalize on that heat. Against Bush's wishes. Hey, who knew record companies were greedy, nefarious shadow-entities with little regard for their recording artists?

Oh, word? Everyone? Alright.

Regardless of Lionheart's mediocre reputation, I'm in love with it. My previous experience with Kate Bush had been a half-hearted attempt to get into the Hounds of Love LP -- widely regarded as her magnum opus. I didn't dislike the album; I just didn't "get" it. At least not at the time, when I was too busy trying to track down Japanese reissues of Slayer EPs to really care about an artist who sounded like she spent at least 47% of her studio time drawing pictures of Bryan Ferry riding unicorns. In colored pencil, no less. C'mon!

It's actually kind of a challenge to categorize Bush's music. Progressive pop? Art rock? "Midnight at the Oasis" hung in an ornate frame at an exclusive gallery managed by Darkness from Legend? That's only half the battle. Kate Bush's voice is bizarre. It's lovely, but it's also grating. The water's cold, son. Take the plunge slowly.

The melodies and arrangements involved in Lionheart are fucking outrageous, though. "Hammer Horror", which was released as the first single, sounds as though Bush took a rented Dracula cape into the studio and sang to an Oliver Reed pin-up photo. Alternately fragile (like candy glass) and rockin', it's kind of ridiculous. And wonderful. I imagine it's a staple of cool people's Halloween parties. But I don't know any cool people I can ask.

I was already familiar with "Wow" because it was available on one of the radio stations in Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. I'm a boorish man-child. Though, I do remember thinking, "Hey, 'Wow' is right!" JUST KIDDING. The tune is strange. Bush goes off like a horny house cat in the chorus. Which, I think, is the point even though the song is about the perils of being an obscure artist verging on stardom. Maybe? Either way, she is wearing a lion costume on the album sleeve, so I'm not totally off-base. "Wow" leaves me in an awkward position, because a part of me is grinding my teeth -- my mouth, I guess -- but the rest of me wants to hoist Kate Bush onto my shoulders and parade her around the room for a victory lap. Whether or not I'd sniff the neck of my shirt later is my business.

"Fullhouse" has nothing to do with Uncle Jessie, Joey, or how Jodie Sweetin got super hot in recent years. I'm pretty sure the song's about mental illness. But it's a pretty good showcase for Bush's range, and those layered whispers of the "voices in her head" playing against the melodramatic piano riffs? Drives me bananas. It's vocal trickery on a par with King Diamond, but you don't have to pretend to dislike it when normal people are around.

It's a good record, stupid.

Yeah, there's little doubt that the uninitiated, when first belted by Bush's voice, will be wearing an expression not unlike if Abdullah the Butcher just sat on their head and farted. But let that unique sound wash over you, and accept it within the context of the insular musical world this practically-teenaged girl put on wax 35 years ago . . . at a time when Punk barbarism was threatening to finally drop the coup de grâce on England's optimism. I mean, Kate Bush met "No Future" head on with "When You Wish Upon a Star"...

Those are giant balls, ma'am.

Temporal Bias Is a Bummer

I spent way too many years pretending Nirvana weren't a great band.

Last year, the 20th anniversary "Super Deluxe" edition of Nevermind was released. It features four CDs and a DVD worth of material. That's probably overkill, but when you consider that it's possibly the most important rock album of the 1990s -- maybe it's warranted.

Kurt Cobain is a tragic figure in that almost everyone around him continually passed the buck throughout most of his life. "Kurt's a fuck-up bent on self-destruction, but he'll probably work it out for himself. Probably." It's no wonder he's the patron saint of disaffected fat girls and scowling latchkey kids.

There's a documentary from 1998 called Kurt & Courtney. It's an appraisal of the conspiracy theories surrounding Cobain's death, and the possible involvement of Courtney Love, et al. Apparently, Kurt wanted out of the marriage and, gee, there was a vast fortune involved. Who knows, man? Personally, I think In Utero sounds a lot like a Steve Albini-produced suicide note.

Again, Kurt Cobain was a wealthy, fame-isolated heroin junkie/depressive surrounded by utter dickheads. That's a great recipe for decade-defining self-termination right there

Honestly, I was always embarrassed by the profitably cult-like following that sprang up in the wake of Kurt's suicide. I remember seeing commemorative T-shirts within days of his death, and thinking (age 13), "Holy shit, they're going to turn him into the flannel Jim Morrison!"

And they have. Kind of. Yet the music Cobain left behind is undeniably legit. "Drain You" moves mountains. "Sliver" contains some of the most guilelessly bittersweet lyrics I've ever heard. "Something in the Way" is a Beatles song for Zoloft babies. And In Utero still sounds like a goddamn suicide note.

But everything has its place, and those lonely hours of (white-bread) adolescent obsession couldn't forever belong to Connie Francis, Black Sabbath, and the Velvet Underground.

Now I want a Connie Francis T-shirt.

I Forgot I Had a Blog

Oh, right!

I've just eaten an Angry Whopper so forgive me if I'm high on lard, but I figured I'd post something on Mozart Brand Hot Dogs: 2012's least-utilized website!

Hey, here's one of my favorite album covers:

That Tom Petersson gets all the ladies.

Right! There's not a lot to say, really. Life is interesting. My partner in crime just tried to sell a TV show I created to Comedy Central. I don't think they're interested, but who can tell with network people?

Tom Petersson could probably tell.

This year, I read more about John Belushi than is necessary for one lifetime. He was a bloated, vulgar addict -- yet also pretty magnanimous, and funny. Not as funny as the Baby Boomers would have you believe...but still funny.

 

I couldn't find a picture of Belushi I liked.

Still, Dan Aykroyd looms pretty large in the Belushi legend. And Mr. Aykroyd, I feel, is one of those guys who's never going to get his due. He invented the concept of ghost-busting -- what the fuck have you ever done? If your answer isn't, "Played bass for Thin Lizzy", just shut up. Because you're an idiot.

God, I hate you.

Dan Aykroyd was actually one hell of a solid writer, and an amazing utility actor. "Saturday Night Live" was possible only because of Aykroyd's ability to do, well, anything.

That, and Gilda Radner. Man, she was cute.

But not so much in that screen-grab -- where she looks a lot like Tom Petersson.

It's November 3rd. That means by this time next week, we're going to have a new president. Or the same one we already have. President Obama is the Jimmy Carter of the '10s and Mitt Romney is a smug, bullying shithead.

U-S-A!

I don't care about politics. Neither candidate mentioned the Christmas episode of "Fraggle Rock" even once during their campaigning -- and they want to wield the keys to power? I bet Obama's never even seen "Fraggle Rock". And I bet Romney's at least half Gorg.

I don't vote for no Gorg.

So, that's that. I might update Mozart Brand Hot Dogs again in the near future. Or the distant future. Or never. Thank you for your interest.

And adios.

Humbuggin'

Hey, gang.

I'm not feeling the blog at the moment, and that (unavoidable) month-off surely derailed my focus.

I'll try to get back to (at least) the "M.U.S.C.L.E. of the Day". The collection has expanded recently, so it'd be a shame to discontinue that feature.


See you soon!

And, Over a Month Later...

Hey, gang.

My laptop broke and it took Connecticut's shadiest PC repairman over a month to get it back to me in nearly as bad shape as it was in before he worked on it.

Here's a tasteful photo of Leatherface:

So, some pretty interesting stuff has happened in the last month, but you'll never hear about it because this blog is dedicated to diligently avoiding the topic of real life.

Here are some future entries to look forward to:

- SCTV
- E.C. Horror Comics
- Heat Blister
- Karma Chameleons
- Fraggle Rock
- A Sand Castle
- Proofreading


Thanks. See you soon!

E.A.R. #2: The Age of Adz

Today's Expedient Album Review is brought to you by...

I'm not hip, gang.

I don't own a pair of neon green Ray-Bans. I don't sip Pabst Blue Ribbon. I don't have a single ironic tattoo of ALF, or the Flipper logo.

All I've got is perspicacity. And man-tits.

Let's talk about Sufjan Stevens!

Oh, for fuck's sake. Now I don't even want to do this.

What was my point? Right. The Age of Adz.

Released in 2010 on Asthmatic Kitty Records, Adz is indie sweetheart Sufjan (Soof-yan) Stevens' weird transition to electronic pop rock. Best known for 2005's highly listenable Illinois (and the aborted Fifty States Project -- one album based on each US state -- from which it originated), Stevens had been on a decidedly folky, vaguely Christian trajectory for the majority of his celebrated career.

The album opener: "Futile Devices", a tender, stripped-down ballad sung in near-whisper, serves as the bridge between Illinois-era Stevens and his bizarre metamorphosis into a Jesus-y Peter Gabriel, which is immediately evidenced on the record's second cut, "Too Much". The track begins with gurgling electronics that struggle to birth a neck-cracking industrial drum track and, perhaps most unlikely, drive-by synth-stabs.

Like light cycles. From Tron.

Soon, the song opens up into fashionably retro, unfashionably romantic "adult rock" territory -- a sound that could've easily boombox-assaulted Ione Skye's bedroom window circa '89.

But, for all my rude 'tude and obvious distrust of Sufjan Stevens -- who reminds me of a pious teenaged pothead on an Emmaus retreat who will totally try to fuck your kid sister after the chill "Kumbaya" jam and share session -- I have to admit that "Too Much" is pretty gorgeous. The bombastic string-drenched bridge nearly made me drive off the road on first listen.

You know, in the good way.

That's pretty much par-for-the course on The Age of Adz. Beauty in spades. I mean, I can't pretend that I'm 100% comfortable with a track like "Get Real Get Right" with its "You know you really gotta get right with the Lord" admonitions. Though, what kind of double-standard flaunting dickhead would I be to deny Stevens his religious passion... when I unabashedly relish the R&B/soul greats of the 1970s? Those artists were far, FAR more psyched about God than Stevens is on his sunniest Sunday.

Have you heard What's Going On? Apparently Jesus is what's going on.

The Age of Adz isn't "church rock". And it isn't fucking Stryper. This is an earnest, cohesive statement coming from whatever happy-place Sufjan Stevens needs to visit in order to get through the day. It's hard to fault him for that when the result is a disarmingly positive, post-ironic, and theoretically danceable collection of superlative pop music.

Right on.


Check it out.

Issue #9: Kinnikuman Manga

Hey, gang. Just a quick one.

 Due to my recent interest in M.U.S.C.L.E. -- and a renewed desire to explore its origins -- I've tracked down online fan translations (a.k.a. "scanlations") of the original "Kinnikuman" manga.

Created by the artist/writer duo Yudetamago and first published in 1979, "Kinnikuman" was conceived as a parody of tokusatsu (i.e. "special effects") TV series like "Ultraman" -- and, so far, it's really fucking charming.

Anyway, here's a link to 300+ (phew!) translated stories. Enjoy!

See you soon!

M.U.S.C.L.E. of the Day: April 16th

Today's M.U.S.C.L.E. is...

US Name: (Unknown)
Japanese Name: JAWSMAN

"It is as if God created the Devil... and gave him: Jaws."


Jawsman comes from Australia.

Jawsman is a (very) minor "Kinnikuman" character.

Jawsman has nice boots.

Jawsman is, you know, pretty cool.

Expedient Album Review (E.A.R.) #1: Betty Davis

"C.P. of 'Mozart Brand Hot Dogs' is thirsty for the black bitches like Clark W. Griswold is thirsty for family fun." - Robert De Niro

Jesus, De Niro, that's wildly misogynistic! But you would know.

This is a new feature I'm adding to the blog, gang. It's the E.A.R., or Expedient Album Review.

This morning we'll be talking about...

That's the debut album by Betty Davis.

Released in 1973 on Just Sunshine Records, the self-titled Betty Davis was kind of a flop. Apparently god-fearing citizens weren't ready for an aggressively sexual (black) lady singing songs like "If I'm in Luck I Might Get Picked Up" and "Game Is My Middle Name".

Also, those thigh-high silver boots probably caused a cultural panic.

Betty, as you may already know, was briefly married to jazz giant Miles Davis. Legend has it that Betty threw old Miles over for Jimi Hendrix, causing their marriage to end in divorce after only one year.

However! In that short period of time, it is corroborated by pretty much everyone that Betty had a massive, MASSIVE influence on Miles' musical and aesthetic tastes. Yes, without Betty, it's feasible that there never would have been such radically progressive works as In a Silent Way, or Bitches Brew.



Incidentally, jazz traditionalists hated those albums back in the day. Betty was like the Yoko Ono of jazz fusion... which is funny on a couple of levels.

As for the Betty Davis album itself -- it fuckin' rocks!

Syrupy, ultra-thick grooves (Larry Graham on bass, people) presided over by a down-and-dirty, Nubian-hippie babe who, really, just wants to lick your eardrums.

These are hot, coked-up rock/funk boudoir anthems of the nastiest kind! At least, you know, within the confines of what was permissible in the early '70s. This isn't a Foxy Brown album.

It's really too bad that Betty Davis went unappreciated for so long. Her discography was mostly unavailable until 2009, when the albums were re-released. In fact, her final album: Is It Love or Desire? was shelved for thirty-three years before finally being issued! That's fucked.

One has to wonder if Davis' fate would have been different had she been less intensely focused on rocking so completely. Perhaps a ballad or two ("In the Meantime" comes close).

Or, you know, maybe America should've just pulled its collective head out of its collective butthole and accepted Betty's bad-ass soul in the same light as Sly Stone or Isaac Hayes.

Oh, well. You're aces with me, Betty. And "Come Take Me" is the jam.

Check it out.

M.U.S.C.L.E. of the Day: April 15th

Today's M.U.S.C.L.E. is...

US name: TERRYMAN
Japanese name: (Same)

What up, Terryman!

Terryman is one of the truly classic "Kinnikuman" characters (and best friend to the star of the series, Kinnikuman himself).

Hailing from Texas, Terryman is based on wrestling legend Terry Funk -- often considered the godfather of "extreme wrestling". (Many "Kinnikuman" characters were based on real-life counterparts.)

Apparently the "star emblems" on his shoulders are where his fighting spirit comes from!


Check out Terryman's Wiki page for the real scoop!

M.U.S.C.L.E. of the Day: April 14th

Today's M.U.S.C.L.E. is...

US name: TERRI-BULL
Japanese name: BUFFALOMAN

It's kind of amazing that my all-time favorite figure would be the first one I (blindly) pull from the bag. Oh, I don't really know anything about "Kinnikuman" or M.U.S.C.L.E. mythos, mind you -- I just dig the horns and tasteful perm.

Interestingly, this particular sculpt of Buffaloman (there were MANY) was only available in the US. It came with the "Hard Knockin' Rockin' Ring" accessory.

But I never owned that toy -- so I have no idea how this got into my collection. (Theft.)

Anyway, check out Buffaloman's Wiki page for the real scoop!

Special Dispatch: Kinkeshi/M.U.S.C.L.E. Intro

Hey, gang.

Some history!

1985: Mattel licenses a Japanese toy line, Bandai's Kinkeshi: tiny, monochrome PVC figures based on the "Kinnikuman" manga and anime series. They dub them M.U.S.C.L.E. ("Millions of Unusual Small Creatures Lurking Everywhere").

Mattel markets the statically-posed figurines in random assortments, including 10-packs...

Sold in translucent plastic garbage cans.

The toys are originally marketed in "flesh pink" only, and later re-colored to spur renewed consumer interest.

The line is moderately successful and it continues until 1988, when it is canceled.

2012: Hey, I still have some!

Dig 'em.

In fact, I appreciate the ingenuity displayed in all vintage Japanese toy-making. I especially adore those classic vinyl Gojira and/or Ultraman monsters (kaiju) with their garish metallic paint jobs and unlikely sculpts. (But that's another post.)

And I love kinkeshi, too.

So, the plan is, I think, to profile one randomly selected M.U.S.C.L.E. figure from my modest collection each day.

Let's see how that goes.


See you soon!

Issue #8: So Timely

Hey, gang.

Even the early '80s weren't safe from exploitative parody films made by people who didn't understand what it took to sustain feature-length satire.

My assumption is that the money people -- e.g. Vito "Champagne" Roccaforte of the Secaucus, New Jersey sanitation industry -- saw Airplane! and figured, "Ey, dat's not so hard... it's just a bunch of fuckin' gags! And look at the MACARONI those [enter racial slur of your choosing] made off dat PASTA FAGIOLE! MARONE!"

 Now let's talk about this movie!

Wait, starring Richard Benjamin and Paula Prentiss? Jackpot, guys!

Saturday the 14th  was directed by Howard R. Cohen (the ladies' choice) and produced by Roger Corman's shrewd wife, Julie Corman. She was best known for producing a series of T&A flicks from the early '70s involving night call nurses, young nurses, student nurses, and/or candy stripe nurses.

So many nurses.

Hey, Jeffrey Tambor played a vampire in this movie, which is dope.


Roberta Collins, the best-looking B-actress who ever lived [see site banner], was in it, too -- but barely. Which is stupid and wasteful. Did you people think she was going to make movies forever? Selfish, gang.

Selfish.

Oh, and the eldest daughter from TV's "Gimme a Break!" did this:

There's actually a pretty drawn-out "gettin' naked" sequence leading up to that bubble bath, and I didn't know what to make of it, as the actress (Kari Michaelsen) looked like she was about thirteen years-old. And while child concubines might be legal (encouraged) in the frozen wastelands of Canada, it's definitely frowned-upon here in the States.

Thankfully, Michaelsen was, like, nineteen at the time of filming -- so that's a crisis averted for both New World Pictures and my ambivalent pee-pee.

By the way, Saturday the 14th is a parodical horror movie about a cursed book that magically makes rubbery monsters appear and cause TRUBBA for a suburban family who've just moved to a creepy new house.

Guys like this:

I really like The Creature from the Black Lagoon. Some might say too much. But I don't really know what to do with this (charmingly) ghetto hydrocephaloid clone: THE CREATURE FROM THE WACK LAGOON, HAH-HAH.

Right, kids?

Then there's this little guy, too:

He's really familiar, and I can't place it. I want to say he was in that one Billy Ocean video.

(I hear he's hard to work with. The monster, I mean. Not Billy Ocean.)

Also, my brain draws some parallel between that suit and Reese's Pieces. And it has nothing to do with E.T.

Or maybe it has everything to do with E.T. That's the logical conclusion.

That or an aggressive brain tumor.

See, the thing is, Jeffrey Tambor and his vampiric wife want the cursed book for themselves, because... that's what monsters do, I guess... and there's this flabby Dr. Van Helsing who thwarts them, but then it's revealed that...

OK,  I don't want to talk about the very spoofy (laff!), very cheap Saturday the 14th anymore -- and I have no exit strategy -- so here's another picture of Kari Michaelsen in the tub!

Lucky duck. HA-HA, I'm a joker, you guys!

And jokers are WILD.


See you soon!

Issue #7: Jason Voorhees Is a Terrible Goalie

Hey, gang.

Today is FRIDAY, THE 13TH.

Amazingly, it's already the second Friday the 13th this year (we had one in January).

And there'll be another in July.

Ooooh, baby...

OK, this one time at a Fangoria convention, I was waiting in line to get Sean S. Cunningham's autograph. There was a couple in front of me: a doughy middle-aged man and his much-younger girlfriend.

And when this guy handed Cunningham a Jason Voorhees action figure to get signed, the Friday the 13th creator growled, "I don't play with fuckin' dolls."

Flustered, the fan laughed, "I don't either, but..."

"But-but-but... grow a pair of balls, you fat shit... you shit monkey," Cunningham stuttered mockingly.


Before the humiliated convention-goer could reply, the director lunged over the table and pawed one of his girlfriend's breasts. Mortified, the woman recoiled violently -- causing Cunningham to tear her blouse.

The air went out of the crowded convention hall in one collective gasp.

Upping the ante, Cunningham started rocking back and forth on his feet, drunkenly screaming:

"Last House on the Left, 
Deep-Star-Six,
That bitch's pretty mouth
Was built for suckin' dicks!"

That was pretty much when security closed in, and hurriedly escorted the filmmaker out of the stunned room before a riot broke out.


See you soon!

PS - Obviously, NONE OF THAT EVER HAPPENED. Sean S. Cunningham is a kind and gracious guy who happily signed my DVD copy of the original Friday the 13th.

Issue #6: In a Beautiful Place

Hey, gang.

Do you like music? Me too.

Here's a picture of Neil Sedaka:

So, a musical project that I'm kind of passionate about is Scotland's Boards of Canada. Brothers Mike Sandison and Marcus Eoin (that's "Owen") started using tape machines and sampling to compose their own works when they were still children, and by 1995 they had released their first collection of experimental electronic music: Twoism.

Since that time, Boards of Canada have gone on to release three hugely-acclaimed albums and a handful of EPs. Thanks to utterly unique output like 2002's Geogaddi, their reputation has reached nigh-mythical status in the realms of ambient and IDM (though, they maintain that they have never been purveyors of dance music).

Unfortunately for everyone with ears, the brothers Sandison haven't released a single note since the Trans Canada Highway EP in 2006...

And they've all but vanished.

At least that's my understanding of it. I mean, they've never exactly courted the press. I'm sure they're perfectly happy on the moors somewhere... eating goat bladders, sipping wolf's blood, or busting coconuts over Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka's head. Whatever the Scots do in their downtime, I'm sure their dance cards are full.

Now, let's take a trip back to the year 2000, shall we?

That's the cover art for In a Beautiful Place Out in the Country, an EP released by Boards of Canada almost twelve years ago. And it's not hyperbole to declare that anyone who doesn't love it is a stupid asshole, and probably a serial pedophile.

I'll rephrase that.

In a Beautiful Place is, in my opinion, the Boards' finest work. A four track sequence of transporting sample-heavy electronic grandeur that touches on themes as diverse as the Branch Davidians of Mount Carmel and... well, it's pretty much just about Waco.

I'm not going to get into the horrors of 1993's infamous siege at Waco because, frankly, I'd rather talk about John Candy's monster pancakes in Uncle Buck, or that awesome "Gossamer" monster from Chuck Jones cartoons -- but suffice to say that it was sad and awful, and probably completely unnecessary.

It made for great music, too.

Most notable, to me, is the title track: "In a Beautiful Place Out in the Country". Ethereal synth-organ notes of icy sorrow mesh with a waxing, waning drum loop to seamless effect. The vocoded (?) refrain of "Come out... and live in a religious community in a beautiful place out... the country..." ensures that the point isn't missed, as the spliced home-movie laughter of small children fills in the blanks and makes the track's six minutes ghostly-beautiful and, ultimately, damning of everyone involved in the tragedy.

Check it out.


See you soon!

Issue #5: Ducks

Hey, gang.

Fantagraphics recently released Donald Duck: Lost in the Andes, the first in a series of hardcover books dedicated to the Disney comics of Carl Barks.

If you're roughly the same age as me, you grew up with "the Disney Afternoon": a syndicated programming block consisting of shows like "TaleSpin" and "Disney's Adventures of the Gummi Bears". These shows represented Disney's first venture into TV animation, and held children in thrall every afternoon for almost a decade.

Tuskernini, motherfucker!

Now, it almost goes without saying that the most important of these shows was the beloved "DuckTales", which ran for 100 episodes (plus a movie!) between 1987 and 1990.

"Life is like a hurricane..."

Look, if you're 30ish, and the conjured memories of giant-robot high fives; Huey, Dewey and Louie getting chased by angry mummies; or Gyro Gearloose's stylish pince-nez don't give you some kind of heart boner -- then just kill yourself.

I mean it.

Alright, now that those idiotic boobs are dead we can get down to bidness.

This is Carl Barks...

As you can see, Mr. Barks (1901-2000) was a big fucking nerd -- but he's also one of the only reasons you had a decent childhood. So, stop laughing.

Between 1949 and 1966, Barks wrote and penciled what are arguably the most cherished and important comic book stories of all time. And the amazing thing is... that's almost an understatement.

Things that Carl Barks invented, go!

1) The giant boulder trap in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

2) Uncle Scrooge McDuck.

3) The color yellow.

4) Short-sleeved dress shirts.

5) The Beagle Boys.

All hijinks aside, the man was hugely important. Everything great about "DuckTales" is probably attributable to Barks' inventiveness, and the children of the '80s owe him a debt of gratitude. Sadly, he did most of his best work anonymously thanks to Disney's draconian publishing practices. It's inconceivable in 2012 that an artist could single-handedly raise a comic book's circulation to 3.5 million per issue... only to have his name appear NOWHERE within its pages.

I am exhausted by the folly of man.

OK, just buy Lost in the Andes. It's a wonderful, inexpensive edition that contains both the foundation of Barks' work and some of the most influential adventure comics ever written.

See you soon!