ClownCarBlog.com

For those of you who just tuned in...

... this thing was set up IMO to provide a sort of "commentary competition area" for a few individuals who already had their own blogs for politics, SETI readouts and cooking recipies. Some introductions may be in order:

THRILLHOUSE: A furniture salesman and part-time statistician for a Nielsen Ratings subcontractor, he is a main instigator in ritual Bad Movie Nights either at for-profit theaters or private residences (sometimes without the knowledge of the owner or leaseholder).

UBER: An electrical engineer for a large toy manufacturer, he is the only member of the cast in question to be known to own real estate. Also the owner of a cool car, he appears to have his life generally together. The other three are plotting various surprises regarding this last.

ULYSSES ZWIEBEL: A multitalented individual with three jobs, he publishes industrial safety phamplets, repairs jammed VHS cartridges and manages an exotic dance club.

RALPHIEBOY: A courtmartialed Navy motor pool bookkeeper, he bounced back decades ago by leaving Fort Mead, Maryland for a Seattle job offer with a startup company named "Starbuck's". A few fortunate investments later, he made enough seed capital to generate rent, food money and traveling cash to allow him and his cat to shuttle between Tempe, Arizona and Fred, Texas periodically for unspecified reasons.

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So these are the people I know anything about; the Joe Vitus writeup I leave to others. These are the people who will bring you film reviews, TV reviews, eating joint reviews, beer joint reviews, perhaps laundromat reviews like those zine writers of years ago whose names escape me at the moment, and snippets of life in and around the general environs of coastal Texas, urban, rural and whatever. You might tack on a mention below as to how you found us, and which writer you think will wind up in prison next.

Movie Night Tonight ...

As much as I dearly wanted to see another showing of Xanadu, I've got a bigger priority: the movie Miracle is running sneak previews tonight and that's a bigger deal for me. So tonight at 7pm is movie night at AMC Studio 30 here in Houston.

Technically, if I had wheels by now, I could haul on down to the 'Mo for Xanadu in time for the 9:45 showing. Ah well, maybe its time to order the DVD.

Movie Review: Chopper Chicks in Zombietown

First things first ... this is the worst zombie movie ever made. Secondly, you're a fool to skip out on seeing it. The most immediate thing that jumps out at you about the crappiness of the movie (I mean, aside from the fact that its a Troma flick ... and that Billy Bob Thornton is in it) is the theme music for the zombies whenever they make an appearance. Take a look at the ingredients ... chopper chicks ... small town without a clue ... and zombies. You've got to think there'll be a little tension and drama in that scenario. But instead, whenever we see the zombies, we're met with clown music. Not even remotely eerie, if I dare say so.

Given the Troma label, the obligatory gaps in plot logic are on full display. Let's start with the obvious ... kid discovers abandoned mine that the zombies are stored in and gets trapped in a room with a door that was not locked when he entered it. Said zombies escape, and must travel 5 miles in roughly 2 hours. Given the pace that I've seen zombies walk at, I don't think it made a lot of sense to take this leap of faith. Still ....

Another issue that bugged the holy hell out of me was the fact that the "Chopper Chicks" actually wore jackets identifying themselves as Cycle Sluts. Why not use the title: Cycle Sluts In Zombietown? My guess is that the quintessential metal band: Cycle Sluts from Hell had a problem with it. So much for originality.

Now, given all of this, why bother taking in the movie? For one thing: Martha Quinn. Anyone over the age of 30 who grew up with MTV as their babysitter knows why this does not require a lot of elaboration. But to the rest of you punks, she was our generation's MaryAnn (as in - Gilligan's Island) and still revives many a fantasy from the 80s before Tawny Kitaen took over that territory.

There's also some star power in the movie if Billy Bob Thornton does anything for you. I personally despise his acting ability, so take it for what its worth. The redhead chopper chick (Jamie Rose) that the movie focuses a good deal on is worth making note of. How on earth she went from being on St. Elsewhere to this movie, I'll never know. This may be the most highly overlooked hottie to ever fall off the face of the acting world since Dana Plato (RIP).

If you want more oddities about this movie, look no further than the midget. Yeah, one of the primary supporting actors is a midget ... oops, sorry ... dwarf. And that's scary ... how??? Yes, yes, I know ... Chuckie could be technically considered the moral equivalent. Add to that the school for blind orphans which apparently is bussing their surly orphan kids around for reasons I'm not sure of. What we learn in the end are the following:

1. Chick bike gang leaders are indeed bull-dykes, just as we suspected.
2. There's always one super hot woman in every all-gal biker gang.
3. Blind kids are amazing accurate shooters.
4. Dwarfs always realize the error of their ways and join the good guys when the going gets tough.
5. In every biker gang, there's always one person with a death wish ... at least one.
6. Biker chicks dig nerds.
7. Nerds will leave their families behind for the first biker chick that jumps them.
8. Its ok to let zombies eat you if they're family.
9. Martha Quinn is still hot.
10. Bull dykes have crappy taste in music when it comes to picking out something to freak out the normals.
11. Follow me ... chopper chicks, Troma, more chopper chicks, Troma ... and not one single damned glimpse of breasts overtaking the screen!?!?!?!?!? How did this clear Lloyd Kaufman's desk????

Overall, Troma flicks are now $4 as opposed to the prior mentioned $3.50 ... but the real cost is in the brain cells that viewing it will cost. I'd say I lost a good 30-40 IQ points when it was all said and done.

On a final note, the waiter did not figure out how to order an Italian Burger and I had to settle for an Alamo Burger. Next time, I'm sending the damn thing back.

From Ralphie's Link

Beauty defined (by NewsRadio):

cute = pretty and short and/or hyperactive
beautiful = pretty and tall
gorgeous = pretty with great hair
sexy = pretty and easy
striking = pretty with a big nose
exotic = ugly

Another Step Down

I've never had any interest in American Idol, Survivor, Big Brother, Road Rules or any of the others. I have come around on Fear Factor and I was totally down with Average Joe (though this new chick is not nearly as cute as the first). Comes now the granddaddy of them all in term of rank offensiveness and if you think I'm gonna miss this, you're nuts!!

The End of the World is Nigh!!

No sooner than I nearly eulogize Ms. Cathy Guisewhite's most precious creation, she goes and kicks dirt on the coffin. I guess I'll have to look to Sally Forth for my inspiration.

*ADD ON*
Ok, the universe is about to collapse upon itself. Even Lileks mentions Cathy today (though he misspells it). This is more publicity than this idiotic comic has seen in two decades.

Once again, I am at the very forefront of a trend. (bows)

*ADD ON II*
Horst: Homer, could ve have a word with you?
Homer: No.
Horst: I must have phrased that badly. My English is, how you say, inelegant. I meant to say, may we have a brief friendly chat?
Homer: No.
Horst: Once again, I have failed. [consults phrasebook] We request the pleasure of your company for a free exchange of ideas.
Homer: [runs away in panic]

Movie Review: Teenage Mother

Well, the first official meeting of the Clown Car Brigade convened at the Alamo Drafthouse for Weird Wednesday, and it went as well as could be expected. Greg had his usual assortment of fried snacks with a caffeinated drink, Jim his bucket of beer, Pete a salad (huh?) and yours truly a couple pints of Guinness. Much fun was had by all, and nothing more should be said about this event. But sadly, as a pseudo-entertainment journalist, I have been tasked with this difficult review. This week's entry: Teenage Mother.

The Alamo Drafthouse's website advised that everyone stay until the end of this movie. Why they recommended that, I'm not sure. Perhaps they needed an excuse to hose down the theater. Sadly, at the end I was the only member of the CCB who could honestly say that he had kept his eyes open the whole time, so here I am.

We start at the beginning, where most good stories start. The first 70 or so minutes of this movie play like a counterculture version of "Beach Blanket Bingo", with bad dancing, hoods and kids trying to be cool. There's a new teacher in town, a Swedish one named Arlene, and she's here to teach the kids sex ed. Of course, this is a controversial move in the 60s, so the new teacher is in conflict with other figures around town such as the druggist and the school librarian. We're also introduced to Tony the jock, Dookie the hood (yes, his girlfriend called him Dookie), Tony's girl Erika, and various and sundry other characters. The somewhat quick-witted will recognize a spry Fred Willard playing the role of the school's baseball coach. Now that introductions are over, on with the show.

I'm not going to lie to you here, people. The first 70 minutes of the movie were not the greatest in cinematic history. We learn that Erika is a teen slut who keeps wanting to marry Tony and has what appears to be a 50 year old friend still in high school. Dookie turns out to be bad news, as he isn't your generic hood: he's peddling porno and pot, and at one point attempts to rape Arlene the sex ed teacher. Plus he's smitten with Erika, and can't dance worth a crap. We learn that the discotheque that the kids go to has a pretty decent in-house band, but these kids need dancing lessons. And we learn that this school's baseball team probably has never won a game, as we only see 2 players on the team at any time. I think they should give up baseball and switch to cricket. At least then they'd have a sporting chance.

Anyway, enough of that diversion. Erika, who always seemed kind of distant to Tony, decides that if Tony won't marry her, that seduce him. So to the sterilized love scene we go! After a visit to the doctor where she is informed that she "isn't even a little bit pregnant", Erika does what any logical person would: makes up a pregnancy and tells everyone but her parents. However, instead of waiting for Tony to marry her, she runs away with what appeared to be B.J. Hunnicut in his post-Korean War job as a truck driver. Her parents call over the girl who looks 50-something, and finds out that she's pregnant. So of course they blame the sex education program. To the town council we go!

Meanwhile, at a truck stop on the outskirts of town, Erika and the driver run into Dookie and his gang. Erika, being the indecisive little whore that she is, goes off with Dookie, leaving the truck driver without his promised 'rest'. It turns out to be a bad decision, as we see Dookie's penchant for rape come to the forefront of his conscious mind for the second time in the movie. This being the 60s, the rape is stopped by Tony just in time. Erika tells Tony her secret about the pregnancy being a lie, and they head back to town to stop the town meeting.

Flash over to said town council meeting. As people criticize the sex ed teacher, we the audience started to sense impending doom. You see, in her introduction to the class, Arlene promised to show a film to the class which documented the natural childbirth process, a c-section and the birth of twins. Well, unfortunately in this town council meeting we can see said film sitting on the table. And making a case against her, the council decides to screen the film. Big mistake. Huge.

This would be the point in the movie at which you put down any food or beverage you might be holding. For they show it ALL, people. I'm not so sure what the Swedish call a "natural" childbirth, but I'm pretty damn sure natural childbirth doesn't involve the amount of metal that was shoved inside of this woman's hoo-haa. The film shows a doctor shoving approximately 20 pounds of stainless steel inside the woman, twisting and turning some knobs like a corkscrew, and then yanking the baby out by the head with these giant salad tongs. Now, I'd think that a doctor would be a little gentler with a baby, but this doctor just grabbed the head and yanked the kid out of there. I half expected the kid's head to pop off like a Transformers Headmaster. We see it all, and it is not good. Of course, after the audience is subjected to this pain, Erika and Tony bust into the city council meeting informing them that she is not pregnant. An A.P.B. is put out on the hoods, the council apologizes to Arlene (for what? that film was still messed up), and the audience is scarred for life.

So what did we learn here? First of all, there was no teenage mother. Secondly, there were tramps in the 60s just like there are tramps today. And third, if you're a father and are in the delivery room during childbirth, DO NOT look below the curtain set up to shield the lower body from view. Keep your eyes on your lady's head, for there are some things that a common man was just not meant to see. Please, if you see this movie, for your own sanity keep your eyes closed once they go to the town council meeting. You will thank me later.

Seconding the Motion ...

Pete at Perfectly Cromulent Blog, has decided that February be Simpsons Quote Month. I couldn't agree more. Let it be known then, that all posts are recommended to have a Simpsons quote as a closing tag line or worked into the overall theme of the post itself (trust me, its better than Funny Hat Month). You people have stood in my way long enough. I'm going to clown college!

Last week's Cathy was a real disappointment

Is that funny? I ask you, is that FUNNY??!!!!

The question came to me after my having looked into the cold, black heart of Cathy Guisewhite. Why does this comic Midas torture us with her defiant unwillingness to be funny anymore?

Look, when I'm done with a hard day's work of peeling back the existential layers in Bill Keane's Family Circus, I expect not to have to reboot my brain just to understand what this pan-faced sack of chocolate guilt is trying to tell me. I mean, I understand the template of all Cathy strips - it goes something like this:

Cathy: blah
(next frame)
Cathy:blah blah BLAH BLAH!!
(next frame)
Cathy: BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH!!!!!!!!!!!!
(last frame)
Cathy: blah.

Subsitute blah with "my hair is frizzy" or "my car won't start" or "Elektra swallowed my vibrator" and you generally get the idea. Cathy is about bringing humor to the little triumphs in life, like not eating all the ice cream in the freezer, as well as the grand failures like being unmarried, having a shitty job, and ultimately meeting your demise at the sharp edge of a rapist's knife. I expect this formula to be as reliable as the smooth, curved lines that render the voluptuous Mary Worth the bombshell that she is. So what's the deal? Is it so hard for the stupid broad to just make with the laughs? I don't remember her loyal readers declaring they were tired of seeing Cathy in a jogging suit but nowhere near a gym ('cause, you know, she'd be all sweaty and couldn't meet cute guys!) All I know is if you don't see Cathy's mother in the first frame, then rest assured that only despair lies ahead. I think Irving may be headed for a multi-state killing spree if we don't pull back from the brink. And whence Andrea?

So please, Ms. Guisewhite, I entreat you to bring back the coveted laughs your readers remember from those halcyon days of the week of June 16th-June 23rd. We could all use a little relief these days.

Oh, and by the way: Uber and I are running for President.

Zweibel/Uber 2004!!! Vote Early and Often!

Movies: SISTA FOR THE CRAKA

With a cast featuring Pam Grier, Khandi Alexander and former MTV VJ Martha Quinn (for no apparent reason), you'd naturally expect an unpredictably good time. But this 1987 mystery/comedy/film noir sex farce/science fiction documentary packs more of a punch that usually offered from that niche genre. Johnny Depp plays James Peterson, an unemployed system administrator with a set of HP-UX chron scripts that can make modems respond NOT to AT&T/Bell multitones but only to Stax/Volt singles from the 1960's. His plan to secure covert operation databases with the scripts (who would EVER guess the scheme - aside of Danny Aiello and Bruce Willis?) is challenged by Grier, who offers the Defense Intelligence Agency scripts favoring Millie Jackson. When it appears that Peterson and Sista (Grier's character) can combine the scripts in a form responding to a deep-cover secret language interpreter (the possibility being discovered during a steamy, late-night conference), hired gun Fifi Ballduster (played by Alexander) cracks into Peterson's PIX firewall (the OS9 Mac was in the shop). Things get serious as Fifi's employer "The Detroit Doctor" (played by Jason Alexander) attempts to use the PIX to spam the Air Force recruiting website with US budget update subscription offers from the Government Printing Office. Follow the amazing antics of Peterson as he dusts Fifi, codes his way into Sista's Millie Jackson collection and pushes back frontiers in permission manipulation via awk, LISP or whatever you got. Suffice it to say that the perms to both Sista and Fifi's entire file systems are 777!

Super Size Me

Well, it was inevitable in today's climate of taking no personal responsibility for your actions. Perhaps some people saw my Atkins rant as a true complaint of a Subway customer. You have to realize that I like to complain, but that I pretty much despise fast food in all it's forms. So there's no danger of me eating either the Jared special or the Atkins wraps, as I prefer to cook my own meals. I thought it funny the various messages coming out of that conglomerate as to what people should eat. Yes, you have a choice, but when was the last time you saw an advertisement on TV for their BMT sub? Ads are indicative of what the company is trying to sell. Anyway, enough with defending that rant, and on with a movie tidbit.

"Super Size Me" took the Sundance film festival by storm with it's take on just how good (or bad) fast food is for you. The premise of the documentary is that the ordinary joe director ate McDonalds food 3 meals per day for 30 days. If it wasn't offered by the clown, he didn't eat it. As expected, he gained weight and his health deteriorated. Wow, big surprise there.

Do I see this as some brilliant piece of work, some expose on the hidden dangers of fast food? No. I see it as more ammo for Good Morning America to showcase the trend of suing companies because you are an idiot. Until Ronald McDonald comes to my door and shoves a Big Mac down my gullet, blaming him or the company he represents for any weight gain is irresponsible and an unnecessary drain of the legal system's resources. I hope that my compadres here will agree that the concept of personal responsibility is one that we as Americans are, in general, lacking nowadays. Whether it be parents blaming TV for corrupting their kids' minds or fat people suing McDonalds for making fatty foods, people don't seem to realize that the person most responsible for their well-being is themselves. But I guess blaming others for your lot in life is just that much easier.

Author's Note: Yes, I am fat. Fatty fatty fat fat. But that's just part of who I am. Deal with it

Jack Paar: 1918-2004

And on a sadder note ...

Outspoken 'Tonight Show' pioneer Jack Paar dies at 85

Movie Review: El Duro

Good afternoon, devoted readers of the Inane Clown Posse!!

Ulysses Zweibel prides himself on being open to the many different experiences of all the people around the globe. I am particularly fond of films that give a glimpse into the lifestyles of those whose culture demands that they wear funny hats or eat beetles or some other such un-American nonsense. So it was with great pleasure that I tuned last evening into a delightful cinematic offering from our friends who used to be south of the border, but are now increasingly north of it or are currently swimming across it: the Mehicans. The joy of living in a city that is the quivalent of a big fondue pot of technicolor flesh is that Spanish TV is force-fed down our throats by the cable company, preventing the inclusion of yet another kind of HBO. Anyway, the film was El Duro and I can't say enough wonderful things about it. But I'll try to stop at five paragraphs.

El Duro is the story of a young, fair-skinned Hispanic roughneck by the name of "Dolltone" who rambles from villa to villa cleaning up the bad element that frequent what we gringos refer to as a "roadhouse." Dolltone is hired by Franco Tilghman to rid his club "El Duece Doble" of the punks and vagos who go about nightly throwing beer bottles and landing on tables. Also groping nasty whores. I was very pleased that my previous several years of Spanish allowed me to translate the more gripping elements of dialogue like "hello", "yes", and "thank you". Later on, I was even able to isolate such tense passages as "pain don't hurt" and "my way or the highway." This bird wasn't about to leave his perch after gems like that!

As the fights get tougher, Dolltone brings in his drunken Indian friend Wade Garrett to help him serve up a heapin' helpin' of kicks to the gut and knuckles to the chin. Also along the way, he somehow captures the attention of the lovely Dr. Clay, a pre-eminent physician with Doctors Without Borders (one assumes). In one of the handful of nauseous moments in the film - those scampy Mexicans are always trying to get us to throw up, whether it's their water or their movies! - Dolltone and Dr. Clay plant their cold post-coital asses on top of a corrugated tin roof to be watched over by the town pervert, Senor Brad Waysleee, who I think also wants Dolltone dead for some reason. Another lunch-lifting scene takes place when Dolltone's persimmon-faced friend comes by the morning after a particularly rough bout to bring him breakfast: Dolltone rises from the bed fully nude and the chica audibly gasps - presumably because Dolltone has a swastika tattooed on his penis.

The best performance in the film was given by the unbilled actor playing a blind mariachi who entertains the people with his Mexican folk songs about liquor, women, drugs, liquor, liquor and women. I recommend you try to catch him in his follow-up film, "Desperado."

Eventually stuff happens, blood is shed, things blow up, and then everything is OK. Or at least that's what I presumed, as I tuned out so I could watch "I Love 1989" on VH-1 for the bazillionth time. Still, I am convinced that this film is a harbinger of wonderful things to come from our NALFTHA partners and I fully expect it to sweep next month's "Aye Carumba!" awards, which take place annually in a one-room shanty outside of Matamoros. I can't wait for tonight's feature: El Caza Para Octubre Rojo!

Hasta la viewing, mi campadres!

Movie Preview: Teenage Mother

Teenage Mother

Wednesday at 10 ... at the Alamo (where the hell else?). Be there. My own attendance is contingent upon having a ride home (getting to the theater is not a problem). Dinner tab taken care of for the transportee. RSVP in comments.

Thursday is Chopper Chicks in Zombietown ... 8pm showtime. Same as above for my appearance. I promise to be a fun and entertaining date (with just a hint of surliness) ... but I refuse to put out.

DARKNESS HITS HOUSTON!!!

April 11th ... Engine Room ... alert EVERYONE. The Darkness, only the greatest band to form since 1989, will be playing Houston.

In another sign that the world sucks, the band is being forced to re-record many of their songs, replacing a certain F-word with "duck." One reference to "kiss my ass" is also being changed to "kiss my arm." How freakin' lame! I'll admit that the lyrics are a bit coarse and require a few spins to truly get desensitized to the language. But I also feel the singer's weird falsetto is just as disturbing. Still, I've got the R-rated version of the CD, so I'm good.

In Search Of ... Drinking Advice

OK, I've got a problem. No, not the ones you already have on file. This is a new one. There's a certain holiday coming up that I fully intend on getting plastered on and I've deduced that simple rudimentary beer MAY not be the best way to go about it. First, there's the carbs. There are all of two beers I can truly enjoy: Shiner Bock & Molson Ice ... that's it. Nothing "light" and nothing wimpy.

The full extent of my drinking beyond the realm of beer has involved dabbling Jack Daniels in a glass of Dr Pepper. Its not bad, but the mix is not strong enough to get the desired effect: drunk. Closest I ever got to that state was my first night of drinking ... two wine coolers while watching Holy Grail, and I was buzzed, but that's it. Truth be told, I'm too cheap to be a regular alcoholic. soft drinks are cheaper and taste better for my own palate's interest. But there's an overriding need this time, so I'm casting the net for help.

Here's the criteria ... I've gotten a bit of good advice, but it involves recipes. I'm looking for something that is good to go right out of the bottle and a bit more subtle then isopropyl alcohol. Even sampled one of those Jack Daniels mixed drinks (something like 11.8 proof) last night. What a waste of $1.70!!! I've had stronger Kool Aid (granted, it involved letting it sit for a few days too long).

Anyways ... back to the criteria that I never really listed:

1. Preference is for iced drinks. Cold is in.
2. Whiskey is definitely a plus, rum is a maybe (willing to sample if it looks intriguing enough), vodka & gin I've not tried before, but if convinced it will go down like Sprite, I can be talked into it. Anything else I'm missing ... sell me on it.
3. I refuse to mix anything to the extent that it requires 3 ingredients (ice not included). Two drinks put together, fine. Three or four with a "shot" of anything ... screw it. How the hell am I going to manage that final "over the top" swig if I've got to measure portions while drunk?
4. The more ready-made the drink, the better. Offerings outside of beer are limited to wine coolers and that will likely be the fallback if need be. I'd just like to think that for my first drunken moment, it would be with something cooler than with ... well .. a cooler.

That said, I need another idea to sample soon. Tonight is game night at the ToyBox, so that means Shiner Bock. Wednesday is movie night at the 'Mo which means ... another Shiner Bock. But Thursday, I'm free.

The advice booth is now open .... gimme yer best shot.

Movie Review: The Suburbans

There's just something totally bizarre about seeing a movie on the shelf of the HalfPrice Bookstore that you've never heard of, but its so recent that you've got no excuse. And it looks cheesy enough to know that it damn well should have made its way onto your radar screen. But when I saw the box for this movie, I quickly had to replace the Poison "behind the scenes" DVD I had in the other in favor of this.

The movie's real draw is threefold: One - Will Ferrell is funny enough to make mere mortals wet themselves. Always been a fan of deadpan humor and this man is the second coming of Bob Newhart. Two - Jennifer Love Hewitt. I'll admit, there are pictures that kinda freak me out on this one, but in movie setting, she's still hot. Watch Heartbreakers and you'll see what I mean. Three - there's a lot of cranking in this movie about MTV, the 80s revival, and new wave bands in general. Big secret of mine, I dig new wave music. While my older brother was mocking Day One of the 1983 US Festival as a stepping stone to the truer music of Day Two, I dug both. Day Three was a wash as I dug Missing Persons and that was about it. Rest of the bands were kinda older.

The movie opens with a glimpse of the band, The Suburbans, on American Bandstand, being interviewed by Dick Clark. How the producers got Dick Clark to look just as young as he did over 20 years ago is beyond me. Anyways, the interview is a riot, with Clark asking the band for their take on how this upstart MTV will fare. Each of the members seem perplexed at the mere thought of a video playing while music is also playing. The concept is mentioned as something that the Nazis would likely come up with.

Fast forward about 20 years and the band regroups at a wedding where a guest pays them to perform their one hit. The band digs the moment, Love plays a record exec who wants to talk to the band about regrouping permanently. They do. A Pay-Per-View is set to make them all rich, charging $39.95 for the concert. As you see the new reformation of the band deteriorate and the video shoot go straight to hell, the next commercial for the PPV has the price at $19.95. Things go downhill yet more, and its $9.95. And by the end, the band is announcing that they are not going to bother playing.

What's the lesson in all of this? The lesson is that the damn movie is a chick flick. One of the non-name actors (Donal Lardner Ward ... you loved him as the hotel clerk in The Royal Tenenbaums! ... run it on IMDB, view the cast, click "More" ... and SCROLLLLLLL!) is the central point of the movie. Nevermind Will Ferrell, nevermind JLo Hewitt, nevermind Ben OR Jerry Stiller (both performances WASTED!). Nevermind any of that. In the end, Ward reclaims his life, takes a wife, and laughs all the way to the bank at ANYONE who caught this movie.

All that said, the mockery of the 80s new wave era is to die for. Easily worth a few buck considering I got it on VHS.

MORE TALES OF SADNESS @ HALFPRICE: So there I am, scouring the HalfPrice bookstore in search of crap to review for this site. My fondness for cheese is leading me to all nooks and crannies of the place in search of castaway merchandise that others deem beneath them. Then it happened. There at the CD bin ... look beneath the high quality crap they peddle and get to the pure junk. There, it was spotted. A slightly used copt of Hanson's debut CD! What better pile of garbage to spin and review for this site?

So I take my newfound bounty to the counter, plop it down after waiting behind a very strange man who likely hasn't combed his hair since the Reagan administration buying fiction written during same era, no less. Checkout lady cracks open the CD and horror grips me ... the CD is NOT the one I need. Hadn't thought to check that out. I mean, who the hell would switch out a Hanson CD for ... well, for anything? Not to worry ... checkout lady goes to a drawer in the back where they are supposed to really keep the CDs, identifying the disc by number ... but there's still a glitch. Nevermind that as she went to retreive the disc, she leaves the case & cover for all to see on the counter ... clearly I'm pegged as a Hanson "fan" in their minds. No ... to make matters worse, she plops in the new, presumably correct CD, and then tries to confirm this by inspecting the writing on the disc itself. But there's no writing. Just that tacky-ass Hanson logo with the copyright info on the perimeter. It was then that I sank to a new low. It was then that I had to announce in full earshot to the long line behind me the following: "That's the right disc ... I recognize the logo." How freakin' sad!

BARTENDER!!! Another drink, please!

Review: YES theater simulcast concert

As a rule I don't like going to concerts, due to the noise, crowd jostling, expense and lack of guarantee of hearing anything like what interested me in the first place. But I will make an exeption for acts for which the curiosity level is high enough. YES's satellite multi-broadcast thingie tonight from L.A. and down to about 30 movie theater venues in as many widely flung cities may seem an exeption, since I own not a single one of their albums. But in spite of the simulcast, which was as I suspected, about as cumbersome as I think going to a concert is, I had to do it. YES is a group to which I was always exposed through albums owned by other people. I did pick up on Anderson's collaboration with Vangelis and Steve Howe's been involved in productions with one or two artists I've followed. Wakeman has piqued my interest a time or two. Witnessing the acoustic set tonight, I was able to place what I'd suspected the payoff of seeing the group would be.

I slowly realized that the soaring optimism of Jon Anderson's voice has been somewhere on the radio for most of my adult life. It's been part of the soundtrack of some of my more positive periods. I showed up to see if part of the past could be part of the present and I'm pleased to see such good musicians still working.

Actually, I didn't realize they were quite so good. My ability with either guitar or piano is not extensive, but tonight I realized that Howe and Wakeman respectively were doing things with their instruments that were very close to what I would do with them were I able. This is surprising to experience at the hands of performers I'd only marginally noticed for 15 years.

Perhaps there's a little catching up to do. Four stars out of five.

Good Bet: Biloxi Blues

Ok folks, I am hoping that this will be the first of several reviews of what I like to call a Good Bet. No, this doesn't have anything to do with my gambling problem or why I can no longer go to Gulf Greyhound Park, but will feature movies, music or other works which I feel just never got their big moment in the sun. These works aren't all going to be great, but definately are good filler material. First up is a favorite of mine from 1988 just recently released on DVD: Biloxi Blues.

Written by Neil Simon, and set in the final months of World War II, Biloxi Blues follows the Army career of young Eugene Jerome. This wide-eyed New York kid, played very ably by a post-Ferris Bueller Matthew Broderick, is thrust into the sweltering Gulf Coast heat and the strict regiment of the US Army without a sense of where he is going. He is accompanied by all the typical "boys from back home": the bruiser, the Irish guy, the slickster and the wimp. And, of course, these boys all fall under the tutelage of a hard-nosed drill instructor. But we'll get back to that in a second. Early in the movie, through a game with his fellow recruits, we discover what Eugene really wants: to lose his virginity and fall in love. So, of course the majority of the movie is dedicated to his achieving both goals. The movie wraps up with a final voiceover narrating what all the recruits are presently doing, and we fade to black. Sounds like a pretty unassuming movie, correct? Well, you're correct

Now the real reason why I love this movie: it has an abundance of the Crazy Walken. Yes, one of Hollywood's favorite psychopaths, Christopher Walken, really turns the crazy up to 11 with his portrail of Drill Sgt. Merwin J. Toomey. From his initial introduction, to his insistance that the Army does not have bathrooms, to his final address to the troops ("Men, it's late and I'm piss drunk"), the highlights of the film definately belong to scenes when Walken is the focus. Of course, it helps to be a fan of Walken's delivery style and Neil Simon's writing style to really get all the jokes out of Biloxi Blues, but I can think of much worse ways to spend 2 hours.

Silver Anniversary for the Gold Domers

Twenty five years ago on an extremely cold New Year's Day in Dallas, Bill Yoeman had probably the worst-coached minute of his career and Joe Montana began a string of last-minute sports disappointments for the city of Houston (the Oilers and Astros soon to follow). Though I was only eight years old at the time, I still remember it clear as day. Or so I thought before flipping past ESPN Classic and catching the game the other night. The critical failures were as I remembered them: with less than a minute to go in the game, Notre Dame is called for an offside penalty on 4th and 6 for the Cougars. The punt had been kicked and downed at the ND 45 yard line, but Yoeman elects to take the penalty instead of the play, putting UH back at 4th and 1. Then he decides to go for it - Notre Dame having blocked two previous punts - and Emmet King gets stuffed, giving the ball to Montana at the UH 29-yard line. Montana completes a pass to Kris Haines for a first down along the sideline, who gets out of bounds and stops the clock with 6 seconds to go. Yoeman calls a time out and two plays later, Montana hits Haines again, this time in the end zone, and hearts break all throughout Cougar Country.

With all due repect, Mr Yoeman.... WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING????!!! Granted, two punts blocked already, but even if there had been a third, what were the odds that they'd have caught it and run it right in again? Very little, therefore they'd have had the ball very near where they got it anyway when you turned it over on downs, but still - only if they'd have blocked the punt. Why in God's name would you go for it on 4th at your own 29? And having seen the Veer shred the gold-domers the bulk of three quarters, you then send King right up the gut?

And what's with the time out? Yes, they had a first down, which would have stopped the clock even if they hadn't got out of bounds, but did you really need to give them the extra time to draw up a play with 6 seconds left? Oy vey!

Casting the emotional flashback aside, I was at least entertained by this wonderful look into the past and the way we used to watch football. The game was condensed for time considerations (as I assume all Classic games are), but I was still startled by some of the stark differences between then and now. I think for the entire duration of the game, I did not see or hear a single commercial product endorsed, flashed, scrolled, or even mentioned. In the era of the Tostitos Fiesta Bowl and the FedEx Orange Bowl, it was quite a relief to say the least. And I could excuse the fact that the stadium appeared almost deserted in places (-19 degrees wind chill at kick-off), but the relaxed pace, the soothing commentary, the by-the-book analysis - they all seem so... quaint. No crawl at the bottom of the screen, no network logo embossed at the corner: just a football game going on. They'd occasionally flash the score in puke-orange text, but no box at the bottom giving all conceivable stats. It was really quite nice. The only knock is that without the gazillion camera angles that are now so prevalent, we couldn't really get a good look at the last reception in the end zone to see if he was really in bounds. I'm not gonna go all Mike Renfro on 'em, but it would have been nice to confirm the score. I mean, even the annoucer says you can't get a good look at it because of a few folks standing on the sideline blocking the view - that would be nearly impossible now. Every football game is rendered in complete Matrix wrap-around with quadraphonic floor-quaking sound. That's the one area of sports broadcasting that can truly be said to have improved.

Still, this past year's Aloha Bowl did a lot to ease the pain of '79. Yes, the Cougars lost, but in the exact opposite way they lost the earlier game. We were the ones who came back; we were the ones who wouldn't quit; we were the ones who fought like warriors through 3 overtimes before we could finally give no more. I'm very proud of these guys and I'm looking forward to Battle and Kolb delivering us some quality football the next few years at Robertson. Which reminds me (and should remind you) to start considering season tickets for next year. Go Coogs!

"... und if it don't VORK, ve send oll ziz junk back to the "Twilight Zone"."

And I'll give a dollar to anyone between now and May Day who can identify the source of that annoyingly obscure comic reference (in the act of noting that whoever put up something by Franklin Z. Vincent is attempting to offer me a bit of competition).

So this thing OPERATES. Ok. That means things can be POSTED.

I hope to make much use of the "But Seriously" tag, in order to differentiate between the humorous and the serious. Borderline cases seem to be serviced by several labels from which to choose. Moving right along, first entry:

AND ANOTHER THING THAT MAKES ME ANNOYED:
As previously griped to Ulysses (fellow blogger) last night, I really hate when some history of the 1960's headlines with a picture of Jimi Hendrix or Janis Joplin. Whatever the relevance and/or influence of those particular artists, they are totally unrepresentative of the times. Yes, rock music was being produced, but popular culture at the time also abounded with such figures as Ed Sullivan, Art Linkletter and Mitch Miller, not to mention the film careers of Doris Day, Robert Morley and Johnathan Winters, pre-videotape home entertainment formats such as super 8mm (color or b&w, no sound), films like The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and Around The World In 80 Days...

I don't mention these selections argumentatively, but merely to point out that many things totally alien to the culture of the moment imbued the sensibility of 30 years ago. References must be placed in context in order to avoid leading a younger reader to the conclusion that EVERYONE wore peace-sign amulets and bell bottomed blue jeans (as to this last, the first hippies gravitated toward jeans not to make a fashion statement, but since they were the cheapest pants you could find).

So will the ENTIRE MEDIA please upgrade their methods of cultural example? Thankz; have a nice day.

Movie Review :: Trekkies

Even knowing this movie would be odd to view, you still have no idea exactly how hard-hitting it will be as you watch it. First highlight that jumps out at you is the Whitewater juror who insists upon wearing her Star Trek uniform to jury duty in Little Rock. And its here we get the first bit of Trek logic that just literally makes no sense. Seems many of these loons will start up what is basically a fan club, dub themselves as being "a ship" of some sort, and award themselves titles and rank for such ship. OK, so maybe that's just taking the whole Star Trek thing to a "logical" extreme, for lack of a better word. But among the class of people who insist upon wearing their uniform aroud all the time, the comparison is made on a few occassions that if one walks in with a baseball, basketball, or football uniform, there's nothing thought of it. So what's the big deal if one wears a Trek uniform?

Here's what's wrong with it. If I walk around in a David Carr jersey and belong to a Houston Texans fan club, I don't go around saying I'm the Quarterback of the Sharpstown Gunslingers and my "Texan" name is Bubba McDowell. I'm probably better off leaving the shoulder pads in the closet. I don't draft a playbook replete with 250 or more offensive & defensive schemes designed to foil our rivals in Aleif. Nor have spent untold hours designing the a logo in a CAD/CAM program. Now, I may or may not go on a recruiting trip for possible cheerleaders ... nothing wrong with that. But if such a fan club has a freakin' salary cap, its likely being taken too far. That's the logical comparison for Trekkies, as indicated in the movie by that name.

There's so much material in this movie to poke fun at, that if I were to regale the reader with each one, I'd be writing a book. My fave has to be the lady who has a zillion pics of her favorite actor and in showing the pics, it seems like she just sat there with the camera constantly shooting. So after that creepy interlude, she goes out on her patio where she points to the actor's home. Yeah, you read that right ... this nutjob lives within visual distance of the actor's home. I fully expected the next scene to show her rummaging through his garbage or sneaking into his house. One more thing to note: If your dentist has his entire office done up as a Star Trek deck, complete with assistants in uniform ... go elsewhere. Oh, and if you're ever in a auction bidding war with a Klingon ... just let them win.

Another fascinating level to enjoy the movie on, is to witness others in attendance poking fun of the participants and then leaving in their "Neo"-esque long coats. I mean, seriously, its one thing to poke fun at something that's perhaps a more antiquated cult then the one you latch onto ... but if the parallels are truly lost upon you, then I suspect there's a lot more that's lost on you. It'd be like me going to the show and using the extra tickets I had to seat my Star Wars action figures ... and then proceeded to mock the people on the screen.

Closing credits were a riot, with comedians giving some stand up material on Trek. Mostly innoccuous humor, but the best line was one in which the comedian ponders why it is that, if the Trekkies are going where no man has ever gone before ... why is there always someone there whenever they arrive somewhere? OK, tribbles, I can understand ... but it seems like most of the other episodes I recall involve more humanoid figures. 'Splain that to me.

Atkins Wraps

Hey, guess who isn't dead? That's right people, your favorite rambler is back for another opinion column. Now with 30% more fiber, so I'm good for your colon.

Ok people, I've had it up to here with the Atkins diet. Why does the American heartland insist on buying into every fad diet that comes along? And what's more, why do I have to have it shoved in my face every 10 seconds. Let me just vent here for a few paragraphs.

Let's start with a favorite target of mine: Subway. The store that has been producing Jared commercials for the last 4 or 5 years and touting the benefits of a low-fat sub is now pushing Atkins wraps. Now let me get this straight. For the past 5 years you've been telling me to eat this soft sub roll with lots of veggies and low fat meat on it. NOW you're telling me to eat this tortilla wrapped around big hunks of bacon and cheese with mayo and other fatty goo gushing out both sides. Hello, Subway? WHICH IS IT!??! Which should I eat? Should I go eat a wrap? Should I eat a low fat sub? Or perhaps I'll just order bacon and mayo for my sub, and that way I can kill two birds with one stone.

Speaking of killing birds, the absolute king of the absurd commercials the last few months has been Kentucky Fried Chicken (hey, those initials mean something!). They started running a commercial around the November/December time frame touting their fried chicken as healthy. Now here's the fun part: they said it's healthy compared to a Whopper. Of course it's healthy compared to the Whopper! The Whopper has something like 50 grams of fat. I didn't know you could fit that much fat in a single burger, but Burger King has managed to do so. Perhaps they're soaking the bun in grease. Yeah, that's the trick.

Oh yeah, buns. Recently announced was a Burger King initiative to sell the Whopper without a bun. So let me get this straight: I order a hamburger, but don't get the bun. Sounds like a mess to eat. Oh no, they're going to package it differently. It's going to come in a styrofoam container with a fork and a knife. So instead of a burger which you can usually eat with one hand, you have to maneuver a plate and utensils. Just one more thing to distract the hollow-souled soccer moms on the road and increase the chances of them running over me with an SUV.

And on that subject, I'd like to issue a blanket apology for my driving style from the last 4 years. As some of you may know, I recently traded in my truck for a car (Toyota Prius, in case you're interested). Well, since doing that I've noticed how many people in trucks & SUVs tend to disregard things like lanes and stopping distance. I wonder if I used to drive that way. So if I did, my apologies to you all.

Super Bowl is next weekend. Here's to the Carolina Panthers. Good luck to the boys in black & blue.

One Thing Leads To Another

Oh, Lord ...

Man Charged With Torturing His Goats

Just when I think this mess is completely behind me!!!

More Fun Than I Needed

So I wake up super early this morning. Last day I have to take the bus due to car repairs, hopefully, and I'm looking forward to relaxing at Starbucks about midway to work just to get in my reading. Once out of the apartment complex, still dark out, and I hear two loud noises. Could be a car backfiring, could be gunshots, could be anything. No screaming, no commotion, nothing else to really tip me off. I keep walking undisturbed by the big city noises, nevermind the 5am hour.

Few more steps, and two more of the same noises ... this time noticably closer. This time ... noticably gunfire.

Suffice it to say, I made it out of the neighborhood alive*, but sheesh ... I did not need that much excitement in my day.

(*) Fortunately, truckers park alongside the road of my neighborhood and that sheilded me just enough to take another route to another bus stop.