A Fairy Tale Blog
Once upon a time, there was a charming young scribe who’s talents in writing were known and lauded throughout the land. He wrote and published a whimsical story page which all the people in the numerous kingdoms loved to read. They loved to read it so much, in fact, that the scribe had difficulty keeping up with their demands. For, gifted though the scribe was, he had several faults which made his publishing seemingly erratic and careless. The scribe, while intellectual and reserved much of the time, would occasionally travel to the counties and shires of his friends and companions in words for revels which lasted from late afternoon until daybreak. These feasts left the lad drained and fatigued, and kept him from writing. It was only in the rare interim between the revelry that the scribe was able write anything at all. Futhermoreover, the roguish young man was nearly always fascinated by some fair maiden, the latest of these beautiful and captivating beyond words. She seemed to possess his every waking thought. And so, the poor scribe could never find the time to complete his work. But finally, after a particularly wild feast celebrating the birthday of his friend, the Count of East Hampton, he resolved himself to finish his current masterwork and so bring joy to the land once again.
Okay friends and comrades in words, let us return for a moment whence we last left off . . . .
The last post was published exactly two weeks and one day ago today. The day before it’s completion I had what is known in most medical circles as "a night on the town" with Caitlin. She was in town for the weekend and, as we are usually the bestest of pals, we decided to have ourselves an adventure. Our first stop was Friendly’s for some iced cream, of all things. Then, at midnight, we searched the five county area for an open video store. We found what we were looking for in Blockbuster, the chain I once irrationally hated and now ardently love. I believe the Sugrue family had at one time a membership to that fine institution. I recall it was in the days of my great-grandfather, John Michael Sugrue, co-proprieter of a prominent speak-easy in Holyoke. However, since then the card had fallen into disuse and I was forced to wade through miles of paperwork and navigate a maze of red tape to obtain another one, and thus succeed in renting a movie or three.
No, just kidding. With the help of the obliging and likeable staff, who let me cheat on the single form I had to fill out, I soon obtained a card and brought the glory of Blockbuster membership back to the family.
However, it might not be such a good thing that I did. It seems I’ve become addicted to renting films there. (As I type there are no fewer than 7 Blockbuster videos in my living room.) With it’s helpful and courteous staff, clean, bright, fresh-smelling lobby, and enormous selection, Blockbuster has become my favorite place to be. I love renting movies!
Speaking of which . . . .
Movies: (a haha! I am the king of segues!)
I finally got my mitts on a copy of Things to Do In Denver When You’re Dead, and I’m sorry to say it was a bit of a disappointment. I expected it to be a sharp, lively entry in the Crime Comedy genre. I figured the setting, Denver, would be rustic, snowy, a mountain town like Aspen. I wanted cool, hip, likeable characters. What I got was a tragical entry in the wise guy noir genre. Denver was like a boring version of Detroit. The characters were either odious, pitiful, or wasted, sometimes all three.
The story goes as follows: Retired gangster Jimmy the Saint (Andy Garcia) is struggling to run a beyond the grave message service which lets dying people leave video stories and advice to their loved ones before they die. He is also courting local beauty Gabrielle Anwar. Out of the blue, Jimmy’s old boss, the Man with the Plan (a paraplegic, but still mesmerizing Chris Walken), a bitter and vindictive crime lord, call him back to do one last job. Walken’s son was dumped his college sweet heart, who is now engaged to a cocky lawyer. The son is now a mentally disturbed wreck, and The Man With the Plan figures that if he gets back together with the sweetheart, he’ll become sane again. So all Jimmy has to do is rough the lawyer up a little, get him too scared to marry the girl. He enlists the help of his old crew, the most pitiable and diverse bunch of hard luck thugs to ever botch a job. There’s Franchise, a street-smart trailer park ruffian, played by gravely voiced William Forsythe, Pieces, an aging, yet slick criminal with a skin disease, finely portrayed by always likeable Christopher Lloyd, Big Time, a huge black ex-con (Bill Nunn), and Critical Bill, a bat shit insane ex-boxer made nauseatingly real by Treat Williams. The night of the job, everything that could go wrong does, {Spoiler Alert!} and the group of likeable, but incompetent criminals wind up killing the girl, thus dooming Walken’s son to a life of madness. Walken then marks the unfortunate fivesome for death. Not just any death, either. He calls out "buckwheats." Now, buckwheats, just one of the impressive array of slang terms used in the film, means that a person has been sentenced to the most painful death possible, usually a bullet up the rectal cavity. This would give you a good 15-20 minutes of agonizing pain before death. Walken then commissions the deadliest hit man west of the Mississippi, the frightening Mr. Shhhh (Steve Buscemi) to track the poor guys down and terminate them. Jimmy alone is shown mercy. He is given 48 hours to get out of Dodge, or Denver, in this case. Instead, noble Jimmy the Saint stays in the face of death to look after his friends, attempting to save them.
Aside from Jimmy, there’s not one truly likeable character in the film (with the possible exception of Mr. Shhhh.) On top of this, the setting is dull and the plot overly depressing. Maybe it’s not worth viewing, but the performances are admirable, the slang and dialogue impressive and fun, and many aspects of the movie are original, despite most reviews.
I’ve been seeing a good deal of a certain type of movie lately. A type of movie that has three aspects to it, in some proportion to each other, that I think make a movie great. Things To Do In Denver When You’re Dead had small amounts of these three universal themes. I call them Richard’s Three R’s of Film. If a movie has these, it will, at the very least, be halfway decent and enjoyable to watch, no matter what. They are
Romance
Revenge
Redemption
Romance, the first in my Holy Celluloid Trinity, speaks to both our primal instincts to breed and our higher impulses to find love and acceptance. If done well, nothing is sweeter, and even the ordinarily sappy becomes admirable. (Quick side note, I’ve noticed that, in romantic situations, you can say phrases, make oaths, make declarations, which in any other setting would be laughable, and have them seem okay and, if you’re lucky, even meaningful. And not just seem, really. In such instances they are meaningful. Ain’t romance grand?)
Revenge also speaks to our higher and lower selves. In many ways it stems from an eye-for-an-eye lust for violence, but also, in many ways, a yearning for justice. A primitive, naive understanding of black and white good and bad, and the violent means to balance it, but also a strangely mature knowledge that, many times in today’s world, those violent means are necessary.
And finally Redemption, which appeals to our innate spiritual sense, our hope that, if we try, we may atone for our past sins and reverse fate.
Things To Do In Denver had bits and pieces of these three. Undeniably one of the factors saving it from total lousiness.
Two other films I have seen recently explore all these themes, in some way or other, but mostly the second, revenge. I gotta say, there’s nothin’ better’n a good revenge flick.
First was the new release Man on Fire, with gravitas-saturated Denzel Washington as a washed-up, drunken soldier of fortune turned body guard and astounding Dakota Flanning as the young aristocrat he protects and befriends. The film is based on the true story of a mercenary who becomes the guardian of a young girl in Mexico City, and goes on a rampage of death, torture, mayhem when he finds out she has been kidnaped. The love between Washington’s character, John Crecey, and wee Dakota Flanning is almost tangible. The film does have many heartfelt sentimental moments . . . these, of course, mixed in between Crecey cutting off peoples’ fingers, shooting off their feet, and shoving plastique up their asses. This film, as seemingly every other in existence, also stars Christopher Walken, who hasn’t been truly challenged by a role for decades and is now in self-parodying auto-pilot. The action is strangely subdued, though the violence intense, and, though it seems a jarring disparity between the caring Washington/Flanning scenes and the horrendous acts of torture and bloody retribution when you look back, the film fits together well, and flows as easily as blood from a fresh gunshot wound. Plus, Marc Anthony shoots himself in the face, something which, in this reporter’s opinion, if it occurred in every film, would never be enough.
The second revenge movie was a remake of the Michael Caine classic Get Carter. This update starred Sylvester Stallone as the title character, Jack Carter, a hulking, goateed anti-hero out looking for the lowlives who killed his brother. Along the way he meets some old enemies, Mickey Rourke’s sleazy porn-empire pimp, and makes some new ones, a sexually ambiguous but, as always, annoyingly whiny Alan Cumming. H also mends his shattered relationship with his brother’s widow and befriends her goth-chick daughter, who seems to be drowning in her own teen angst. If ever a movie was an example of style over substance it is this mostly bland and flashy film. Only in the last quarter does it redeem itself (speaking of redemption) as Carter proves that revenge does work (in your face, Michael Caine (who appears in a small cameo role)). Stallone is best when he is either playing the likeable scruffy, sad-eyed dog character who tugs at you heart strings (a la Rocky) or the barley contained energetic comedian (a la Oscar). In this, towards the conclusion, he plays the first mentioned of those. Now, while the film is pretty light and substance less for most of it, ironic, considering the figurative and literal weight of Stallone’s burly enforcer character, it manages to pull itself together for a decent ending.
Ah, we’re not done with you yet, three R’s. In another film I saw recently, aspect of romance and revenge certainly aid I the sub-progression of the films plot. This one was called The Hitcher, and starred the always awesome Rutger Hauer as a maniacal stranger whom cross-country driver and over-all jittery yuppie C. Thomas Howell stops for. The two wind up playing a (here’s a hackneyed phrase for ya) deadly game of cat and mouse along (one more) a deserted stretch of highway. The excitement in this realistic slasher film escalates to the point of madness, and never quite knows when to stop. The film, for as visceral and seemingly visually oriented as it is, relies mainly on the audience using its imagination. To get the full effect of Howell’s plight and obvious terror who have to put yourself in his mind set. In order to be made truly nauseous by most of the violence, you need to imagine what it might be, as the director relies on the unseen brutality, and, in one instance, stomach-lurching side effects. It’s easy to see how this film, relatively forgotten, has influenced every stuck-in-the-desert-with-a-madman movies since then. One problem I had with this film (aside from the fact that Rutger Hauer doesn’t die nearly a painful enough death) is that Hauer doesn’t quite play his part to the full creepy potential. This is another instance of what I have dubbed "The Ref Syndrome" or TRS, for short. The Ref, if you recall, was a comedy about a hapless and frustrated cat burglar (Denis Leary) who kidnaps a yuppie couple who’s marriage is one the rocks (Kevin Spacey and Annette Benning). The film seemed to have all the components of a hilarious comedy, but, because the performances weren’t quite right (the acting was perfect, but the way they acted was off) the film is not very enjoyable to watch. It’s like the with The Hitcher. I know Hauer is a damn fine actor, nut he didn’t come off as quite scary enough. Recalling pieces of the dialogue I can easily see how the writer wrote this character to be exceptionally and frighteningly disturbed, but Hauer doesn’t quite act like the psycho you expect. He’s great, and I’m for originality, but the film lost a good deal of the potential terror the script gave it. If Hauer had had a twitch, or crazy eyes, choppy sentence structure, cliched I know, but it would have helped. Perhaps the problem is Hauer himself. A stocky and imposing Norwegian actor, with Aryan features, he hardly seems the drifter type. Someone with a darker, thinner, hungrier look to them would have done it better. But, it’s still scary and intense, and people do get torn apart by tractor trailers, so, gone on out and see, says I.
From the scary to the comedic, we now discuss Mystery Science Theater 3000. Last Thursday night I had the sublime experience of hanging around with Amy. We rented two films (the second of which I will discuss momentarily, so don’t get your panties in a bind . . . unless you like that sort of thing.) The first film was an episode of the greatest sci-fi cult show of all time. . . alright, sci-fi parody cult show ( I could sense the Trekkies rising in anger against me, and see them marching toward my house with torches and pitchforks and whatnot, dressed like Enterprise crew members and shouting bloody oaths in Klingon) Mystery Science Theater 3000. For those of you who are not familiar with the intricacies of the near-Shakespearean plot, suffice to say that, in the near future, working at a powerful Laboratory owned by a shadowy corporation, is a janitor (Joel or Mike, depending on season.) Well, two mad scientists use the janitor as a Guinea pig in their fiendish experiment, sending the hapless but likeable fellow into the depths of space on the bone-shaped satellite. They plan to see how long a human can handle the strain of isolation without cracking, while watching the worst science fiction films ever made. Well, Joel or Mike, he is a clever-a fella, and he builds-a himself some-a robot friends. There’s the arrogant and wacky Crowe, the level-, or, in this case, gumball machine-headed Tom Servo, the cam bot, who films the group’s misadventures, and Gypsy, the sexy female pilot. So, the show basically consists of two hours worth of Janitor and Crew sitting in front of a gigantic screen and making fun of bad movies.
The one Amy and I had the honor of seeing was the group’s first Western, The Gunslinger, a muddled and cliched mess to be sure. It was alright, but, like with many things, episodes of MST3K are a mixed bag. One may be side-splittingly hilarious, the next, a bit of a dud. This one was decent.
The second movie we saw was the political thriller Spartan, starring my favorite faux pouter, Val Kilmer. The movie was written by David "he’s so cool, sheep count him" Mamet, possibly the best male-dialogue writer of our time. He is the mastermind behind the depressing but admirable Glen Gary, Glen Ross, and the recent Gene Hackman film Heist. The movie Spartan follows the investigation to find the kidnaped daughter of a prominent politician, led by free-agent Kilmer, a Ronin if ever there was one. He’s an ex-Army Ranger who works for any agency (FBI, NSA, CIA . . .) that needs him. Watching it with Amy, the dialogue was slightly laughable, and the action confusing. *Glares at Amy* But, watching it alone, I was able to appreciate what a decent thriller it was. I recommend it to one and all . . . just don’t watch it with Amy.
Sam recently bought two more DVDs, the chubby lil’ rascal. One was the remake of the 80's Dudley Moore film Bedazzled. This one stared Brendan Fraser as the inept and lovesick loser who makes a deal with a sexily scheming Devil, Elizabeth Hurley, for seven wishes. The film is likeably bland and harmlessly funny. Never getting laugh-out-loud results, but always enjoyable. Fraser fits nicely into every one of his fantasy scenarios, and evolves gracefully from nerdish, introverted software programmer to leading man-type normal guy. Hurley is incredibly hot (haha) as the Princess of Darkness, and not a bad actress, for a model turned comedic foil. *For those of you who obtain the special edition DVD and do want some guffaws wrenched from your stomachs, go to the Extended Basketball Scene, in special features.*
The second film Sammy Cordova bought was the special edition of Batman the Movie. Not the darkly kick-ass Burton-Nicholson-Keaton-Elfman masterpiece from 1989. Oh no. It’s the film with the nauseatingly campy 60's Batman, Shatner-rip off Adam West and the I-wish-I-were-gay-so-this-would-make-sense Robin, Burt Ward. The film also stars Burgess Meredith as Jhe Penguin (yes, the tear-wrenching Mickey from the Rocky series), and mustachioed Caesar Romero as The Joker. Yes, he had a mustache. They painted over it with make-up because he refused to shave it. Plan 9 From Outer Space, yes, the I-have-a-bright-idea-let’s-defeat-the-bulletproof-zombie-by-hitting-him-with-a-stick crapfest directed by I-wear-dresses-and-light-paper-plates-on-fire Ed Wood, is arguably the worst movie of all time, but this one gives it a run for it’s money. If I were a harsher person, I’d bash it soundly for defiling the sacred Batman mythos, but I ain’t that mean. It’s at times fun to watch, if only for the "it’s-so-bad-it’s-goodness" of the BAM POW SMASH fight scenes. Go out and see it, but get drunk and high first.
One of my favorite things in the world is a good teen movie. Perhaps part of their worth stems from the fact that the teen movie genre provides a mixed bag, and the real winners are few and far between. For every Breakfast Club or Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, you find twenty or so American Pies and Snowboard Academy’s. Worse still are teen movie disguised as anything but teen movies, like saying Swimfan is a thriller, or the mostly lame and derivative Texas Rangers is a Western. God I hate Usher so much! But that rare, shining diamond in the rough, the genuinely good teen movie, is a beautiful thing. Teenage years are so complicated, formative, and emotionally unstable that film has to have pretty much everything in it to truly capture what it means to be of that age. If it falls short in any way, the loss is blatant and damaging. I recently saw a movie on television called Cheats, the true story of four boys who had, throughout their 13 year of school, mastered the art of cheating. The four boys were likeable variations of the teen movie cliche, and the inter-relationships of the group were fun to watch as the developed. The film used one of the coolest themes to put into anything about school: The old compare-kids-stuff-to-adult-stuff chestnut. This is popularized on the Saturday morning cartoon show Recess. With this theme, everything the kids do is compared to something adults do, putting things in proper perspective, for, little things seem important to us when we are little. I didn’t realize it could be used in the high school years, but it was. Picture a scene in a movie about adults, and it was put in here with kids. The main character sits on a stool at the bar in his basement and moodily sips a glass of water (as opposed to whiskey). The school jock, who seems to be the "big fish criminal" frequently threatens the four anti-heroes (lesser criminals) to do jobs for him. For this, the easy hip dialogue, and the likeable young stars, I enjoyed watching the film. On top of all this, I absolutely love the devil-may-care teen rebel. Growing up, I developed an intense distrust of, dislike of, and contempt for, authority in any form. So the character of the trouble-maker, the rule-breaker, the risk-taker, the . . . uh . . . pie-baker? You know what I mean. That character has always given me someone to root for and identify with, more so than others could. And this film had four of those such characters. It had the two essential parts of a teen film, comedy and tragedy, and it had these in spades. I realized that, as it was a film with low production values, a slightly mediocre, straight to video feel to it, and a Lawrence brother, I should treat it with contempt, but, despite myself, I enjoyed it. The movie, had it failed, would have been accused of trying to hard. But it succeeded, by trying just enough, and was fairly cool because of this. The one aspect of the film that I found missing was the happy ending. The ending wasn’t sad, the main characters graduated from high school unscathed and all. But what bothered me was the total lack of repentance, emotional growth, and proper good feelings. The rigid principal who hinted at being a troublemaker herself in her youth, should have done something at the end out of sympathy for the boys, and thus become a "friend." The side kick should have fallen in love with the beautiful girl who tried to make him stop cheating and start studying. The main character should have made amends with his worried father, who showed over the course of the movie, that he really cared about the lad. I realize it was limited by being based on a true story, and I also realize that, as nothing in real life ever goes that way, the film should be applauded for it’s frank realism and earnest depiction of teenage society and all that similar garbage. But that’s the great thing about teen movies. As realistic as they can be for the bulk of the film, the ending is almost always unrealistically uplifting, because, while they serve as a story showing the troubles of teenage life, they also make us believe that things can turn out better for us. That we can date the prom queen, win the boat race, or out-smart the evil teacher. So damn you, Cheats for nearing perfection and then failing at the very end. Didn’t you learn anything from those teen movies?
Speaking of teens . . . .
Teens love music.
Speaking of which . . . .
Music: (Best segues ever!)
It’s been a while since I included lyrics, and I know y’all been clamorin’ for ‘em, because you read them word for word and don’t slightly skim over them, right? Well, here’re some Soul Coughing snippets that sum up my current feelings:
Throw back the noise,
Grab another one.
Pour out the rum,
I been drunk enough.
I know the sound you made
And I can’t seem to unremind myself.
---- off of Irresistible Bliss, the song Soundtrack to Mary
Her knees thrust in one direction
Like a symbol of math,
A symbol meaning greater than.
I come recommended by
Four outta five.
I am a factor in the whole plan.
----off of Irresistible Bliss, the song Four Out of Five
I listened to a long-forgotten CD of mine on a recent road trip and realized what a fool I’d been for not doing so sooner. It was Lost Songs, the acoustic David Gray CD. I prefer this lilting, peaceful, melancholy Brit wothout his trademark beat machines. Just simple guitar. Maybe a piano solo or real drums here and there. I recommend you bend your ear his way. He has some truly soulful lyrics and light music which blend to make some of the most beautiful music you can hear.
Some David Gray?
Through the lemon tree, diamonds of light
Break and splinter on the pages that I write.
And if I lost you, I don’t know what I’d do
Burn forever where the flame turns blue.
----off Lost Songs, the song Flame Turns Blue
Ever since your fingertips
Ever since your eyes
Talking with the light on
Bluer skies
Even if I wanted to
How could I explain
Coming through my head now
This Tidal Wave
All your favorite eyelashes
All your bluest skin
Bring them and I’ll meet you in
That room again.
Even if I told it true
Why should they believe
Coming through my head now
This Tidal Wave
Tidal Wave
Coming over Waterloo
Dreaming of your hands
Want to run away now
Foreign lands.
Even as I lie with you
Listen to you breathe
Coming through me head yeah
This Tidal Wave
Tidal Wave
Tidal Wave
----off Lost Songs, the song Tidal Wave
I’ve also been listening to my favorites, Soul Coughing. El Oso, though it contains one of their best songs, Circles, is their worst CD. They are truer to themselves with the neo-jazz of Ruby Vroom and the soulful blues pop of Irresistible Bliss.
The Blue Man Group are always good, especially when joined by Dave Matthews.
Benny Goodman is surprisingly likeable as well. I normally don’t go for big-band swing, but he’s damn good.
Green Day are alright. Definitely kings in their genre. And Robbie Williams needs release another damn CD.
And now, for some more lyrics, how about a little Elton John?
From a well known song of his called "P-p-p-penny and the Vets!" Okay, his song is actually "Benny and the Jets," but it just so happens to rhyme with the above subject, and so leads me into a paragraph about my dog. So Penny was running around . . . hmm . . . Penny and the Vets . . . that’s just crazy enough to work as a parody. Where’s that incorrigible bastard Yankovick when you need him?
Anyway, Penny was running around my uncle Marc’s 40 acres in Belchertown, and apparently got something in her widdle eye. She didn’t let on until the next morning, when it became irritated. Poor lil’ trooper . . . she hid it as long as she could. I had no idea what was wrong, so I brought her to the veterinary hospital in Granby. For a scary moment the doctor believed it to be ulcers in her eyes. Luckily it was merely an allergic reaction. So, several score eye-drops and much tender loving care later Pen is on the mend. I considered getting her an eyepatch while her eye healed, but my idea was shot down by reality and Penny’s stubborn refusal to dress like a lil’ pirate. Stupid bitch. But she got more pity walks and plenty of table scraps out of the deal, so she’s fine. Worry not, fair readers, Penny is fine.
This all happened when I was at my Uncle Marc’s house, splitting wood on his mammoth lot, every square yard of which is covered with piles of fire wood, stacks of boards, pyramids of logs. I was there helping out the rugged relative by splitting wood. Straining my sinews, lifting massive chunks of wood and rending them into pieces. Some good physical labor is necessary for a healthy life. Another fun thing to do is trying to run up a 1,000 foot tall mountain. And not the sissy way of the road, but by taking the manly path which is the . . . uh . . . path. That’s right, I managed to run halfway up Mt. Skinner along the trail recently, and hope to eventually make it to the top.
After this nothing that eventful happened until two Fridays ago when I went to see Holyoke Catholic’s production of Guys and Dolls. I will come clean and admit that over the course of my 4 years at Catholic, with a possible 5 musicals I could have gone to, I went to 2. Fiddler on the Roof and Godspell, both in my senior year. Thus, when judging an HCHS musical by HCHS standards, I am sadly limited. So, when I say that Guys and Dolls is the second best musical I have seen at the school in my life, it is not that impressive a review, all things considered. However, I know that Holyoke Catholic productions are some of the best in Western Massachusetts, despite what the chicks at MHC (and for those of you who do not know, MHC stands for Mount Holyoke College. So stop asking me, you twits!) say. I know that Catholic has some of the most talented young singers, actors, songwriters, and artists I’ve ever seen. I know that Mr. Goddu, aside from being "one of the ones" as far as I’m concerned, is also a gifted and (com)passionate director. So, all things re-considered, perhaps that is a fine compliment, after all.
The sets for Guys and Dolls were impressive, but not overdone. Every piece of stage decor, the signs especially, added to the well-crafted gaudy 1940's feel of the show. Even Dr. Todd Riveli, a man I normally despise, showed up in costume. That was a first for the good doctor as far as I know, and I liked it. It added to the believability of the show.
The acting was mixed, but in most cases impressive, from Jason Frank’s hilariously over-the-top Nathan Detroit (yes, Jay, it’s called over-acting, get used to it) to James Haskin’s understatedly cool Sky Masterson. (Oddly enough, James bears a startling resemblance to another Sky Masterson, that god of improv acting, the late Marlon Brando. There was a fair share of improvisation as well. In one scene, Adam Goddu (Nathan Detroit’s henchman Nicely Nicely Johnson) possibly the most talented student Catholic has seen in decades, takes an angry bite of his sandwich. Purely improvised, so I’m told. Well, done, Adam, to say you did nicely nicely would be a grave understatement. Also perfect were Nathan Detroit’s other lackeys, Pat Dandrea’s deadpan dopey Benny Southwest, and Mike Pytka’s laughably sleazy Rusty Charlie. Martina Denoyers, though, was the bees knees that night in my opinion. With her squeaking Miss Adelaide conveying just the right mixture of bossiness and vulnerability. The accents were fantastic as well, all blatantly fake, but for comedic value perfect. The best parts of the production though were arguably the underrated bit players, the cops, the thieves, the"urban cowboy," Yo-hootie Lanford’s strutting Cuban Lothario, Jenn Murray’s slinking lady of the evening, and, who can forget, wee San Sugrue’s perfectly plastered drunk.
The musical numbers were done with a good deal more enthusiasm than one is likely to find in a high school production. Though, at ain’t saying much, and rightly so. (Smile, people.) But the vocals were top-notch, as one would expect from Catholic, and even the dance numbers were decent.
All in all a great night out (especially because of the company).
After the show we all retired to the perennial HCHS after-play spot, Ruby Tuesdays. I kinda got us lost, and by us I refer, dear reader, to myself, my brother, and two sexy ladies, Caitlin and the Amazing Amy. I also succeeded in getting Amy wet. Because my window leaks, you pervert! And closing her hand in said window. Because I’m a jackass. But, when we arrived, we were able to mingle and chat, especially with Steve and his bandmate Chris. The damn waiting staff didn’t get us menus until a half hour after we got there, and then didn’t wait on us until after the kitchen had closed, the bastards! But in most respect, a good time was had by all.
Amy and I each went to sleep around the Witching Hour in preparation for the next day’s errand of mercy. We awoke at 5:30 in the morning, I’m assuming, each stumbled out of bed, and reunited outside Amy’s dorm for 6:30. Why did you do this to yourselves? many of you critical readers are asking? Well, I’ll tell you why. We had vowed to travel to the far side of the northern-most New England state to rescue our comrade in craziness, Andrew "Jackson" LeTellier. So, after a brief stop to stock up on the necessaries, we were on the road, on a mission, on speed.
The route is simple enough, Rt 33 to Mass Pike (I-90), to 290, to I-95 to 495, to Maine, and then a few zigs and a couple zags and you’re there. St Joseph’s College, or, as I have dubbed it, The Abu Graide of Maine. From this impenetrable fortress patrolled by zombie Commie-Nazi robot pirate ninjas, marching around walls 20 feet thick and 50 feet high, with cannons that were actually lasers capable of emitting pure anti-matter beams of destruction, from this place, from this monolithic cyclopean compound, we had to save our friend.
So on the way, eating our bagels and listening to various music and stand-up comedy, we chatted amiably about people we hate, pop culture, and politics.
One would think that it would have been easy to get there, but it was actually one of the most trying ordeals I have ever been put through. Because I was repeatedly and remorselessly lead astray by a beautiful woman, who’s whereabouts are unknown, I was forced to ask for more directions, pay more tolls, and do more U-turns on that one trip than ever before in my life. The estimated time, according to the outdated maps we had brought with us, was 3 and ½ hours. We were on the road for 8. 8 hours of driving through desolate country infested with murderous looking hub-cabs and crayola-crayon-green lions, perched on pillars, guarding gates. What? You ask. Whaaaaaa? You stammer again. Rich, surely not 8, you say. 2 hours over I’d believe, 3 hours over I’d understand, but 4 and a half hours over? Yes indeed. As I said, the strain placed on my nerves from the trip and the prospect of what was waiting for us at our destination, as well as frequent assault from curbs, and being led astray by beautiful a woman, caused me to become lost worse than anyone ever before in the history of travel.
Upon reaching our destination, we rammed the gates and in so doing took out a good half dozen guards and at least two laser cannons. Shards of stone and steel flew before us as we crashed into the compound’s outer layer. We sped along the narrow roads lined with dungeons to a plateau of sorts, near a lake of sulfuric acid, bubbling and frothing with venomous green menace.
We exited the car and pulled out our weapons. I was carrying a rocket launcher, two shotguns, a short sword, and a stack of dirty magazines . . . you know, just in case. Amy had what appeared to be a futuristic looking cavalry saber, twin sub machine guns, a concussion grenade cannon, and a stack of razor sharp throwing disks which were in reality double and triple copies of Ani DiFranco CD’s. We loaded our weapons and strode boldly forth into the ranks of zombie Commie-Nazi . . . uh . . . pirate dragon . . . uh . . . whatever I said they were. There had to be, at first glance, at least 107 of them. Daunted? Yes? Excited? Judging by our nipple erections, you know it. But cowed? Never! We laughed in the rotting robotic masked and eyepatch covered faces. Then, with a cry which would have given the Confederates pause to think, we charged in.
Firing, slashing, striking, lashing out at anything which presented itself, we heroically dispatched half of the evil horde. But reinforcements had arrived and we were growing tired and wounded with each passing minute. I fired out into the advancing legions with my rocket launcher, and a scream like that of a bird of prey rent the air as the missile blasted forth. At the same time, to my right, Amy rocked the evil metallic socks of the enemy with blasts from her concussion grenades.
Soon we out of ammunition and down to fighting hand to hand. It seems our years of studying combat under the great and venerable Master Lee Ho Fok were not in vain. I struck and parried with my short sword, slicing limbs from the beastly guards while Amy, fast as lightning, stabbed with the saber and expertly hurled Ani CD’s with a deadly accuracy. As valiantly as we fought, we were outgunned and outnumbered, and the ranks slowly closed in on us.
Suddenly, as the very sky seemed to darken from the masses of enemies, a strange but familiar whistle sounded and Tony, dressed in Protoman armor and piloting the Slave I flew in out of nowhere, both ion cannons blazing. "I was on my way back from Worcester and thought I’d drop by." He yelled from the cockpit. "Go get Andrew, you two, I can handle these mechanized monsters!"
Giving him a thankful wave and ignoring his lame ass alliteration, we skirted the edge of the horde, now intent on shooting the new aerial menace out of the sky.
We made it to the central tower, an imposing structure, 200 feet high and made of soot-black metal. Ripping the heavy door from it’s hinges with my Hulk-like strength, we rushed inside the forbidding stronghold. What we were faced with would have to be seen to be believed.
Standing before us was a giant of a man, at least 10 feet tall and 5 feet wide. He was heavily muscled and dangerous looking, slightly hunched over, as if ready to charge. He was covered in the black garb of the ninjas, but had robotic armor bearing both the hammer and sickle and the swastika on opposite spiked shoulder plates. Also, he had a sword for a hand and another sword for a leg. He wore a large, tri-corner plumed hat on his massive head, which was covered in thick, black hair, the same tangled mess as his beard. He glared at us from mismatched eyes, one soot black and the other red and surrounded by assorted machinery. The most disturbing thing about his appearance, aside from the fact that he looked about ready to kill us, was the emblem painted on his breast plate. A red and white umbrella!
I gasped audibly. "Egads!" I said, "This whole place is owned and operated by the nefarious Umbrella Corporation!"
"The what?" asked Amy, eyeing me with suspicion.
"Jeezum Crow!" I cried, my dismay at her lack of pop culture knowledge obvious in all three syllables.
"Don’t you mean Jesum Crow?" asked Steve, stepping from behind a pillar, clove cigarette in one hand, laser shooting guitar in the other.
"That’s what I said."
"No, you spelled it ‘J-E-E-Z-U-M." explained Steve, a mischievous smile on his face.
"No, you’re wrong, then." I wittily quipped back. "You see, in print the word ‘geez’ appear----
I was cut short by Amy giving me a tremendous slap to the face which spun me completely around in a circle and left me blinking like a dazed cow.
"Steve is right, Rich." Amy said impatiently, "Now let’s fight this guy and get Andrew!"
Impressed by her take-charge attitude and aroused by the slap, I agreed. "We’re here for our friend!" I said to the Monster, "Stand aside!"
He smiled, showing a mouth full of oversized, impossibly white teeth. Then he spoke, his accent a strange mix of Russian, German, Japanese, Pirate, and robot.
"Vell now, comrades, I be ze warden of zis jail, an’ zat doesn’t compute vith me circuit’tree. So I must now wish yer Sayonara! It’s death for ye, you scurvy intruders!" And, having said that, he charged.
Leaping into the air, he simultaneously blocked my sword slash with his blade arm and Amy’s saber stab with his blade leg. (Right arm, left leg, respectively.) We were knocked back by the force of his advance, but leaped immediately back into the fray. Steve, meanwhile, sat finishing his clove cigarette and tuning his guitar. I rushed in and sliced across the Beast’s breastplate, scraping the paint off his emblem, but nothing else. He lifted me with his non-blade hand and threw me across the room. I hit the ground and slid across the surprisingly freshly waxed tiled floor. The Monster then advanced on Amy, taking a heavy swipe at her with his blade arm, she side stepped gracefully and sent a round house kick his way. It caught him in the jaw and sent him staggering back.
I was witnessing this from behind Amy and naturally took time to admire her hot ass before rushing back into battle. I lifted my sword high above my head and brought it crashing down against his blade as he raised it. The clang of steel on steel resounded in the cavernous lobby of doom as we sword fought in circles. Suddenly, his blade retracted into his upper arm and a robotic claw sprang out in it’s place. A similar phenomenon occurred in the region of his left leg. With the fearsome looking claw he snatched my sword from my grasp and hurled it across the room. He then pulled back his robotic fist and would have delivered a fatal blow if suddenly two flashing circles of light hadn’t flown out of nowhere and sliced the claw from his arm and the plume from his hat. We both turned to look.
Amy stood, hair beautifully tussled, eye-brow cocked, holding her remaining Ani CD.
"Yarr!" Spoke the Monster, as he ruefully touched the spot where his impressive plume used to be. And, I must say, angry as I was at him, I was sad to see it go as well, for it had been a nice plume. "Ye will pay a for zat, comrade!"
"Come get some!" said Amy.
We both stood and began to run towards her, then stopped. We looked at each other.
"Not you, Rich." said Amy.
"Oh, sorry." I said sheepishly. "I thought you meant . . . you know . . ."
"Don’t yer sink of anythin’ else?" growled the Monster before turning back to Amy and charging.
They clashed in a shower of sparks, and before long, Amy had been disarmed as well. The Monster dealt her a terrific blow and sent her reeling.
I didn’t hesitate before running towards the Beast and leaping into the air. I landed on his shoulders and rained punch after punch down on his villainous and ethnically mixed face. The Monster tried to shake me off, but my fury was too great.
Finally, he managed to grab my ankle and hold me upside down before him. He began to hit me all over with his robotic stump hand, pummeling my stocky frame. I feared death would soon be upon me, but, through the darkness I saw a radiant form, graceful and shapely, flying through the air. I thought it to be an angel. I wasn’t far off. Amy’s kick caught the Beast in the back of the head, knocking his jaunty hat off completely and sending him crashing face first to the floor. I managed to extricate myself and stagger from the wreckage.
"Are you alright?" we both asked each other at once.
"Jinx!" I said and she playfully slapped me again before gathering me into a hug.
"Well, I guess we can go get Andrew now," I said, a smile crookedly gracing my bloodied face as we walked away from the mass of shattered robot villain.
"It would seem so." Amy answered. We walked toward a huge staircase at the other end of the room.
Suddenly, behind us, we heard a rasping, mechanical, and slightly Nazi-tinged laugh. We froze.
"Oh no," I gasped, "How could Sr. Connie know we’re here?"
"Yarr, me comrade, I be not yer Zistah Connie."
We whirled around to see the Monster advancing toward us, his blade arm back out and ready for slicin’.
"No one, but no one defeats the undead Cap’n Adolf Lenin Huzuki-bot 3500!" the mechanical Beast rasped.
He raised the sword and all we had strength left to do was hold each other and wait for the inevitable.
"Well, It was a fun drive, Rich," said Amy.
"We’ll have to do it again sometime," I joked, a tear running down my cheek.
"You’re not dead yet, kids!" rang out a familiar voice.
The Cap’n spun round, let out a growl of rage, and didn’t even have time to take a step when a laser beam caught him and, blasting a hole in his robotic chest, sent him flying over our heads and down a conveniently placed bottomless pit.
Steve, it seemed, had finished his cigarette.
"Well, screw you, tax-payers," said Steve by way of farewell, and ran off out through the ruined doorway.
Amy and I stood staring after him in disbelief when Andrew came up from behind us, dressed in prison-issue 200 dollar jeans and a retro 70's blue and brown shirt. He tapped us on the backs.
"Guys what the hell. I’ve been waiting here for 8 hours."
We looked at each other, smiled, and turned and punched Andrew in the face, sending him sprawling to the ground, a tangled mass of gangly limbs.
"You know," I remarked to Amy as we headed towards the door, "we still have the drive back to deal with."
"The drive back?," asked Amy, as Steve stepped back through the door way, Tony crashed through the vaulted ceiling in a jet pack, Andrew stood up rubbing his chin, and the Cap’n pulled himself halfway over the edge of the bottomless pit.
"Here we go agaaaaaaaiiiiinnn!" We all said, and burst out laughing.
We got Andrew back just in time to see the show (how’s that for cutting it close?) and, both passing on the musical a second time, headed home to recupe before the cast Party that night.
Well, I think you’ve put up with enough, seriously expect another post in a few days covering everything I left out of this one.
Current Mood: Happy, Confused, a little Anxious, but Amused.
Current Music: Soul Coughing's Soundtrack to Mary
And so, his day's work finally completed, the young scribe went off to search the web for porn, sleazily ever after.
The End?
Okay friends and comrades in words, let us return for a moment whence we last left off . . . .
The last post was published exactly two weeks and one day ago today. The day before it’s completion I had what is known in most medical circles as "a night on the town" with Caitlin. She was in town for the weekend and, as we are usually the bestest of pals, we decided to have ourselves an adventure. Our first stop was Friendly’s for some iced cream, of all things. Then, at midnight, we searched the five county area for an open video store. We found what we were looking for in Blockbuster, the chain I once irrationally hated and now ardently love. I believe the Sugrue family had at one time a membership to that fine institution. I recall it was in the days of my great-grandfather, John Michael Sugrue, co-proprieter of a prominent speak-easy in Holyoke. However, since then the card had fallen into disuse and I was forced to wade through miles of paperwork and navigate a maze of red tape to obtain another one, and thus succeed in renting a movie or three.
No, just kidding. With the help of the obliging and likeable staff, who let me cheat on the single form I had to fill out, I soon obtained a card and brought the glory of Blockbuster membership back to the family.
However, it might not be such a good thing that I did. It seems I’ve become addicted to renting films there. (As I type there are no fewer than 7 Blockbuster videos in my living room.) With it’s helpful and courteous staff, clean, bright, fresh-smelling lobby, and enormous selection, Blockbuster has become my favorite place to be. I love renting movies!
Speaking of which . . . .
Movies: (a haha! I am the king of segues!)
I finally got my mitts on a copy of Things to Do In Denver When You’re Dead, and I’m sorry to say it was a bit of a disappointment. I expected it to be a sharp, lively entry in the Crime Comedy genre. I figured the setting, Denver, would be rustic, snowy, a mountain town like Aspen. I wanted cool, hip, likeable characters. What I got was a tragical entry in the wise guy noir genre. Denver was like a boring version of Detroit. The characters were either odious, pitiful, or wasted, sometimes all three.
The story goes as follows: Retired gangster Jimmy the Saint (Andy Garcia) is struggling to run a beyond the grave message service which lets dying people leave video stories and advice to their loved ones before they die. He is also courting local beauty Gabrielle Anwar. Out of the blue, Jimmy’s old boss, the Man with the Plan (a paraplegic, but still mesmerizing Chris Walken), a bitter and vindictive crime lord, call him back to do one last job. Walken’s son was dumped his college sweet heart, who is now engaged to a cocky lawyer. The son is now a mentally disturbed wreck, and The Man With the Plan figures that if he gets back together with the sweetheart, he’ll become sane again. So all Jimmy has to do is rough the lawyer up a little, get him too scared to marry the girl. He enlists the help of his old crew, the most pitiable and diverse bunch of hard luck thugs to ever botch a job. There’s Franchise, a street-smart trailer park ruffian, played by gravely voiced William Forsythe, Pieces, an aging, yet slick criminal with a skin disease, finely portrayed by always likeable Christopher Lloyd, Big Time, a huge black ex-con (Bill Nunn), and Critical Bill, a bat shit insane ex-boxer made nauseatingly real by Treat Williams. The night of the job, everything that could go wrong does, {Spoiler Alert!} and the group of likeable, but incompetent criminals wind up killing the girl, thus dooming Walken’s son to a life of madness. Walken then marks the unfortunate fivesome for death. Not just any death, either. He calls out "buckwheats." Now, buckwheats, just one of the impressive array of slang terms used in the film, means that a person has been sentenced to the most painful death possible, usually a bullet up the rectal cavity. This would give you a good 15-20 minutes of agonizing pain before death. Walken then commissions the deadliest hit man west of the Mississippi, the frightening Mr. Shhhh (Steve Buscemi) to track the poor guys down and terminate them. Jimmy alone is shown mercy. He is given 48 hours to get out of Dodge, or Denver, in this case. Instead, noble Jimmy the Saint stays in the face of death to look after his friends, attempting to save them.
Aside from Jimmy, there’s not one truly likeable character in the film (with the possible exception of Mr. Shhhh.) On top of this, the setting is dull and the plot overly depressing. Maybe it’s not worth viewing, but the performances are admirable, the slang and dialogue impressive and fun, and many aspects of the movie are original, despite most reviews.
I’ve been seeing a good deal of a certain type of movie lately. A type of movie that has three aspects to it, in some proportion to each other, that I think make a movie great. Things To Do In Denver When You’re Dead had small amounts of these three universal themes. I call them Richard’s Three R’s of Film. If a movie has these, it will, at the very least, be halfway decent and enjoyable to watch, no matter what. They are
Romance
Revenge
Redemption
Romance, the first in my Holy Celluloid Trinity, speaks to both our primal instincts to breed and our higher impulses to find love and acceptance. If done well, nothing is sweeter, and even the ordinarily sappy becomes admirable. (Quick side note, I’ve noticed that, in romantic situations, you can say phrases, make oaths, make declarations, which in any other setting would be laughable, and have them seem okay and, if you’re lucky, even meaningful. And not just seem, really. In such instances they are meaningful. Ain’t romance grand?)
Revenge also speaks to our higher and lower selves. In many ways it stems from an eye-for-an-eye lust for violence, but also, in many ways, a yearning for justice. A primitive, naive understanding of black and white good and bad, and the violent means to balance it, but also a strangely mature knowledge that, many times in today’s world, those violent means are necessary.
And finally Redemption, which appeals to our innate spiritual sense, our hope that, if we try, we may atone for our past sins and reverse fate.
Things To Do In Denver had bits and pieces of these three. Undeniably one of the factors saving it from total lousiness.
Two other films I have seen recently explore all these themes, in some way or other, but mostly the second, revenge. I gotta say, there’s nothin’ better’n a good revenge flick.
First was the new release Man on Fire, with gravitas-saturated Denzel Washington as a washed-up, drunken soldier of fortune turned body guard and astounding Dakota Flanning as the young aristocrat he protects and befriends. The film is based on the true story of a mercenary who becomes the guardian of a young girl in Mexico City, and goes on a rampage of death, torture, mayhem when he finds out she has been kidnaped. The love between Washington’s character, John Crecey, and wee Dakota Flanning is almost tangible. The film does have many heartfelt sentimental moments . . . these, of course, mixed in between Crecey cutting off peoples’ fingers, shooting off their feet, and shoving plastique up their asses. This film, as seemingly every other in existence, also stars Christopher Walken, who hasn’t been truly challenged by a role for decades and is now in self-parodying auto-pilot. The action is strangely subdued, though the violence intense, and, though it seems a jarring disparity between the caring Washington/Flanning scenes and the horrendous acts of torture and bloody retribution when you look back, the film fits together well, and flows as easily as blood from a fresh gunshot wound. Plus, Marc Anthony shoots himself in the face, something which, in this reporter’s opinion, if it occurred in every film, would never be enough.
The second revenge movie was a remake of the Michael Caine classic Get Carter. This update starred Sylvester Stallone as the title character, Jack Carter, a hulking, goateed anti-hero out looking for the lowlives who killed his brother. Along the way he meets some old enemies, Mickey Rourke’s sleazy porn-empire pimp, and makes some new ones, a sexually ambiguous but, as always, annoyingly whiny Alan Cumming. H also mends his shattered relationship with his brother’s widow and befriends her goth-chick daughter, who seems to be drowning in her own teen angst. If ever a movie was an example of style over substance it is this mostly bland and flashy film. Only in the last quarter does it redeem itself (speaking of redemption) as Carter proves that revenge does work (in your face, Michael Caine (who appears in a small cameo role)). Stallone is best when he is either playing the likeable scruffy, sad-eyed dog character who tugs at you heart strings (a la Rocky) or the barley contained energetic comedian (a la Oscar). In this, towards the conclusion, he plays the first mentioned of those. Now, while the film is pretty light and substance less for most of it, ironic, considering the figurative and literal weight of Stallone’s burly enforcer character, it manages to pull itself together for a decent ending.
Ah, we’re not done with you yet, three R’s. In another film I saw recently, aspect of romance and revenge certainly aid I the sub-progression of the films plot. This one was called The Hitcher, and starred the always awesome Rutger Hauer as a maniacal stranger whom cross-country driver and over-all jittery yuppie C. Thomas Howell stops for. The two wind up playing a (here’s a hackneyed phrase for ya) deadly game of cat and mouse along (one more) a deserted stretch of highway. The excitement in this realistic slasher film escalates to the point of madness, and never quite knows when to stop. The film, for as visceral and seemingly visually oriented as it is, relies mainly on the audience using its imagination. To get the full effect of Howell’s plight and obvious terror who have to put yourself in his mind set. In order to be made truly nauseous by most of the violence, you need to imagine what it might be, as the director relies on the unseen brutality, and, in one instance, stomach-lurching side effects. It’s easy to see how this film, relatively forgotten, has influenced every stuck-in-the-desert-with-a-madman movies since then. One problem I had with this film (aside from the fact that Rutger Hauer doesn’t die nearly a painful enough death) is that Hauer doesn’t quite play his part to the full creepy potential. This is another instance of what I have dubbed "The Ref Syndrome" or TRS, for short. The Ref, if you recall, was a comedy about a hapless and frustrated cat burglar (Denis Leary) who kidnaps a yuppie couple who’s marriage is one the rocks (Kevin Spacey and Annette Benning). The film seemed to have all the components of a hilarious comedy, but, because the performances weren’t quite right (the acting was perfect, but the way they acted was off) the film is not very enjoyable to watch. It’s like the with The Hitcher. I know Hauer is a damn fine actor, nut he didn’t come off as quite scary enough. Recalling pieces of the dialogue I can easily see how the writer wrote this character to be exceptionally and frighteningly disturbed, but Hauer doesn’t quite act like the psycho you expect. He’s great, and I’m for originality, but the film lost a good deal of the potential terror the script gave it. If Hauer had had a twitch, or crazy eyes, choppy sentence structure, cliched I know, but it would have helped. Perhaps the problem is Hauer himself. A stocky and imposing Norwegian actor, with Aryan features, he hardly seems the drifter type. Someone with a darker, thinner, hungrier look to them would have done it better. But, it’s still scary and intense, and people do get torn apart by tractor trailers, so, gone on out and see, says I.
From the scary to the comedic, we now discuss Mystery Science Theater 3000. Last Thursday night I had the sublime experience of hanging around with Amy. We rented two films (the second of which I will discuss momentarily, so don’t get your panties in a bind . . . unless you like that sort of thing.) The first film was an episode of the greatest sci-fi cult show of all time. . . alright, sci-fi parody cult show ( I could sense the Trekkies rising in anger against me, and see them marching toward my house with torches and pitchforks and whatnot, dressed like Enterprise crew members and shouting bloody oaths in Klingon) Mystery Science Theater 3000. For those of you who are not familiar with the intricacies of the near-Shakespearean plot, suffice to say that, in the near future, working at a powerful Laboratory owned by a shadowy corporation, is a janitor (Joel or Mike, depending on season.) Well, two mad scientists use the janitor as a Guinea pig in their fiendish experiment, sending the hapless but likeable fellow into the depths of space on the bone-shaped satellite. They plan to see how long a human can handle the strain of isolation without cracking, while watching the worst science fiction films ever made. Well, Joel or Mike, he is a clever-a fella, and he builds-a himself some-a robot friends. There’s the arrogant and wacky Crowe, the level-, or, in this case, gumball machine-headed Tom Servo, the cam bot, who films the group’s misadventures, and Gypsy, the sexy female pilot. So, the show basically consists of two hours worth of Janitor and Crew sitting in front of a gigantic screen and making fun of bad movies.
The one Amy and I had the honor of seeing was the group’s first Western, The Gunslinger, a muddled and cliched mess to be sure. It was alright, but, like with many things, episodes of MST3K are a mixed bag. One may be side-splittingly hilarious, the next, a bit of a dud. This one was decent.
The second movie we saw was the political thriller Spartan, starring my favorite faux pouter, Val Kilmer. The movie was written by David "he’s so cool, sheep count him" Mamet, possibly the best male-dialogue writer of our time. He is the mastermind behind the depressing but admirable Glen Gary, Glen Ross, and the recent Gene Hackman film Heist. The movie Spartan follows the investigation to find the kidnaped daughter of a prominent politician, led by free-agent Kilmer, a Ronin if ever there was one. He’s an ex-Army Ranger who works for any agency (FBI, NSA, CIA . . .) that needs him. Watching it with Amy, the dialogue was slightly laughable, and the action confusing. *Glares at Amy* But, watching it alone, I was able to appreciate what a decent thriller it was. I recommend it to one and all . . . just don’t watch it with Amy.
Sam recently bought two more DVDs, the chubby lil’ rascal. One was the remake of the 80's Dudley Moore film Bedazzled. This one stared Brendan Fraser as the inept and lovesick loser who makes a deal with a sexily scheming Devil, Elizabeth Hurley, for seven wishes. The film is likeably bland and harmlessly funny. Never getting laugh-out-loud results, but always enjoyable. Fraser fits nicely into every one of his fantasy scenarios, and evolves gracefully from nerdish, introverted software programmer to leading man-type normal guy. Hurley is incredibly hot (haha) as the Princess of Darkness, and not a bad actress, for a model turned comedic foil. *For those of you who obtain the special edition DVD and do want some guffaws wrenched from your stomachs, go to the Extended Basketball Scene, in special features.*
The second film Sammy Cordova bought was the special edition of Batman the Movie. Not the darkly kick-ass Burton-Nicholson-Keaton-Elfman masterpiece from 1989. Oh no. It’s the film with the nauseatingly campy 60's Batman, Shatner-rip off Adam West and the I-wish-I-were-gay-so-this-would-make-sense Robin, Burt Ward. The film also stars Burgess Meredith as Jhe Penguin (yes, the tear-wrenching Mickey from the Rocky series), and mustachioed Caesar Romero as The Joker. Yes, he had a mustache. They painted over it with make-up because he refused to shave it. Plan 9 From Outer Space, yes, the I-have-a-bright-idea-let’s-defeat-the-bulletproof-zombie-by-hitting-him-with-a-stick crapfest directed by I-wear-dresses-and-light-paper-plates-on-fire Ed Wood, is arguably the worst movie of all time, but this one gives it a run for it’s money. If I were a harsher person, I’d bash it soundly for defiling the sacred Batman mythos, but I ain’t that mean. It’s at times fun to watch, if only for the "it’s-so-bad-it’s-goodness" of the BAM POW SMASH fight scenes. Go out and see it, but get drunk and high first.
One of my favorite things in the world is a good teen movie. Perhaps part of their worth stems from the fact that the teen movie genre provides a mixed bag, and the real winners are few and far between. For every Breakfast Club or Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, you find twenty or so American Pies and Snowboard Academy’s. Worse still are teen movie disguised as anything but teen movies, like saying Swimfan is a thriller, or the mostly lame and derivative Texas Rangers is a Western. God I hate Usher so much! But that rare, shining diamond in the rough, the genuinely good teen movie, is a beautiful thing. Teenage years are so complicated, formative, and emotionally unstable that film has to have pretty much everything in it to truly capture what it means to be of that age. If it falls short in any way, the loss is blatant and damaging. I recently saw a movie on television called Cheats, the true story of four boys who had, throughout their 13 year of school, mastered the art of cheating. The four boys were likeable variations of the teen movie cliche, and the inter-relationships of the group were fun to watch as the developed. The film used one of the coolest themes to put into anything about school: The old compare-kids-stuff-to-adult-stuff chestnut. This is popularized on the Saturday morning cartoon show Recess. With this theme, everything the kids do is compared to something adults do, putting things in proper perspective, for, little things seem important to us when we are little. I didn’t realize it could be used in the high school years, but it was. Picture a scene in a movie about adults, and it was put in here with kids. The main character sits on a stool at the bar in his basement and moodily sips a glass of water (as opposed to whiskey). The school jock, who seems to be the "big fish criminal" frequently threatens the four anti-heroes (lesser criminals) to do jobs for him. For this, the easy hip dialogue, and the likeable young stars, I enjoyed watching the film. On top of all this, I absolutely love the devil-may-care teen rebel. Growing up, I developed an intense distrust of, dislike of, and contempt for, authority in any form. So the character of the trouble-maker, the rule-breaker, the risk-taker, the . . . uh . . . pie-baker? You know what I mean. That character has always given me someone to root for and identify with, more so than others could. And this film had four of those such characters. It had the two essential parts of a teen film, comedy and tragedy, and it had these in spades. I realized that, as it was a film with low production values, a slightly mediocre, straight to video feel to it, and a Lawrence brother, I should treat it with contempt, but, despite myself, I enjoyed it. The movie, had it failed, would have been accused of trying to hard. But it succeeded, by trying just enough, and was fairly cool because of this. The one aspect of the film that I found missing was the happy ending. The ending wasn’t sad, the main characters graduated from high school unscathed and all. But what bothered me was the total lack of repentance, emotional growth, and proper good feelings. The rigid principal who hinted at being a troublemaker herself in her youth, should have done something at the end out of sympathy for the boys, and thus become a "friend." The side kick should have fallen in love with the beautiful girl who tried to make him stop cheating and start studying. The main character should have made amends with his worried father, who showed over the course of the movie, that he really cared about the lad. I realize it was limited by being based on a true story, and I also realize that, as nothing in real life ever goes that way, the film should be applauded for it’s frank realism and earnest depiction of teenage society and all that similar garbage. But that’s the great thing about teen movies. As realistic as they can be for the bulk of the film, the ending is almost always unrealistically uplifting, because, while they serve as a story showing the troubles of teenage life, they also make us believe that things can turn out better for us. That we can date the prom queen, win the boat race, or out-smart the evil teacher. So damn you, Cheats for nearing perfection and then failing at the very end. Didn’t you learn anything from those teen movies?
Speaking of teens . . . .
Teens love music.
Speaking of which . . . .
Music: (Best segues ever!)
It’s been a while since I included lyrics, and I know y’all been clamorin’ for ‘em, because you read them word for word and don’t slightly skim over them, right? Well, here’re some Soul Coughing snippets that sum up my current feelings:
Throw back the noise,
Grab another one.
Pour out the rum,
I been drunk enough.
I know the sound you made
And I can’t seem to unremind myself.
---- off of Irresistible Bliss, the song Soundtrack to Mary
Her knees thrust in one direction
Like a symbol of math,
A symbol meaning greater than.
I come recommended by
Four outta five.
I am a factor in the whole plan.
----off of Irresistible Bliss, the song Four Out of Five
I listened to a long-forgotten CD of mine on a recent road trip and realized what a fool I’d been for not doing so sooner. It was Lost Songs, the acoustic David Gray CD. I prefer this lilting, peaceful, melancholy Brit wothout his trademark beat machines. Just simple guitar. Maybe a piano solo or real drums here and there. I recommend you bend your ear his way. He has some truly soulful lyrics and light music which blend to make some of the most beautiful music you can hear.
Some David Gray?
Through the lemon tree, diamonds of light
Break and splinter on the pages that I write.
And if I lost you, I don’t know what I’d do
Burn forever where the flame turns blue.
----off Lost Songs, the song Flame Turns Blue
Ever since your fingertips
Ever since your eyes
Talking with the light on
Bluer skies
Even if I wanted to
How could I explain
Coming through my head now
This Tidal Wave
All your favorite eyelashes
All your bluest skin
Bring them and I’ll meet you in
That room again.
Even if I told it true
Why should they believe
Coming through my head now
This Tidal Wave
Tidal Wave
Coming over Waterloo
Dreaming of your hands
Want to run away now
Foreign lands.
Even as I lie with you
Listen to you breathe
Coming through me head yeah
This Tidal Wave
Tidal Wave
Tidal Wave
----off Lost Songs, the song Tidal Wave
I’ve also been listening to my favorites, Soul Coughing. El Oso, though it contains one of their best songs, Circles, is their worst CD. They are truer to themselves with the neo-jazz of Ruby Vroom and the soulful blues pop of Irresistible Bliss.
The Blue Man Group are always good, especially when joined by Dave Matthews.
Benny Goodman is surprisingly likeable as well. I normally don’t go for big-band swing, but he’s damn good.
Green Day are alright. Definitely kings in their genre. And Robbie Williams needs release another damn CD.
And now, for some more lyrics, how about a little Elton John?
From a well known song of his called "P-p-p-penny and the Vets!" Okay, his song is actually "Benny and the Jets," but it just so happens to rhyme with the above subject, and so leads me into a paragraph about my dog. So Penny was running around . . . hmm . . . Penny and the Vets . . . that’s just crazy enough to work as a parody. Where’s that incorrigible bastard Yankovick when you need him?
Anyway, Penny was running around my uncle Marc’s 40 acres in Belchertown, and apparently got something in her widdle eye. She didn’t let on until the next morning, when it became irritated. Poor lil’ trooper . . . she hid it as long as she could. I had no idea what was wrong, so I brought her to the veterinary hospital in Granby. For a scary moment the doctor believed it to be ulcers in her eyes. Luckily it was merely an allergic reaction. So, several score eye-drops and much tender loving care later Pen is on the mend. I considered getting her an eyepatch while her eye healed, but my idea was shot down by reality and Penny’s stubborn refusal to dress like a lil’ pirate. Stupid bitch. But she got more pity walks and plenty of table scraps out of the deal, so she’s fine. Worry not, fair readers, Penny is fine.
This all happened when I was at my Uncle Marc’s house, splitting wood on his mammoth lot, every square yard of which is covered with piles of fire wood, stacks of boards, pyramids of logs. I was there helping out the rugged relative by splitting wood. Straining my sinews, lifting massive chunks of wood and rending them into pieces. Some good physical labor is necessary for a healthy life. Another fun thing to do is trying to run up a 1,000 foot tall mountain. And not the sissy way of the road, but by taking the manly path which is the . . . uh . . . path. That’s right, I managed to run halfway up Mt. Skinner along the trail recently, and hope to eventually make it to the top.
After this nothing that eventful happened until two Fridays ago when I went to see Holyoke Catholic’s production of Guys and Dolls. I will come clean and admit that over the course of my 4 years at Catholic, with a possible 5 musicals I could have gone to, I went to 2. Fiddler on the Roof and Godspell, both in my senior year. Thus, when judging an HCHS musical by HCHS standards, I am sadly limited. So, when I say that Guys and Dolls is the second best musical I have seen at the school in my life, it is not that impressive a review, all things considered. However, I know that Holyoke Catholic productions are some of the best in Western Massachusetts, despite what the chicks at MHC (and for those of you who do not know, MHC stands for Mount Holyoke College. So stop asking me, you twits!) say. I know that Catholic has some of the most talented young singers, actors, songwriters, and artists I’ve ever seen. I know that Mr. Goddu, aside from being "one of the ones" as far as I’m concerned, is also a gifted and (com)passionate director. So, all things re-considered, perhaps that is a fine compliment, after all.
The sets for Guys and Dolls were impressive, but not overdone. Every piece of stage decor, the signs especially, added to the well-crafted gaudy 1940's feel of the show. Even Dr. Todd Riveli, a man I normally despise, showed up in costume. That was a first for the good doctor as far as I know, and I liked it. It added to the believability of the show.
The acting was mixed, but in most cases impressive, from Jason Frank’s hilariously over-the-top Nathan Detroit (yes, Jay, it’s called over-acting, get used to it) to James Haskin’s understatedly cool Sky Masterson. (Oddly enough, James bears a startling resemblance to another Sky Masterson, that god of improv acting, the late Marlon Brando. There was a fair share of improvisation as well. In one scene, Adam Goddu (Nathan Detroit’s henchman Nicely Nicely Johnson) possibly the most talented student Catholic has seen in decades, takes an angry bite of his sandwich. Purely improvised, so I’m told. Well, done, Adam, to say you did nicely nicely would be a grave understatement. Also perfect were Nathan Detroit’s other lackeys, Pat Dandrea’s deadpan dopey Benny Southwest, and Mike Pytka’s laughably sleazy Rusty Charlie. Martina Denoyers, though, was the bees knees that night in my opinion. With her squeaking Miss Adelaide conveying just the right mixture of bossiness and vulnerability. The accents were fantastic as well, all blatantly fake, but for comedic value perfect. The best parts of the production though were arguably the underrated bit players, the cops, the thieves, the"urban cowboy," Yo-hootie Lanford’s strutting Cuban Lothario, Jenn Murray’s slinking lady of the evening, and, who can forget, wee San Sugrue’s perfectly plastered drunk.
The musical numbers were done with a good deal more enthusiasm than one is likely to find in a high school production. Though, at ain’t saying much, and rightly so. (Smile, people.) But the vocals were top-notch, as one would expect from Catholic, and even the dance numbers were decent.
All in all a great night out (especially because of the company).
After the show we all retired to the perennial HCHS after-play spot, Ruby Tuesdays. I kinda got us lost, and by us I refer, dear reader, to myself, my brother, and two sexy ladies, Caitlin and the Amazing Amy. I also succeeded in getting Amy wet. Because my window leaks, you pervert! And closing her hand in said window. Because I’m a jackass. But, when we arrived, we were able to mingle and chat, especially with Steve and his bandmate Chris. The damn waiting staff didn’t get us menus until a half hour after we got there, and then didn’t wait on us until after the kitchen had closed, the bastards! But in most respect, a good time was had by all.
Amy and I each went to sleep around the Witching Hour in preparation for the next day’s errand of mercy. We awoke at 5:30 in the morning, I’m assuming, each stumbled out of bed, and reunited outside Amy’s dorm for 6:30. Why did you do this to yourselves? many of you critical readers are asking? Well, I’ll tell you why. We had vowed to travel to the far side of the northern-most New England state to rescue our comrade in craziness, Andrew "Jackson" LeTellier. So, after a brief stop to stock up on the necessaries, we were on the road, on a mission, on speed.
The route is simple enough, Rt 33 to Mass Pike (I-90), to 290, to I-95 to 495, to Maine, and then a few zigs and a couple zags and you’re there. St Joseph’s College, or, as I have dubbed it, The Abu Graide of Maine. From this impenetrable fortress patrolled by zombie Commie-Nazi robot pirate ninjas, marching around walls 20 feet thick and 50 feet high, with cannons that were actually lasers capable of emitting pure anti-matter beams of destruction, from this place, from this monolithic cyclopean compound, we had to save our friend.
So on the way, eating our bagels and listening to various music and stand-up comedy, we chatted amiably about people we hate, pop culture, and politics.
One would think that it would have been easy to get there, but it was actually one of the most trying ordeals I have ever been put through. Because I was repeatedly and remorselessly lead astray by a beautiful woman, who’s whereabouts are unknown, I was forced to ask for more directions, pay more tolls, and do more U-turns on that one trip than ever before in my life. The estimated time, according to the outdated maps we had brought with us, was 3 and ½ hours. We were on the road for 8. 8 hours of driving through desolate country infested with murderous looking hub-cabs and crayola-crayon-green lions, perched on pillars, guarding gates. What? You ask. Whaaaaaa? You stammer again. Rich, surely not 8, you say. 2 hours over I’d believe, 3 hours over I’d understand, but 4 and a half hours over? Yes indeed. As I said, the strain placed on my nerves from the trip and the prospect of what was waiting for us at our destination, as well as frequent assault from curbs, and being led astray by beautiful a woman, caused me to become lost worse than anyone ever before in the history of travel.
Upon reaching our destination, we rammed the gates and in so doing took out a good half dozen guards and at least two laser cannons. Shards of stone and steel flew before us as we crashed into the compound’s outer layer. We sped along the narrow roads lined with dungeons to a plateau of sorts, near a lake of sulfuric acid, bubbling and frothing with venomous green menace.
We exited the car and pulled out our weapons. I was carrying a rocket launcher, two shotguns, a short sword, and a stack of dirty magazines . . . you know, just in case. Amy had what appeared to be a futuristic looking cavalry saber, twin sub machine guns, a concussion grenade cannon, and a stack of razor sharp throwing disks which were in reality double and triple copies of Ani DiFranco CD’s. We loaded our weapons and strode boldly forth into the ranks of zombie Commie-Nazi . . . uh . . . pirate dragon . . . uh . . . whatever I said they were. There had to be, at first glance, at least 107 of them. Daunted? Yes? Excited? Judging by our nipple erections, you know it. But cowed? Never! We laughed in the rotting robotic masked and eyepatch covered faces. Then, with a cry which would have given the Confederates pause to think, we charged in.
Firing, slashing, striking, lashing out at anything which presented itself, we heroically dispatched half of the evil horde. But reinforcements had arrived and we were growing tired and wounded with each passing minute. I fired out into the advancing legions with my rocket launcher, and a scream like that of a bird of prey rent the air as the missile blasted forth. At the same time, to my right, Amy rocked the evil metallic socks of the enemy with blasts from her concussion grenades.
Soon we out of ammunition and down to fighting hand to hand. It seems our years of studying combat under the great and venerable Master Lee Ho Fok were not in vain. I struck and parried with my short sword, slicing limbs from the beastly guards while Amy, fast as lightning, stabbed with the saber and expertly hurled Ani CD’s with a deadly accuracy. As valiantly as we fought, we were outgunned and outnumbered, and the ranks slowly closed in on us.
Suddenly, as the very sky seemed to darken from the masses of enemies, a strange but familiar whistle sounded and Tony, dressed in Protoman armor and piloting the Slave I flew in out of nowhere, both ion cannons blazing. "I was on my way back from Worcester and thought I’d drop by." He yelled from the cockpit. "Go get Andrew, you two, I can handle these mechanized monsters!"
Giving him a thankful wave and ignoring his lame ass alliteration, we skirted the edge of the horde, now intent on shooting the new aerial menace out of the sky.
We made it to the central tower, an imposing structure, 200 feet high and made of soot-black metal. Ripping the heavy door from it’s hinges with my Hulk-like strength, we rushed inside the forbidding stronghold. What we were faced with would have to be seen to be believed.
Standing before us was a giant of a man, at least 10 feet tall and 5 feet wide. He was heavily muscled and dangerous looking, slightly hunched over, as if ready to charge. He was covered in the black garb of the ninjas, but had robotic armor bearing both the hammer and sickle and the swastika on opposite spiked shoulder plates. Also, he had a sword for a hand and another sword for a leg. He wore a large, tri-corner plumed hat on his massive head, which was covered in thick, black hair, the same tangled mess as his beard. He glared at us from mismatched eyes, one soot black and the other red and surrounded by assorted machinery. The most disturbing thing about his appearance, aside from the fact that he looked about ready to kill us, was the emblem painted on his breast plate. A red and white umbrella!
I gasped audibly. "Egads!" I said, "This whole place is owned and operated by the nefarious Umbrella Corporation!"
"The what?" asked Amy, eyeing me with suspicion.
"Jeezum Crow!" I cried, my dismay at her lack of pop culture knowledge obvious in all three syllables.
"Don’t you mean Jesum Crow?" asked Steve, stepping from behind a pillar, clove cigarette in one hand, laser shooting guitar in the other.
"That’s what I said."
"No, you spelled it ‘J-E-E-Z-U-M." explained Steve, a mischievous smile on his face.
"No, you’re wrong, then." I wittily quipped back. "You see, in print the word ‘geez’ appear----
I was cut short by Amy giving me a tremendous slap to the face which spun me completely around in a circle and left me blinking like a dazed cow.
"Steve is right, Rich." Amy said impatiently, "Now let’s fight this guy and get Andrew!"
Impressed by her take-charge attitude and aroused by the slap, I agreed. "We’re here for our friend!" I said to the Monster, "Stand aside!"
He smiled, showing a mouth full of oversized, impossibly white teeth. Then he spoke, his accent a strange mix of Russian, German, Japanese, Pirate, and robot.
"Vell now, comrades, I be ze warden of zis jail, an’ zat doesn’t compute vith me circuit’tree. So I must now wish yer Sayonara! It’s death for ye, you scurvy intruders!" And, having said that, he charged.
Leaping into the air, he simultaneously blocked my sword slash with his blade arm and Amy’s saber stab with his blade leg. (Right arm, left leg, respectively.) We were knocked back by the force of his advance, but leaped immediately back into the fray. Steve, meanwhile, sat finishing his clove cigarette and tuning his guitar. I rushed in and sliced across the Beast’s breastplate, scraping the paint off his emblem, but nothing else. He lifted me with his non-blade hand and threw me across the room. I hit the ground and slid across the surprisingly freshly waxed tiled floor. The Monster then advanced on Amy, taking a heavy swipe at her with his blade arm, she side stepped gracefully and sent a round house kick his way. It caught him in the jaw and sent him staggering back.
I was witnessing this from behind Amy and naturally took time to admire her hot ass before rushing back into battle. I lifted my sword high above my head and brought it crashing down against his blade as he raised it. The clang of steel on steel resounded in the cavernous lobby of doom as we sword fought in circles. Suddenly, his blade retracted into his upper arm and a robotic claw sprang out in it’s place. A similar phenomenon occurred in the region of his left leg. With the fearsome looking claw he snatched my sword from my grasp and hurled it across the room. He then pulled back his robotic fist and would have delivered a fatal blow if suddenly two flashing circles of light hadn’t flown out of nowhere and sliced the claw from his arm and the plume from his hat. We both turned to look.
Amy stood, hair beautifully tussled, eye-brow cocked, holding her remaining Ani CD.
"Yarr!" Spoke the Monster, as he ruefully touched the spot where his impressive plume used to be. And, I must say, angry as I was at him, I was sad to see it go as well, for it had been a nice plume. "Ye will pay a for zat, comrade!"
"Come get some!" said Amy.
We both stood and began to run towards her, then stopped. We looked at each other.
"Not you, Rich." said Amy.
"Oh, sorry." I said sheepishly. "I thought you meant . . . you know . . ."
"Don’t yer sink of anythin’ else?" growled the Monster before turning back to Amy and charging.
They clashed in a shower of sparks, and before long, Amy had been disarmed as well. The Monster dealt her a terrific blow and sent her reeling.
I didn’t hesitate before running towards the Beast and leaping into the air. I landed on his shoulders and rained punch after punch down on his villainous and ethnically mixed face. The Monster tried to shake me off, but my fury was too great.
Finally, he managed to grab my ankle and hold me upside down before him. He began to hit me all over with his robotic stump hand, pummeling my stocky frame. I feared death would soon be upon me, but, through the darkness I saw a radiant form, graceful and shapely, flying through the air. I thought it to be an angel. I wasn’t far off. Amy’s kick caught the Beast in the back of the head, knocking his jaunty hat off completely and sending him crashing face first to the floor. I managed to extricate myself and stagger from the wreckage.
"Are you alright?" we both asked each other at once.
"Jinx!" I said and she playfully slapped me again before gathering me into a hug.
"Well, I guess we can go get Andrew now," I said, a smile crookedly gracing my bloodied face as we walked away from the mass of shattered robot villain.
"It would seem so." Amy answered. We walked toward a huge staircase at the other end of the room.
Suddenly, behind us, we heard a rasping, mechanical, and slightly Nazi-tinged laugh. We froze.
"Oh no," I gasped, "How could Sr. Connie know we’re here?"
"Yarr, me comrade, I be not yer Zistah Connie."
We whirled around to see the Monster advancing toward us, his blade arm back out and ready for slicin’.
"No one, but no one defeats the undead Cap’n Adolf Lenin Huzuki-bot 3500!" the mechanical Beast rasped.
He raised the sword and all we had strength left to do was hold each other and wait for the inevitable.
"Well, It was a fun drive, Rich," said Amy.
"We’ll have to do it again sometime," I joked, a tear running down my cheek.
"You’re not dead yet, kids!" rang out a familiar voice.
The Cap’n spun round, let out a growl of rage, and didn’t even have time to take a step when a laser beam caught him and, blasting a hole in his robotic chest, sent him flying over our heads and down a conveniently placed bottomless pit.
Steve, it seemed, had finished his cigarette.
"Well, screw you, tax-payers," said Steve by way of farewell, and ran off out through the ruined doorway.
Amy and I stood staring after him in disbelief when Andrew came up from behind us, dressed in prison-issue 200 dollar jeans and a retro 70's blue and brown shirt. He tapped us on the backs.
"Guys what the hell. I’ve been waiting here for 8 hours."
We looked at each other, smiled, and turned and punched Andrew in the face, sending him sprawling to the ground, a tangled mass of gangly limbs.
"You know," I remarked to Amy as we headed towards the door, "we still have the drive back to deal with."
"The drive back?," asked Amy, as Steve stepped back through the door way, Tony crashed through the vaulted ceiling in a jet pack, Andrew stood up rubbing his chin, and the Cap’n pulled himself halfway over the edge of the bottomless pit.
"Here we go agaaaaaaaiiiiinnn!" We all said, and burst out laughing.
We got Andrew back just in time to see the show (how’s that for cutting it close?) and, both passing on the musical a second time, headed home to recupe before the cast Party that night.
Well, I think you’ve put up with enough, seriously expect another post in a few days covering everything I left out of this one.
Current Mood: Happy, Confused, a little Anxious, but Amused.
Current Music: Soul Coughing's Soundtrack to Mary
And so, his day's work finally completed, the young scribe went off to search the web for porn, sleazily ever after.
The End?
4 Comments:
There are no words to describe the insanity which has just passed before my eyes. I mean... wow. But bravo, that's an amazing 7800 some odd words you've just put out there. Keep up the good work.
By
Dan-o, at 4:57 PM
*whistle*
Hahahahaha . . . well played, Mr. Sanchez. By far, that was on of the most enjoyable posts you've ever written. I will be re-reading it to ensure that I pick up all the brilliant subtleties of your writing, especially those capable of emitting a beam of pure anti-matter.
I thank you for including me in your whimsical adventure, and kudos for not automatically associating me with a sword-swinging ninja (though I am). I'm a geek, too. Good to be recognized.
I have Megaman the Animated Series on DVD. You have the original Batman. Do you know what this means? MOVIE NIGHT!
I'll be home next weekend, but work on a way of transporting yourself up here sometime. I miss ye, and the Cait!
Oh, and tell Amy I say "hi." She be a fine lass and I be wishin' 'er my regards. On that note, see if her or Andrew knows anything about the Christian Rock Festival . . . as in, if it's happening again and if anyone's interested in a reunion at that time.
But now, like a flash of swiftness, I leave!
By
Zoopers, at 5:01 PM
Wow, that was kuh-rayzee! This young scribe knows how to put it down... There are a few historical inacuracies in your post though. 'Cmon, man. Quality control: We watched Spartan BEFORE 3000, Andrew's shirt was blue and TAN, and you totally glazed over the elfin dagger, underneath my pant-leg, strapped to m'boot. :)
Oh, and tell Tony that, thanks, he's a fine lass too.
By
Anonymous, at 10:15 PM
Yay for me!
By
Zoopers, at 12:12 AM
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