Today is the one day anniversary of the universe collapsing into itself, utterly destroying known reality and causing whoever writes the past-life-support comic Mary Worth to decide to include a quote from Lo-Fi tunesmith Daniel Johnston as part of their Sunday strip. Other instances of inappropriate use of Danny's music includes MasterCard using anonymous session singers cooing "To Go Home" during an ad for their MLB tie-in causing YHP to shoot Michelob out of his nose while watching a Cubs game.
I apologize for the lateness of this post. Truthfully, it took me until just now to process what has happened. Indeed, the last 24 hours have been a blur to me, and maybe to you as well. But I think I've pulled myself together enough by now to give my two cents in reaction to the news that has rocked the very foundation of fake wrestling.
I am speaking, of course of the release of Gene Snitsky by WWE Entertainment.
I know I'm a fool for not seeing this coming. When he was relegated to the "new ECW" I should have sensed a change in Vince's feelings toward the big man. After he was given the gimmick of "large generic psychopath #216" by the creative crew, I should have seen the end coming. But as much as they tried to change Gene, they could never change the way he was seen by me and all the other Snitskyologists around the world. To us, he would always be a unborn-child-murdering foot fetishist.
Gene in happier times
True, he was never a mat technician. He may not have been able to execute a shooting star press or a Topé con Hilo. But from the minute he hit Kane from behind with a chair after their match was over, accidentally knocking him into Lita and causing her to miscarry Kane's unborn son, I think we all knew he was something special. It's easy to forget he resisted at first - leading to that catch phrase that played on everyone's lips those chilly fall nights back in 2004: "It wasn't my fault!" But I think that even then, he knew what he was saying was against his very nature, and in time he came to accept his fate. This, of course, led to some of the very best moments in pseudo-sport history, including this classic exchange between Gene and another wrestling light that was dimmed too early, John Heidenreich:
Alas, I feel my words may not truly convey my melancholy over this shocking turn of events. Luckily, I know someone who's more experienced with documenting the lives and legacies of the best grapplers of our times, Dave Meltzer. The Meltz's experience in chronicling pro-wrestling goes back decades, starting in 1987 with his publication of the premier wrestling newsletter (or "dirt sheet") in America today, the Wrestling Observer. Along the way, he has become known for writing some of the most moving and complete obituaries* about some of the greatest wrestlers in history, eventually publishing not one, but two books on the subject. Here I include the entire tribute from the Thursday, Dec. 11th online newsletter:
--Snitsky was released today by WWE
As concise and as moving as always.
So farewell gentle Snitsky. Wherever you turn now, may you leave a trail of murdered babies in your wake.
*- Yeah, I know Gene's not technically dead, but there's no fucking way I'm going to watch TNA. Don West's voice gives me hives.
About four or five years ago, YHP went through a period he likes to call his "samurai phase" after taking home Akira Kurosawa's epic "Seven Samurai" from the local library and giving it a gander on one lazy Saturday afternoon. This ultimately achieved two ends: One, it made him a huge Kurosawa geek, gobbling up almost everything the great director ever did including the little watched but brilliant character study The Lower Depths and even his deeply weird aborted comeback, the hard-to-pronounce Dodesukaden. And two, it piqued a general interest in Samurai movies of the early 60's to the point that he wore a ridiculous, thrown together samurai outfit to a Halloween party which included his eight-year-old's plastic toy sword. Thankfully, he grew out of the samurai part of this phase before purchasing a set of real samurai swords from eBay (although he spent a LOT of time searching through them), but he still enjoys an IFC broadcast of Yojimbo from time to time.
Fast forward five years and YHP has finally re-activated his NetFlix account after finally getting tired of playing superhero and canceling his City Of Heroes subscription. NetFlix will apparently save your queue long after you are dead, so all of his previous selections are still there, including a Chicago Bears documentary and Lone Wolf and Cub: Sword of Vengeance. Now, to be honest, he really doesn't recall exactly why or how that specific movie made his queue (instead of say one of, say, Sword of Doom which he STILL hasn't seen all the way through), but in the interest of cleaning up his list, he moved it up and, along with the first DVD of the 3rd season of the re-launched Dr. Who, finally received it over the long Thanksgiving holiday. After watching it last night, lets just say it KILLS him that he went so long without viewing it.
Beautifully filmed, wonderfully written and raunchy and violent as fuck, LW&C:SOV is just magnificent. Tomisaburo Wakayama is perfect as Ogami Ittō, the "Lone Wolf" of the title - most of his screen time is spent walking around pushing his Baby Cart Of Certain Death with a permanent scowl on his face. He speaks little, but makes every subtitled word count. LW&C:SOV also avoids the pitfall that so many other films fall into, the unpredictable performance of child actors. In most films, even the most experienced kid can ruin a scene with a forced line reading or problems with being able to "tone down" a performance. Part of the reason is script never called for Akihiro Tomikawa to deliver any lines apart from a few coos, but make no mistake, director Kenji Misumi uses the younger of the duo to great effect - especially the scene where, with his world crumbling around him, Ittō forces his son to make a decision between the toy ball (joining his wife in the afterlife, i.e. dying at his father's hand) or the sword (becoming a wandering assassin with his father). It's one of the most awesome scenes he's seen in any movie, and when Ittō remarks that it would have been easier for his son if he had chosen the ball, you'll understand exactly where he's coming from.
Another great thing about the movie is it's depiction of the anti-hero. The protagonist of LW&C:SOV isn't a cuddly fellow. In fact, when he pieces together the treachery that causes him to be disgraced from his Shogun, he matter-of-factly states "I have decided to become a demon" and considering his first appearance in the film is acting as an official executioner of what looks like a seven-year-old boy, it's really not much of a step down. But Wakayama plays him with such an air of menace and dread that the viewer just can't help but eagerly watch to see who he's going to fuck up next.
Did I mention the movie also features buckets of blood spraying out of various orifices both natural and man-made? 'Cause it does! Titties, too! At times it's like a glimpse into a 14-year-old boy's id shot in vivid technicolor. So buy it or rent it or live it, but for God's sake SEE IT. Meanwhile, YHP is filling up his queue - the DVD also included trailers for a few of the 5 other Lone Wolf & Cub movies.
Oh, right. The next movie on the list is the horrible action movie Shotgun he's going to take to a little get-together this weekend.
But after that, it's back to the Land of Hungry Ghosts.
Months and months of hype has finally, FINALLY led up to this moment. Years of planning, thousands of dollars, tons and tons of bickering and spiteful rhetoric has finally led to this. This is our shining moment on the hill, our chance to be something bigger than ourselves and participate in a scenario that will change the course of human history as we know it. Brothers and sisters, I am here to tell you that it has not all been in vain - Fallout 3 is a pretty good game.
Bethesda has managed to make a game that will satisfy most of the diehard Fallout series fans and casual gamers alike. Aside from a few problems with the game locking up on me (fixed, I think, by clearing out the hard drive cache), it has delivered on all fronts - an engaging story, solid and easy-to-pick-up gameplay and, form what I've heard, quite a bit of replay value. With that in mind, I give Fallout 3 a 5/6 quarters erection:
Also, today is election day for this country so it's a good time to post another patented IGBALOH Pointless List!
And go vote. Or don't. Me? I probably won't because I think this voting thing is for queers.
TOP 7 THINGS THAT HAPPENED DURING THE '08 ELECTION THAT I CAN PUT INTO LIST FORM
7. THE MCCAIN GIRLS
Hey! Remember the McCain Girls? These lovely ladies appeared on the scene early on in the campaign with everyone's favorite electoral provocation, song parodies! Clever little ditties like the one above and "Here Comes McCain Again" cheered up one sector of the electorate which desperately needed it and enraged the other which sometimes needs to chill a little. Of course, it all turned out to be a hoax perpetrated by one H. Jon Benjamin, who, apparently expanding his horizons beyond pulling fast ones on infants, had to be laughing at the whole mess from the sidelines.
6. LARRY SINCLAIR
Back in 1999, a dashing young rogue by the name of Larry Sinclair found himself alone in Chicago, IL and met a man who inquired if Mr. Sinclair may have a taste for certain illicit pharmaceuticals and some company for the evening. When Mr. Sinclair agreed, this person naturally called the state representative's office and a certain young Mr. Barack Obama was on the case! Arriving at the upscale hotel lobby, the two eventually absconded to the back of a rented limo where crack-smoking and head-giving abounded! And yet, to this day, Senator Obama refuses to recognize this special night even occured! And the mainstream media, of course, just ignores it because Mr. Sinclair failed a lie detector test. FOR SHAME!
5. MALCOLM X, JR.
But not all journalists are so yellow! One intrepid blogger by the name of Pam Geller has stumbled upon the story of the century and she is shouting it from the highest blogmountain! While going over the reams and reams of evidence that Barack Obama is not a U.S. citizen and therefor CANNOT possibly run for president, Ms. Geller uncovered unmistakeable proof that Barack Hussein Obama is, in actuallity, Barack X! It's hard to discount these allegations, especially since, oh, I don't know... THEY LOOK EXACTLY ALIKE! OPEN YOUR EYES PEOPLE!
4. ASHLEY TODD
Man, does election season bring out the crazies. When Ashley when to the Pittsburg 5-0 with some fucked up story about how she was mutilated by a crazed negro Obama supporter, Drudge was all over that shit. Instead of muttering stuff about ACORN and blaming the growing support for Obama's campaign on the popularity of black celebrities, all the closet racists had something concrete to point to. That is, of course, until the wacko finally confessed she made it all up.
3. JOE THE BOM-AHH JOE THE PLUMMER
Smell that? It's a fresh marketing gimmick, straight out of the RNC's labs! You would have thought Joe Wurzelbacher had proved Barack Obama was the anti-christ and then strangled him with his bare hands on his own front lawn instead of had just having a polite discussion about economics. Of course, once the meme had traction Joe and Sara did their damnest to shoehorn it into any and all interviews regardless of whether it was pertinent or not. Hence, the video above.
2. SARAH FUCKING PALIN
THE QUESTION WASN'T ABOUT FUCKING BILL AYERS YOU FUCKING CUNT. DO YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING ANSWERS THAT DON'T INVOLVE JOE THE FUCKING PLUMMER BILL FUCKING AYERS OR KARL FUCKING MARX YOU SPASTIC FUCKING HALFWIT? IF YOU HAVE TO TAILOR YOUR ANSWER IN SUCH A WAY AS TO NOT OFFEND THE FUCKING ABORTION CLINIC BOMBER DEMOGRAPHIC THEN YOU HAVE SOME SERIOUS PROBLEMS LADY.
This woman will be president one day.
1. IOWA PICKS OBAMA
In the weeks leading up to the Iowa caucus this year I kept hearing an echo. This echo returns every four years and it says basically the same thing: "What's so goddamn special about Iowa?" "How come those farmers get to go first every year?". Well, besides the obvious ( e.g. someone has to, you douche) I'd say it's first in the nation status can be put down to the fact that nobody usually gives a shit about Iowa. We don't have any large population centers. No grand structures. I doubt Des Moines is in the running for the Olympics anytime soon. But once a fucking year, the arcane and unknowable electoral process forces all Americans to cast a glance towards the middle of the country for a split second, and without an Iowan in the race, this year's caucus was up for grabs.
And Iowa nailed it.
And for the first time in my life, I'm really proud of my state.
One thing that struck me about The Human Tornado was a scene in which Dolemite, on the run from a racist sheriff is forced to hitchhike back to California. He is picked up by a guy who is one of those 70's cartoonish homosexual characters that always seem to take the brunt of the "hero"'s pent up masculinity in these types of movies, usually resulting in either deviant's gruesome demise or at least a macho ass whompin' with a bunch of homophobic slurs thrown in for good measure. Instead, the lisping stereotype chauffeurs Dolemite and his crew to L.A. and is eventually thanked by the Bad Motherfucker and leaves the film happy and in one piece! I have to say I was surprised and a little touched by that development.
He's kicking honky ass in heaven now.
Monday, October 20, 2008
As you can see (or maybe you can't - apparently I live in a cave), I've been busy.
BONUS MEAT PHOTO - MUST CREDIT YHP!!!!!:
While I was uploading the above video, I stumbled upon some photos taken earlier of my son's birthday party including this one of Godfather's Pizza's All Meat Combo:
So here's how YHP decides which movies to record on his DVR: during the commercial breaks for baseball and football games, he uses his TV remote's "guide" function to scan all of the movie channels looking specifically for movies that were made between the years of 1970-1990 that he has never heard of. I'm actually kind of at a loss to why I do this, but I've so far settled on an overall weariness to the concept of irony which is omnipresent in most films produced within the last few years. Conversely, I could just be an old fart yearning for a simpler time or an elitist, pretentious douchebag looking for something to snicker at. Whatever works.
Anywho, he sees a movie labeled "Shivers" produced in 1973 which doesn't ring any bells with him and reads the plot summary which describes the movie as a horror film set in an apartment building that involves parasites. This hits all his requirements so he hits record.
Later he has some freinds over and, looking for something to watch and discuss, decides to watch the first few minutes and see what he captured and almost immediately is treated to what looks like footage from a snuff film - an overweight, older gentleman has set upon a schoolgirl in what looks like a hotel room and at first, it looks like he's trying to rape her. Turns out, he's just trying to strangle her and cut her open with a knife, but really the first impression is that this is a fucking ugly-ass movie. YHP's friends leave and he stops the film and considers deleting it, but reconsiders. After all, how bad could it be? As it turns out, it's pretty fucking bad.
The acting is wooden and the actors are uniformly ugly and often nude. The location is ugly, a Montreal high-rise full of small, dingy apartments. Child actors are put into sexual situations, including a lovely scene where two snarling eight-year-olds in bikinis are led around on a leash. The plot is laughable with scenes of homosexuality and incest seemingly inserted randomly to "shock" the viewer. It has a kind of standard, "zombie apocalypse" kind of ending, where the unappealing hero is swarmed under by rapist zombies and a coda that hints that this is but the first battle in the global war on oily, horny parasite hosts.
Finally my curiosity gets the better of me and I Wiki this film only to find out something I missed during the credits - this is David Cronenberg's first film!
Now the dream-like logic of the film kinda makes sense, and the preoccupation with sexual issues. Also, the bad dialogue and corny, laughable actions of the hero make sense - it's a great director's stumbling first stab at a full-length film!
So, yeah, see it if you have a chance. It's got that classic 70's decor and fashion up the wazoo. Just be prepared to watch some of the ugliest people ever shot on film (including a man who's looks improve when several parasites get stuck to his face) and some creepy sexual situations ("Have you met my daughter, Erica? She's a very beautiful girl. Come here, Erica. I just know you'll like my daughter, Erica.").
5. JIM ROSS - Yeah, that's right! I'm courting controversy with the very first pick! That's just how I roll! Considered by many the greatest hype-man in wrestling today, Good 'Ole J.R. is easily recognized as the voice of today's WWE despite recently being taken off of the flagship show of the promotion and being shuttled over to the lesser, taped program Smackdown. Make no mistake, the version of J.R. currently pushing such luminaries as The Great Kali and Festus bears only a passing resemblance to the man who called the action during such classics as Ric Flair Vs. Ricky Steamboat from WrestleWar '89.
4. JOEY STYLES - Criminally underrated. I think Joey brought a great understated enthusiasm and sardonic humor to the ugly stepchild of wrestling that was ECW back in the 90's. Looking slightly sleazy in his cheap suit and slicked back hair, he was the perfect carnival barker for the promotion's weird, wild mix of extreme violence, in-your-face sexuality and piss-taking, surreal promos. While I admit I don't currently watch the tamed, corporate "ECW" that they show on Spike (or is it Sci-Fi?) anymore, I still look forward to new episodes of The History of ECW on WWE24/7 which are introduced by Taz and Joey who provide insight while acting like old high school chums reminicing about the good old days when they barely made enough money to get by.
3. LANCE RUSSELL - The eternally put-upon broadcaster for CWA in Memphis. "Banana-Nose" had a great, plain-spoken speaking style that brought a great deal of weight to the sometimes ridiculous happenings around him. Of all the announcers on this list, Lance might be the most recognizable to non-fans of wrestling - his is the voice heard announcing most of the action during Andy Kaufman's wars with local Memphis favorite Jerry "The King" Lawler during Andy's documentary I'm From Hollywood!. His description of Kaufman's technique (frantically waving his hands blindly in front of him to ward off Lawler's attacks) frequently has me in stiches to this day ("Kaufman says he can do this HOURS at a time!").
2. Bob Caudle - Although he might be better known for his interviews than his match commentary, I have to include him on this list for his work with the man at number one. Bob had a great quality that made him such a fan advocate, one he shared with the late great Gorilla Monsoon, that made you think that he really, truly cared about all the babyfaces and would be disappointed, day in and day out, with the actions of the heels. Possessing a voice as smooth and mellifluous as Bing Crosby also helped me forget that he was once on the committee that helped elect southern dipshit Jesse Helms to political office.
1. Gordon Solie - Of course any discussion of pro-wrestling announcing begins and ends with the Dean. Gordon, along with Bob Caudle, were truly the greatest announce team in the history of wrestling during the Mid-South years. Solie's rapid, staccato delivery was a perfect counterpoint to Caudle's deeper baritone. Every now and then they'll show Championship Wrestling from Florida and Gordon's no-nonsense interviews (given while at a big desk with his still smoldering cigarette in an ashtray before him) still give me goosebumps. Truly, a broadcasting legend for all time.
As you travel through the beautiful rural Missouri landscape towards the Ozarks, eventually you'll hit clusters of billboards. First will come the ones advertising vacation resorts, then the various theme parks around Branson and then, finally, the various shows. Some of these will be for old standards like Yakov and Andy Williams, some of them will be pretty much inexplicable and then some of them will advertise the wonderment that is KIRBY VAN BURCH.
Every time I'd wind my little beater through the Ozark hills, my heart would skip a beat when I would spot a Kirby billboard. Would it feature his Royal white tiger? His helicopter (it appears in four seconds!)? His smoking hot wife (she has a pyrotechnics licence!)? Or maybe, just maybe, you may get a glimpse of his fucking unicorn.
That's right, assholes! HIS FUCKING UNICORN!
Check it:
Needless to say, I was pretty excited about this trip. I had just the year before made up my mind that I must witness this remarkable Bruce Jenner look-a-like and his amazing fucking unicorn for myself. However, despite all my pleading, my sister and mother (bless their hearts) had decided instead to attend something called Dolly Parton's Dixie Stampede.
I held my ground as long as I could, but eventually I succumbed to the temptation of the "free" meal included in the ticket price. So I swallowed my pride, played the good son, and headed on over to Dolly's for the evening.
Hurry up and wait
After parking and walking past the stables to get to the front gate (mmm... smell that manure! Who else is hungry?) Everybody gets herded (no pun intended - not a metaphor) into the waiting room pictured above to watch a juggler. Seriously. Those fat-asses who cannot wait 30 minutes to eat are treated to sleeves of popcorn ($7 each) and specialty drinks ($7.50 each) they can consume as they watch what can only be assumed to be Dolly Parton's Favorite Juggler. Keep in mind that everyone paid about $50 just to get into this place. Well, you do get a nice plastic mug shaped like a boot to drink out of, so it's all good:
Note: this boot is made from a plaster cast of Dolly's foot - her feet are really this tiny!
After the juggling, we all made our way slowly to the arena as "Jolene" whispered from the strategically placed speakers. The mouth-watering aroma of horse shit once again greeted us as we took our seats and were presented with our drink choices by the pimply-faced teens in Civil War costumes that ran up and down the length of the bleachers and the show began.
This was just supposed to be a picture of the table!
When we called to get our tickets, we were asked if we wanted to represent the North or the South. Being a proud citizen of corn country, I chose Blue instead of Gray and as a result, we were situated on the north side of the arena and were expected to root for the dudes in blue as more and more food was shoveled onto our plates. Did I mention the lack of silverware? If you visit the Stampede website, the flash animation on the front page presents a pretty accurate depiction of what the meal looks like. See that roasted chicken? Two minutes after serving it, a guy came from the other direction asking if anyone needed seconds. *shudder*
To wrap up: the meal was... interesting (I can still taste the soup), the entertainment was... entertaining (though I was in the bathroom when they featured grown men riding ostriches :( ), the North won and most of us (or at least the kids) went home happy.
Another year, another 17 tons of Iowa sweet corn consumed. Yes, recently YHP was privileged enough to attend the 56th annual West Point Sweet Corn Festival and lived to upload pictures from his digital camera onto his blog.
But first, a dilemma! His brother-in-law's bar had hired that scourge of southeast Iowa, Money Shot (heh heh, get it?) yet again to entertain the assorted drunken revelers and YHP had made it very clear that a molten lead enema would be preferable to listening to those hacks fumble their way through yet another Green Day cover. Would he be forced to stay in and have a quiet night with his extended family? It seemed all but certain that this would be his fate. And then he got a call.
"Have you heard about this Jefferson County Green Band thing? They're supposed to be pretty good." Well, being named after something that's not porno slang that was considered naughty 10 years ago was enough for me, so I decided against supporting my own family's business on the most crucial night of the whole year and waltzed over to the 4th Street Tavern (aka The Bar Where All The Kids Hang Out) to check it out.
White Riot
And the verdict? I thought they were pretty good, and that was before I heard the opening strains of "Baby Bitch"! That's right, JCGB rocked out a little Ween in front of a mostly confused West Pointian crowd and got a nice little laugh with the "Fuck you, you stupid-ass ho" line. From there they covered all the bases with a couple Johnny Cash tunes, some Dylan and even some Beastie Boys and Snoop Dogg to keep the kids tuned in!
Tim breaks out the bottom to make your booty shake!
I'll admit I was a little concerned, a little hesitant, at first because, c'mon a sax player? And a harmonica guy? And a hot chick violinist? But when the rain started pouring down around 10:30 p.m., they could have packed their shit and left like a certain other group of poser bitches did, leaving Phil's Pub sans entertainment for the evening, but they waited out and came back to an overwhelmingly appreciative crowd. It's called PROFESSIONALISM assholes, and all the spooky dolls, make-up and men wearing dresses in the world won't make up for it.
The hell?
As usual, by Sunday morning any evidence that the square was ground central for an orgy of drinking and debauchery was gone and the young and old lined the road waiting for the Parade. Small children grasped the plastic bags they would use to store their booty and picked the best areas for scoring some sweet candy. The elderly were helped into their lawn chairs and everyone else hid their bleary eyes and hammering headaches behind those oversize sunglasses that are so popular nowadays.
Shriners. They live for this kind of shit.
They all were not disappointed. There was a scary moment late when one of the horses got spooked and headed towards the crowd. It was eventually calmed down with no injuries which is good because YHP didn't even think to catch that shit on video and send it to ebaum.
Here's some of the political stuff - as you can see it's mostly republican:
On that last picture, the driver must have accidentally left off the political affiliation of the candidate - otherwise people would think that having "Republican" on their literature would be some kind of kiss of death or something even in this tiny town which is almost the perfect embodiment "blue collar America" that all those guys in suits give lip service to on TV news channels! But that would mean the whole town is full of elitists! And that's just silly!
These next photos are of stuff that doesn't exist. Somebody probably photoshopped them or Hannity would have mentioned something:
And I'll wind up my report with something that transcends politics: pictures of The Official West Point Sweet Corn Festival Bitchin' Van! Enjoy!
Yeah, so I chased it down the street snapping pictures. You would have too, be honest.
The Hammer on his small role on a Star Trek episode:
I was still playing football when they talked me into doing that. I was the mole man coming out of the wall, and the only reason I agreed to do that was because I got to kick Captain Kirk's ass. So I came out of the wall and jumped on Captain Kirk, kicked his ass, and dragged him away as a captive.
The Hammer on "blacksploitation" movies:
This is not an opportunity to kill white people and come out a hero. In my films, I was an equal-opportunity ass-kicker. I'd kick white people's ass, black people's ass, pink people's ass, blue people's ass. If you were bad, you got your ass kicked. So my films never really fit into that genre.
The Hammer on the other Hammer:
I think they called him "Hammerin' Hank." That's specific to baseball. They didn't call me "Hammerin' Hammer." It was The Hammer. Hank was baseball, and I was never a baseball fan. I don't watch sports that have incidental contact.
All I want to do this summer is kill people and take their money!
It is my duty to inform you that as of this day, August 7th of 2008 at 12:37 p.m., the pop single Paper Planes by the group (or rapper or terrorist or whatever) M.I.A. has officially been chosen by yours truly as the official Theme Song for the Summer of 2008 (or TSftS 2008)! Congratulations to all parties involved!
And to think back in May when YHP first heard the song back in May, he was initially disgusted by it, thinking it was yet another modern dance group seeking to anally violate the still warm corpse of The Clash for their own monetary benefit. But alas, the song did eventually worm it's way into his consciousness and his heart, helped by it's endless repetition during the trailers for the movie Pineapple Express which YHP is TOTALLY going to order when in becomes available on On Demand since he hasn't been to a grown up movie since Reno 911 Miami. Thug life!
Anyway, congratualations again to M.I.A. for joining the ranks of Alannah Myle's Black Velvet (TSftS1990, dredges up painful memories of past relationships) and Wreckx-n-Effect's Rump Shaker (TSftS 1992, also dredges up painful memories of past relationships) which rattles around in YHP's brain when he tries to remember how Paper Planes goes. Additionally this may make it the first ever TSftS that YHP does NOT associate with painful memories of past relationships now that that part of his life is more of a hollow, empty, fridgid vortex of unecapeable loneliness (or HESVoUL). But even then, I still find the time to get fly like paper, get high like planes!
Joy Division is a depressing band to be a fan of and I don't necessarily mean because of the "morose" lyrics or the haunting image left by singer Ian Curtis after his suicide. The depressing thing is that, given their relatively short shelf life, if you have both of their studio albums - well, congratulations! You now have the complete Joy Division catalog!
Of course, they left behind some crumbs for the completists. A few badly recorded shows, a book written by his wife and a few BBC show appearances are really all that's left of a band so was influential, so vital to the evolution of post-punk rock & roll that it's really hard to underestimate their impact on popular music.
So I wasn't completely sure what to expect from the new documentary. What I really wanted to see was some footage of the band on stage that I hadn't seen or perhaps some MTV Cribz-type segment with Ian introducing people to his pimped-out SUV and his swimming pool shaped like a man screaming in pain. In the end, I guess there was enough of the former for me to give it a semi-interested thumbs-up.
I just noticed that the IMDB entry for this movie has the keywords hidden by a "Spoiler Warning!" notice (I guess that's because one of them is "suicide") so I'm sorry if a gave anything away in my opening paragraph.
A couple of notes on the "talking head"-type sequences: Someone (and it's kind of hard to tell who's talking most of the time) mentioned how much their signature sound developed out of mixing the loud, Sex Pistols-derived punk of their early days as Warsaw with the proto-disco, R&B that was pretty popular at the time, which I guess should have been pretty obvious to me but having watched 24-Hour Party People, I just assumed it was another invention of mad scientist producer Martin Hannett (who, incedently, says in an interview that he loved working with Joy Division at first because "they were clueless").
All in all, not a bad flick - certainly worth the 4 bones I paid to "rent" it. I'm sure that any Joy Divisionite will find some interesting tidbits and the grizzled visages of the current New Order chaps will surely produce a few thrills. Just don't be expecting any re-inventing of the Joy Division mythos or a collection of all the commercials they did for Dunkin Donuts ("Dreaming of darkness, walking the line, one dozen crullers, for $2.99!") and you won't come away depressed.
So I decide to check in on MySpace page to see what's shaking on that part of the internet and find out I have a message waiting in my inbox. Naturally, I assume it's some kind of phishing-type thing ostensibly from a young lady using a pic of her thong-covered ass as a user pic and naturally, I am correct. However, there's a little twist to this come-on that frankly bothered me:
Hello. Bring the tequila sexy!
My mother wants to date you. I love this site and showed it to my mom. I helped her browse for guys and she asked me to contact you after she read your ad. If you are looking for a good time with no hassles, I think you'll enjoy my mother. She loves to chill � she listens to movies on our new tv, but she also likes doing physical activities. She loves to bike around town. She's very attractive and can be mistaken as my sis. Don't worry though, we don..t wear the same clothes, here stuff is more sophisticated. Take my mom out on the town! Send your reply to her email address, please don..t reply to me. This is her address: marie_faber_c at yahoo.
Good luck!
Yes, apparently I'm too old for fake teenagers to express an interest in my hot bod and be believable. Now it's their "mothers" who have cultivated a romantic interest in me and judging from"she listens to movies on our new tv", it's the blind moms. For some reason, this just depressed the hell out of me today.
So to lighten the mood (and fullfill a request from a reader), may I present: YOU CAN"T BEAT FUN AT THE OLE BALL PARK:
8 years ago, it was not uncommon to find Your Humble Proprietor over at his baby momma's house late on on Friday night. And while his very young son slept and the owner of the apartment drank, he would sit on the couch and navigate the 10-12 channels that were available on the small television in that tiny apartment.
One evening all those years ago, the ancient television settled on channel 12, Iowa Public Television and YHP was startled by an incredible apparition! It appeared to be an older gentleman in a three-piece suit sitting cross legged with his trench coat covering his shoulders. But where a chair would be, there appeared to be nothing at all! This wizened old man was apparently levitating! And, to make things all the more amazing, the footage was seemingly shot outside the boundries of earth's atmosphere for stars and nebulas were seen just over his shoulder!
Now one might expect that, upon finding oneself in this condition, one might cry out or at least proclaim to the viewer how it was possible to survive in deep space without oxygen or even a means of propulsion. But, alas, the only thing this seemingly superhuman being wanted to talk of was how we were about to see not only the debut of Katy Manning as Jo Grant, the Doctor's latest companion, but the debut of Robert Delgado as the Doctor's most reliable antagonist (save the Daleks, of course) the Master! And As YHP watched "Terror of the Autons" (still his favorite story arc) he became more and more enmeshed in Who lore until his already shaky social life ground to a near halt.
Thanks, Mike.
Michael “Mike” Charles Frisbie, 60, of Clear Lake, IA, formerly Des Moines, Iowa, passed away Wednesday, July 9, 2008 at the Mercy Medical Center North Iowa, Mason City, IA.
Due to his wishes he was cremated.
Memorials can be directed to the family or the Clear Lake Public Library.
Mike was born Jan. 4, 1948 in Chicago, IL the son of Charles H. & Ila Jean (Walker) Frisbie. Mike graduated from Clear Lake High School in 1966. He attended Drake University in Des Moines, IA, where he was very active in theater. Mike wrote & helped publish an underground newspaper called the Daily Planet. He taught the history of Rock & Roll at Drake and also worked for public television and hosted the Dr. WHO Show. Mike was a disc jockey on Des Moines radio station, KFM6 FM. After retiring from television he worked for Bordes’s Bookstore in Des Moines. Mike moved back to Clear Lake in 2007. He enjoyed his books, music and old movies, and was the founder of the Nosferatu society, and was president of Nosferatu Productions.
Mike is survived by his parents C.H. & Ila Jean Frisbie of Clear Lake; sister, Diane (Bruce) Rich of Sacramento, CA; two daughters Megan & Brahwen of Des Moines; nephew, Nick Frisbie; uncle, Bob Walker, Mason City, cousin, Nancy (Chuck) Conroy; and good friend Dennis (Lily) Kieth all of Clear Lake.
He was preceded in death by his grandparents, brother Dave, and sister Jill.
Ward-Van Slyke Colonial Chapel, 101 North 4th Street, Clear Lake, IA 50428, www.colonialchapels.com
Looks like I picked the wrong time to stop blogging!
Sorry about the inactivity this week. I really intend to make this a pretty regularly updated website, but, as usual, real life intrudes. I'll try to get something up later this week. Until then, enjoy this guy complaining about ICP's latest album. Burlington, IA represent!
In the late 90's my mother decided she had enough of Fort Madison. She was dating a guy that was in the construction field at the time and since most of the projects had dried up in the area, they decided to split for a place with more lucrative contracts - Springfield, IL. That relationship ended badly but my mom persevered. She found a job working for FedEx and met someone local. This gentleman worked in an auto lot selling giant pick up trucks and as a result of some business contacts, he was able to score part-time rental of a really sweet apartment in a vacation resort complex next to Silver Dollar City deep in the heart of nearby Branson.
Now, let me start off by saying most people's notion of Branson - that it's some sort of dumping ground for old, has-been country western and pop crooners - is largely correct. Andy Williams still makes his home there and Jim Stafford keeps plugging away, putting on a weekly show featuring his entire family. It's also home to hokey, family oriented sideshows like The Baldknobbers and "Somebody will probably watch this shit"-type stuff like Tony Roi's Elvis Experience.About the only thing that connects all the different types of shows are a) they appeal mostly to the elderly and b) they all cost a shitload of money.
This year, money was tight (mostly due to $4 gas) so we decided to be frugal during this year's vacation. We ate mostly groceries we brought with us, hung around the pool at the apartment and decided against another trip to Silver Dollar City (which costs upwards of $50 per day PER PERSON). Last year, we attended this cheap little breakfast show at this run-down little bar/restaurant which was put together in part by the resort we were staying at which featured a lot of the "B" talent in Branson and, although the actual breakfast part was terrible, the entertainment was hilarious. And as the improv troupe put on a painfully unfunny skit, I thought to myself "Next year, I'm bringing my fucking camera. Nobody will believe this shit"
And I did.
Thanks for coming, try the hash browns!
Well the location my have changed (the sketchy restaurant it was held in last year had closed so it was held in the lavish resort restaurant this year) and the food had improved (except for the OJ, which tasted foul), but I still saw a lot of familiar faces that morning. As far as I know the improv troupe had mercifully closed their doors (they actually convinced my sister and my mom to attend one of their shows, she said they were among the 12 or so other people to do so), but, God bless him, THE VOICE was still in the hizzay!
...down, down, down, down....
Last year, this guy was the star of the show.Starting with the ridiculously overblown introduction the MC gave him last year, John Tweed was in control of that room and never let go. Fuck Matt Berninger, listen to THESE chops:
You see the MC flashing his hand at the end of the clip? That means "Applaud you fucking ingrates! You think John Fucking Tweed does this shit just for the free breakfast buffet?"
Sadly, THE VOICE was not the main attraction at the club house that morning. Nay, that day was a special day, indeed, for appearing for the first time at the beautiful Stonebridge Resort was the one, the only, JIM OWEN!
"Seriously though folks, the Branson wax museum is the most important attraction in town. It's where they keep Andy Williams between shows!" (actual joke told by Jim Owen)
Whatdoyou mean, who's Jim Owen?You mean you're in the same boat as everybody except three or four people in the crowd that morning who didn't know who he was when the MC asked? At first there were some rumblings that he was on Hee Haw, but that was Buck Owens. JIM Owen didn't appear on that particular show, but you may have heard of a song called Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man? Yeah, he wrote that. Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn thought it was pretty groovin' and took it to number one back in '73. Yeah, you're welcome.
So you may be asking what brought such a luminary as Jim Owen to a cheapo ticket hustle like this. Was there truly too much love in his Mississippi heart to pass up a chance to meet face to face with even a small crowd of country music lovers as assembled there on a hot June morning?
Close. He had an angle:
"Electric Youth! Feel the power..."
Yup, Jim had stopped by to pimp his niece to the 40-50 seniors and assorted tourists finishing up their pancakes. She popped off some little dancy pop number while Uncle Jim stood to the side gamely clapping his hands. But before they let us out to enjoy a fresh day of faux-hillbilly entertainment, it was time to give the people what they wanted: a sneak peak at some new Jim Owen material, sung by the man himself. I didn't catch the title of this song and I apologize for cutting off the first part of it. It was one of those "Wait, what the fuck did he just say?" kind of reactions and I had to scramble to get my camera out, but rest assured, once this baby hits the airwaves ain't nothing gonna hold it back. I like to call it "God's Angels Support Our Troops, Why Can't You?":
Stay tuned for Part II coming next week! Four words: Dolly. Parton. Dixie. Stampede.
Your Humble Proprietor had a little trouble sleeping last night. He had left the windows open at his apartment when he left for work and came home to an oven. So late into the night, while the AC hummed furiously, YHP laid down on his futon and sweated.
He sweated and he thought about how much of a shithole myspace had become with it's unavoidable procession of ads and technical glitches and comely lasses obsessed with telling people about how to make money without even leaving the house climbing over themselves to be his friend.
He sweated and he thought about the livejournal account he created on a whim so many years ago. How he lost whole posts to the weird editing set-up. How it's been over-run with people working out their own kinks using Tranformers erotic fiction.
He laid and he sweated and he thought.
And as he drifted off into dreams, thought about building a place where he could share his thoughts on music and movies and television and sports. A place where he could keep people up to date with his goings on and current events. A place where he could pass on information about events and activities he enjoyed. A place where he could rant about perceived injustices and trends that bothered him. A place where he could share his dreams for the future and a place where he could create a dialog to bring people together and maybe show them that, despite their differences, they were valued and respected.
Then the next day he had some problems setting up a Facebook account so he threw something together on Blogger.
Much posting to come - including more pics and video from my trip to Branson, MO!
YHP has been a blogging dynamo for years and has nothing to show for it. He will die terrified and alone and will probably blog about it (this is assuming that future science allows dead bloggers to blog from beyond the grave).
