Klatu Verada Nicto, or something like that

Things that I love about Army Of Darkness:

• Ash calling his Remmington a boomstick
• Ash's metal hand
• Ash's chainsaw-hand (that click's into place mid-air!)
• This quote: Well hello, Mister Fancy-pants. Well, I've got news for you pal, you ain't leadin' but two things right now: Jack and shit... and Jack just left town.
• The plastic skeletons that are thrown at Bruce Campbell during the fight scenes.
• Seeing the cables carrying Bruce Campbell into the wormhole.

The entire movie is a cinematic gem. It's hard for me to think of any other film that can be so incredibly bogus and slapstick, but with such success. It's one of those movies that the academy would never, in a million years watch, making it all the better. What this movie does so well, that echoes in the best comedies I have seen, is that the comedy isn't immediately apparent.

At first glance, Army Of Darkness just appears to be the worst horror/action-movie ever made. Scenes are over the top, lines are cliche and catchy, and the the main character over-acts like his life depends on it. As soon as you accept these 'flaws', and start to actually look for them in the movie, it becomes hilarious. It forces you to embrace the utter ridiculousness of it, similar to The Office, or Extras, or Meet the Parents.

Random Thoughts

Have you ever convinced someone to watch a comedy special on HBO, and they sit through the whole thing without laughing. I find that really embarrassing. It's happened multiple times.

Have you ever wondered why America, the action-loving, full-throttle, 30-second attention span country has a national pastime of baseball? 9 men standing still for three hours?

Have you ever looked at a thread of internet comments and watched as they got progressively more and more offensive? Until at the end, they are both shooting one-liners back and forth. The best part, I think, is that the newest comments are at the top, so you always read the end of the argument and work back down in reverse order, like Memento.

----
To spanks_a_lot:

I'm retarded? fuck you, you little fag! Go suck my nuts!
-cheeze_breath

----

To cheeze_breath:

You're retarded. Everyone knows that a Northeastern Weeping Willow far outnumbers the White Conifer on the eastern seaboard! Go read an Audubon book you gay!
-spanks_a_lot

----

To spanks_a_lot:

While I see you're point, and I must respectfully disagree in accordance with your population study. I spent fifteen years documenting the seeding patterns of the great White Conifer tree, and have written several books about the experience. Where did you get your P.H.D.? Brown? Ha!
-cheeze_breath

-----

Place To Be

The shuffle that Apple uses is not very good. In fact, it's quite terrible. Even though I have 5,000+ songs on my computer, I think that I only hear about twenty of them in a loop (Bubba Sparxxx again??).

But sometimes, the shuffle god(s) shine down upon you and play a song you haven't heard in a long time. Fetched from some forgotten cobweb-ridden file in the depths of your hard drive. And when you hear the song you're like "ohhhh, right, I forgot about this song!" I love that, it's like finding $10 in your winter coat when you put it on for the first time in December. Or the time I found a bloody finger wrapped in a napkin in my glove compartment with a ransom note (but that's another story altogether).

Sometimes, though, that forgotten song hits you and brings you back, via time-warp, to the first time you heard it. I just recently heard Nick Drake - Pink Moon, and was whiplashed to the first week of school freshman year at St. Olaf College. While most of my contemporaries had said their prayers, adorned flannel pajamas, and sipped a glass of warm milk before bed, my roommate and I went out hunting. Hunting for the elusive drop of alcohol on a "dry Lutheran campus".

Our adventures took Knut and I to the seedy and mysterious Rand hall, where upperclassmen lived down deep and cavernous staircases. I have a hard time believing this now, but we would literally walk into rooms with 'party sounds' coming out of them, introduce ourselves, and try to score some booze.

There is a point here, I swear. One of the guys I met had an electric violin on a stand by his bed. Having taken many years of violin lessons, I figured I could play a couple of songs and earn our keep, but I heard the owner say that he was a member of the college orchestra. Maybe I shouldn't. I later celebrated my decision not to show off, when I saw the orchestra the next year and this gentleman was first chair violin.

On his playlist that night, though, was that song, Pink Moon. And as I heard it, I recognized it as a song that I had been searching for off-and-on, for years, after I had heard it in a VW Cabrio commercial. Nick Drake, he said, you should download some of his stuff. And I did. And hearing this song just the other day on my computer brought back the whole experience, like it was just yesterday.

I bet, if you have even read this far, that you are looking for a point. But there really isn't one. Maybe the point is that the power of song is an integral part of out lives. Maybe songs are the soundtrack (cliche alert!) to out lives. Maybe you should always dust for fingerprints before you open you glove box. The point is, I don't know, OK? Apple should just fix their damn shuffle program.

Just Do It

The best commercials are made by Nike. In 30 seconds, they can make you go out for a run. Or maybe ask your boss for that raise. Or maybe just try to be a better person. It's amazing.





and, lastly my inspiration for countless grueling workouts:

Audition Tape

Hello,

I saw on your website that you have a space for a booking this Saturday. I am emailing to let you know: your problem is solved. Wynnum Sunday to the rescue. You may have heard about our band through the local 'buzz', but if not, let me try to capture our 'essence' (like it could be captured, ha!).

OK, close your eyes and picture this. Closed? Oh right. OK, well keep them open to read this, but IMAGINE you're surrounded by thousands of pumped-up concert-goers, cheering at peak of their vocal chord capacity: WYNNUM-SUNDAY!

And then, Ka-Blam! Fireworks, pyrotechnics, and dry ice fog like you've never seen it before, and the curtain slowly raises. The incendiary wail of the guitar hits you in the face like a Mac truck, as Marc Rogers, sans shirt, gets lit up by the spotlight. The crowd goes wild. He may stand still as plank, make rude gestures at the crowd, offend most women, and be medically diagnosed as tone-deaf, but this man can ROCK!

But then, out of the back, comes the most complex and bad-ass beat you've ever heard. Hit spotlight! It's Ollie Garrison, drummer extraordinaire. He's going to town on his four piece set, mouth slightly agape as he tries to concentrate, raising his arms awkwardly in between hits. This is Rick Allen if he had two arms, and then broke them so they didn't work quite as well.

And when you think it can't get any better, a voice, the likes of which you have no comparison hits you. John Lennon? Chump. Neil Young? Pussy. Bono? Fuck Bono. Bono sounds like a cat being run over by a slow moving train compared to our frontman Colin Rodger (no relation to Marc). Women instantly buckle at the knees and faint. Men turn gay. This Scotsman redefines the word 'music', and then respells it as m-a-g-i-c.

Picture that. I hope to hear back from you soon. I have enclosed our demo video. Hold on to your seat, Mr. Promoter. I hope that you and Shady Grove Estates are ready to bring the house down this Saturday. Also, we play for free.

Wynnum Sunday.

Lost In Translation

I think that it's getting harder and harder to meet people from New York. Not that it is far away, or that it's irreconcilably different than Boston, but because of the language barrier.

I happened to meet a New Yorker just the other week through a mutual friend. We were at a bar, and we were introduced. "Hi" I said, and offered my hand to shake.
"Hi" they said.
But I heard "Jeter." A strange thing to say upon introduction, so I said,
"What?"

"Hi" repeated the stranger.
I heard "A-Rod."

I looked over at our communal friend who didn't seem notice.
"My name's Ollie"
"My name's Pat"
I hear: Aaron Boone, Tino Matinez, who's your daaaady!
"Let's not talk baseball!"
"What??"
I hear: Buckner!!!

"THAT'S IT!" I yell, and dive across the table taking a swing. Luckily I miss, because I would have felt really bad if I connected. She was only out to have a good time.

I Get No Respect, I Tell Ya

I want to thank Emily for coming along with me, I hope it wasn't too awkward, because it kind of was for me.

I saw an interview with Dave Chapelle where he retold his experiences as an emerging stand up comedian. He said that before he even stepped foot on stage, he would go watch open mics with comedians both good and bad, taking notes on what worked and what didn't. This way when he went on stage himself, for the first time, he would have some idea of what not to do.

I figured that this was a great idea, and even if I didn't have any immediate plans to be a stand up comedians (I certainly don't any more), it would be a great resource for my writing. After all, an open mic night is just a bunch of guys standing up, telling jokes and seeing if people think they are funny. Jokes 101, right?

Maybe, but a crowd can be brutal. And by crowd, I mean fifteen people, myself included, sitting in the corner of a small bar. I was hoping to slip into some club, somewhere in the back, and take notes while sipping my beer. Instead, after Emily left, I was the only person there who was not a performer, noticing that everyone was talking to each other, and looking at me like I was some spy from NARC-land, sent to make the room un-funny. It reminded me of one of those vampire movies where the dude is dancing at the club, and just having a great time, and then realizes that the chick he is with has fangs, and then looks around to realize everyone's a vampire.

Interrupting the brotherhood of not-so-funny-men, I was the clear target of jokes for the 'headliner' at the end. It seems that he was just going to 'say things and hope they were funny'. Well, they weren't, jokes are planned, and take a long time to make funny. And maybe because I wasn't laughing, I was singled out. I was suddenly the 'guy' in the audience who gets pointed out. Shit. Where's my garlic and silver cross? I took a quick peek behind me, hoping that there was some pointdexter behind me. Blast. I was that pointdexter. Just play it cool, he'll get bored and move on. If not, I'm going to have to fashion a wooden steak out of this bar stool.
I wish there was a Gidgeons Bible within reach.

The night ended awkwardly and uneventfully, with the emcee 'freestyling' what were clearly inside jokes, because only one girl in the back was laughing. All in all, I would not reccomend that experience to anyone, unless they are prepared to preform themselves. And I promise, if I ever do, I'll post it on here, so you can laugh at me. Notice I said 'at'.

There's nothing funny about stand up comedy.

Chill Win-ston...

Opening Ceremony.
Fantastic.

By far the best Olympic Opening Ceremony that I have ever scene, and trust me, I have seen a lot. I come from a family that buys cable right before the Olympics, and then cancels it right after. None of the HBO series are on anymore from the last time I had cable, I wonder what happened to the Sopranos?

I do think that Bob Costas and company had a little bit too much time to interpret the ceremony. They had the script, they had their interpreter, and they had a full week to think up shit to say for five hours. But due to the exensive preparation time, I feel like they delved a little too deep into the symbolism of the ceremony. There was a lot of talk about harmony, there was a lot about talk about the contrasting of opposites, there were a lot of random dancing children. When Matt Lauer started comparing the 2,008 gentleman running in circles with blinking vests on to the Chinese new era of openness, I was like... OK, but you're starting to push it.

I also thought that it was very suspect that the announcers were not actually being shown throughout the evening. Ten bucks says that Costas pulled out a Jamaican fatty from his breast pocket as soon as the fireworks started going off, and passed it to the rest of the guys.

Matt- That was, like, freakin insane, Bob.
Bob- It took them seven years to choreograph this dance Matt. Can you believe that shit? Seven years!
Matt- Whoah.
Bob-What!
Matt- Whoah, for a second there, I though you were, like, really far away from me.
Bob- Seven years! Man, there are SO many people in China!

Ready For Action

Sorry for the inordinate amount of youtube clips, but this was way too funny to pass up.

Dark Horse Comic

Even though it's still early August, the blockbusters of summer seem to be a distant cinematic afterthought. And lately, the blockbuster list has been dominated by comic book characters (if you include Hancock, which is basically a character from The Watchmen). DC and Marvel have raked in millions of super-dollars in the last ten years, as Hollywood scours the back helves of comic book stores for the next cash cow.

This year, there was one clear stand out. One movie that showed how much a fictional character could affect a country. One movie that seemingly broke the boundaries of the projection screen and permeated the psyches of a nation, possibly even a world. Yes, you probably guessed it.

Hellboy II: The Golden Army.

Haven't seen it? Think I'm crazy? You should. And you're wrong. Nothing against Christopher Nolan, or Batman, but they can't hold a candle to Guillermo Del Toro's mandatory weird-character-who-has-eyes-in-weird-places. I'm willing to put down serious money that Golumn's eyes will not be in the correct place in the upcoming Hobbit.

What I like about Hellboy, as with any good superhero movie, is that it takes itself seriously... but not too seriously. The Dark Knight tried, with every dark breath, to maintain a realm of realism that comes shattering to the floor when I see the police commissioner talking to a man in a bat suit. A BAT SUIT!

If you want to see, in my opinion, one of the best comic book adaptions in a long time, go see Hellboy II, where the characters are creative and intriguing, and the dialogue is witty and sharp, and plot is secondary to character development. Oh, and Ron Pearlman gets to say the line "You just woke up Big Baby" while pulling out a handgun that weighs more than me.