Hallowed Be Thy Ween

I had planned on my next entry being a music review, but I wanted to post something horror-centric today.  After all, it's Halloween.  That reminds me; HAPPY FUCKING HALLOWEEN!  It feels good to be alive and dead inside.  Since I'm a lifer, I'll still be celebrating through Thanksgiving and Christmas.  I do enjoy the latter holiday a teensy bit, but fuck Turkey Day.  Fuck it and the snowflake potatoes it skeeted on.

Here are my succinct, hastily arranged thoughts on a few flicks I've taken in over the past couple of weeks.  I wish I could review everything that I watch, but if I did, I'd be mentally spent (moreso than usual).  Thanks to a penpal for the title.  Satan knows I'm not that clever.

Axe Body Spray has seriously recalibrated their promotional campaign.

Somehow, 1982's Pieces had escaped my prying peepers until just recently.  I expected an absent-minded bloodbath, and by (Christopher) George, that's exactly what was presented to me.  The gore effects are top-notch.  The pace is rapid.  I mean, the prologue is followed immediately by a chainsaw offing...in broad daylight, no less!  Now, I will forgive the villain for using Leatherface's weapon of choice, but only because Pieces came out eight years after my movie truelove.  This would be a good place to link to my review of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  Consider it recommended reading.

Wednesday?  Shit, I'll have to DVR Lucha Underground.

As much as I claim to love made-for-TV fright fritters, I had not seen 1973's Don't Be Afraid of the Dark, possibly the most lauded of them all.  I have seen the remake, and from where I sit, it edges out the original by a slim margin.  Heresy, I'm aware.  Look, I wasn't a kid when this aired.  I didn't view it from behind a sofa and have nightmares about the little archfiends who want to shanghai Kim Darby.  Speaking of those pee-wee pests, I didn't find them to be creepy in the slightest.  Maybe it was the shot of them stumbling up the stairs, or maybe it was their traffic cone scalps.  I don't know, but they didn't do it for me.

That's not to say Don't Be Afraid of the Dark antagonized my senses.  It's still a fun chiller, the perfect genre treat to pop in on a drafty October night.  The opening credits.  Dude.  There is more eerie atmosphere packed into those frames than...well, I was going to insult modern horror filmmaking, but I know better than to generalize.  The credits are killer.  That's all I need to type.

This.  This is my soul.

I revisited Halloween III: Season of the Witch.  Even though I had this serotinal favorite stored in the ol' memory banks, I had only ever doted on my VHS copy.  No joke.  This gave me a reason to finally pull out my Halloween Blu-ray box set (alright, I may have pulled it out a time or two before).  It felt like a fresh viewing.  It's amazing to me how much this sequel's reputation has been rehabilitated in the last 15-20 years.  No longer is the cheesy, yet disturbing tale of a pagan warlock flogged as a whipping boy for the sins of low-grade slashers.  Fans figured out that this is a cool spectacle.  That's justice.  Street justice!

Geek Out #127

Here is one for the pro-wrestling crowd.  This is a veritable treasure trove, and I'm shocked that it made its way online.  Well, I'm not shocked; I just can't believe it exists at all.  The video above is handheld backstage footage of wrestlers essentially waiting for their match at 1988's The Great American Bash.  Out of character.  I mean, this is "fly on the wall" material.  As you might have guessed, the boys didn't wait around in measured peace.  They goofed off and raised H-E--gracious gosh, I don't know if I can type it.  Double hockey sticks.  There.

You get a peek into their real personalities.  Road Warrior Hawk is the class clown.  It's obvious that he kept everyone entertained on the road.  I'm sure the cocaine helped (we see him snort a bump* of blow at one point and "chase" it with water!).  Lex Luger is stoned into oblivion.  He holds onto his cock for dear life (!?).  Dr. Death is certifiably insane, and Dusty is...well, he's Dusty.  Paul Ellering is seen sitting far afield from the babyface buffoonery reading a book. Because of course.  It's so surreal to consider that he's still pegging away in the industry, now managing NXT's The Authors of Pain.

Heels and faces dressed in different locker rooms in those days. God, can you imagine the debauchery on the evil side of the building?  Actually, it looked the same, if shoot interviews are any indication.  I almost forgot!  Jim Cornette cameos and performs stand-up, so to speak.  His Rodney Dangerfield impersonation is spot-on.  Yeah, you need to click play as soon as possible.

*That's right.  I know the street slang.  I live on that fucking street, and it's called Google Blvd.  Step to me, bitch!

Leprechaun

Story time!  Leprechaun came out when I was in 4th Grade.  A friend of mine was just as much of a monster head as I was, and when I first saw the TV spot for this charmed cult classic, we talked about it the next day at school.  As a point of fact, we talked it up for weeks.  "Will this be the new Freddy?"  "It looks pretty scary."  "I wonder how big it is."  A note on the last question - we were stoopid. I knew what a leprechaun was, but the dimensions of a movie leprechaun had yet to be furnished in my hampered head.  Hey, I was nine at the oldest!  Anyway, it mattered none, as Mom wasn't going to let me rent an R-rated horror film.  My friend didn't have this obstacle in his path, so he helped devise a scheme that would gull Mommy Dearest into bringing Leprechaun home for me to watch.

Basically, I told her about this kiddie flick called Leprechaun.  I flimflammed a plot involving a little boy who befriends the malachite gnome (I'm sure that I used the exact same loquacity), and together, they go on a shopping spree using a pot o' gold.  Not bad, eh?  "But didn't you feel guilty?"  Well, no.  But only because I didn't think for a solitary second that she would fall for it.  One look at the back of the box and there goes my jovial, G-rated rainbow adventure.  You might be able to see where this is going...while out running errands, she rented Leprechaun for yours truly!  She didn't look at the back of the box!  Believe it or not, I wasn't defrocked.  I wasn't even incarcerated.  She actually let me watch the tape, and some would say that was punishment enough.

Obviously, I have viewed Leprechaun a few times since 1993.  I'll be scrupulous and acknowledge the fetters of nostalgia connecting my ankles to this b-clover.  It's funny; the sequels are infamously heave-worthy, yet the original tries to be a "good" feature presentation. There was money behind this.  Granted, it wasn't an extravagant chunk of change, but compared to Leprechaun 4: In Space, it was Guardians of the Galaxy.  The special effects are quite reasonable. At the end of the film (spoilz oh no), Lep is reduced to melting framework, seeping grue in a very old school way.  You know what I'm talkin' 'bout.  Ain't talkin' 'bout love!  My love is rotten to the core. Ain't talkin' 'bout love!  Just like I told you before.  BEFORE! BEFORE!  AWWWWWAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

For the life of me, I can't figure out why Jennifer Aniston is so embarrassed by Leprechaun.  Okay, I guess I can, but it's not that bad.  She has since appeared in much more reprehensible offal. Besides, if it weren't for this puppy, she wouldn't have landed the role of crack-addicted board game tycoon Latisha Dickwell in Friends. Apart from Warwick Davis, Aniston gives the best performance of the lot by a country mile.  Mark Holton is beyond inconsistent as Ozzie, the developmentally delayed fellow who accidentally swallows a fucking coin.  I swear to Ross, there are moments where Holton simply decides to stop acting.  As if he didn't hear the call to action. It would be too difficult to cite specifics, but it's noticeable.  Honestly, I just want to move on.

The kid is annoying.  The "hunk" doesn't really exist.  And those are your supporting players, give or take a meager quantity of dead cops.  The pace is swift.  If I were a writer, I'd say that Leprechaun rolls along effortlessly like the tiny modes of transportation that Lep uses throughout.  See, it's that type of shit.  How am I supposed to deplore a motion picture in which an evil leprechaun chases Jennifer Aniston in a rest home while seated in a wheelchair?  I can't! Writer/director Mark Jones does his damndest to keep things visually interesting with sharp lighting and weird camera angles. After all these eons, I still appreciate his labor.  The whole package has an enterprising spirit that twists my arm.  You win, Mr. Jones.  I enjoy your movie, despite the spongy script.

In terms of plot holes, Leprechaun is a horn of Amalthea.  You were waiting for the Amalthea reference, weren't you?  Well, there it is! End.  This.  Review.

Insomnia Theatre #3

We're three episodes in, babies!  Yes, I plan to archive these on a shelf of some sort, but I need to adjust to my new schedule first.  My mumsy switched shifts at her place of work, and that directly impacts my agenda.  Thus far, I have either been sleeping too much or not at all.  I'm foggy.  By the time I become acclimatized to the new hours, Mumsy will switch back to the old hours.  Not her fault.  I'm only explaining why I haven't written much in the last week.  Excuses, excuses!  At least you have Insomnia Theatre to keep you company, and jolly good fellow, this is the strongest episode yet.  Join us as we watch 1971's Werewolf vs. The Vampire Woman!

Album Cover of the Whatever

Gosh, I could write a full-fledged paragraph about this one.

Blood Capsule #67

FADE TO BLACK (1980)

There isn't much to say about this modest, unvarnished slasher.  As muted as the film comes across, it could stand to be simplified even further.  We are "treated" to a subplot involving a crime psychologist and his cop lover that goes nowhere faster than a speeding seminal spore.  Technically, they don't collide with our psycho star, so they're useless anyway.  Who is our psycho star?  Thanks for asking!  Eric Binford (seen above realizing he has a penis), a sheltered cinephile who lives with his prune shrew of an aunt.  She's a real termagant, let me tell you!  Boy, what a bag!  You can see how Eric lives a soon-to-snap lifestyle, and it's not long before he does just that.  When he stalks his prey, he cosplays as his favorite characters from cinema's golden age.

Eric dresses up as a vampire and a mummy, but oddly, his Hopalong Cassidy get-up is the creepiest by far.  We only see his cumbersome silhouette hugged by fog.  It's a highly effective death sequence, and I must credit writer/director Vernon Zimmerman with parenting a hefty sheaf of cool set-ups.  But that's all I'll remember about Fade to Black.  The shots, the kills, Eric's costumes...Eric himself isn't exactly sympathetic.  No one is, really.  I haven't mentioned the plot holes, and yet, I still recommend this flick.  It's good enough to rent. Or download or steal or bliviodize (not a word).  Look, I review movies like I'm lost in 1995 since my mind is commonly lost in 1995.  In summation, Fade to Black is worth checking out on video.  I would suggest renting first!

2016's Halloween Special Spunktacular

I usually do something "special" every year during the month of haunted hayrides and slasher marathons otherwise known as October.  Usually.  This year, watch out!  Oh.  Man.  You won't believe what I have planned.  It might actually make you uncomfortable.  In fact, if you're pregnant, I would advise...that you keep reading.  The unlit austerity of this announcement may induce labor, so you can finally toss that fetus into the nearest garbage pail. Get on with your life.  Don't let a yowling purse of flesh suspend your enjoyment of Random Reviews Incorporated's Halloween Special Spunktafuckle.  Or whatever.

So what am I doing this year?  NOTHING!  Not a damn thing.  I thought about going all out this year.  Other sites/blogs indulge in "31 days of horror," but that's a drain to maintain.  I had several ideas.  I basically celebrate Halloween for twelve straight months, though.  In 2015, I experienced overkill as I went fucking bonkers, snorting lines of cheap decorations and miniature Krackle bars starting in early September.  By the middle of October, I was dead tired of the gimmick.  I also fell into a hollow of depression (which I doubt was related; who knows, Sally Jimenez?).  It was a really rough patch. You can check the archives if you don't believe me.

That's when I decided that next year (this year), I would just relax and take in the Halloween ambiance.  I don't want to work any more than I normally would.  It's no good for my goddamn anxiety.  Fret not, monster heads!  There will be a Blood Capsule in the skies tomorrow, and I have my next bundle of reviews preordained.  In addition, you never know when the next episode of Insomnia Theatre is going to jump out from behind a bush.  Because it's kind of an asshole.

Insomnia Theatre #2

Back by nominal demand, it's...this!  As Tyler notes in the description area on YouTube itself, there are minor issues with the audio levels. But they will be rectified by the next episode.  Also, I suck.  What I mean is that it takes me 15-20 minutes to "wake up" or something. Was I bobbing for Xanax in a barrel of cough syrup before recording?  We are our own worst critics, I know.  I get funnier as the film progresses (in my hilarious opinion).  Man, I'm really insecure.  I haven't said much about Tyler because CLEARLY, I'm the star.  Man, I'm really pompous.

Still finding our footing, but I honestly think IT #2 outranks IT #1 by a smidge.  Enjoy!

Phantasm: Ravager

Yesterday, I was driven a number of miles that I'm not comfortable broadcasting (thanks, Mommy!) to see two films.  Some called it a double feature.  The first attraction was the remastered version of 1979's Phantasm, a horror classic that I've had a lukewarm relationship with since I saw it at the grizzled, calcified age of 13.  It went right over my head.  That initial viewing does leave a mark.  I've wizened up a little, and man, seeing it on the silver sph...screen did the trick.  It probably didn't need to be remastered for me to enjoy it as much as I did, but for the record, the print was irreproachable.  I had tiny hearts in my eyes.  I was later told by my optometrist that this is NOT normal.  He has prescribed 46 eye drops twice a day for the remainder of my life.  Something called embalming fluid.

The crowd puller?  Phantasm: RaVager.  Look, I capitalized the "v" that time.  It means "five" in Spanish.  My expectations were fair.  I was expecting the new Philm to be lovingly kooky and somewhat confusing.  Um, how do I say this?  Let me tell you what I personally wanted from Ravager (that's right; one capitalized "v" and no more than one).  I wanted closure.  Just a mite!  A driblet!  Sure, I'd give my eyeteeth for all of the answers (or maybe my deciduous set; those milk chompers have to be around here somewhere), but this is a Philm.  I knew that I wasn't going to get all of the answers.  This is where I spoil shit.  If you want my general opinion, well, that's what my ratings are for.  If you want general adjectives, it's cheap and irritating.  And stupid, though well-acted.

Okay!  So how many answers did I receive in thine hands?  None! Closure?  What the fuck is that?  I'm wheeling ahead of myself.  The headmost hindrance is the shrimpy budget.  Ravager should never have been produced on a shrimpy budget.  It was shot on digital, for Alchemy's sake.  You shoot this series on film.  35mm, buddy.  It's the age of crowdfunding, so that should have been priority number uno (that's Roman for 1-ish).  You can't tell me it was an artistic choice.  I don't mean to belabor the point, but that really grinds my coffee.  The majority of the effects are lousy.  It goes without griping that CGI is used as an elementary unit, mainly for gags that could have been achieved via practical means.  Listen, if the CGI looks crisp, I don't complain.  My conservative estimation is that 80% of the cybernated pseudo-sorcery resembles actual shit.

But that's the candy wrapper.  I spoke to you earlier (on the phone, naked) about closure.  Ravager's fucking storyline is infuriating.  I didn't exit the theater angry, mind you.  No, I was much too deep in thought.  The asperity I am now directing at poor, innocent Don Coscarelli (I am aware that he didn't direct this sequel) didn't hit me until I returned home.  My home, Elaine!  We learn nothing about The Tall Man that we didn't already know, we learn nothing about his home planet, we learn...fuck.  Hold onto your genitals.  We learn that Reggie has been in a nursing home for years on account of his early onset dementia.  Mike and Jody?  They have never heard of The Tall Man!  Also, they're dead.  And alive.  ALSO, Reggie is fighting alongside wasteland warriors, as The Tall Man has successfully warped Earth into his home planet.

Bolides of fire, zombie mutants donning gas masks, big silver spheres, bigger silver spheres...I know it sounds rad, but we're talking video game graphics.  It's pitiful.  All of this shit happens simultaneously.  In my book, Ravager's worst offense is ignoring the ending of Phantasm: OblIVion.  The Tall Man was preening Mike (against his will, but it counted) to be his substitute.  He was passing the torch so that - it has been speculated - he could conquer another planet.  That plot thread may have squired the franchise to a universe-cuckolding confrontation between two Tall Men.  Yowza! Apparently, it was too costly an idea, so we got Raper instead.

Do I have anything positive to yelp on the subject of Ravager? Yeah. Christopher L. Stone's score is seriously amazing.  Outside of the main theme (which is still perfect), he steals dalliances with melodies that suit the scene and become glued to your encephalon. As I noted above, the cast is up to the challenge.  This is probably Reggie Bannister's best performance in a Phantasm movie.  I'm out on a limb, but there are key moments where I was genuinely struck by his emotive-ing.  Emo-ing?  Erm, no.  Acting?  Nah, that's crazy. He was really good; I know that.  Of course, Angus Scrimm is flawless.  How the hell was he both rigid and nuanced?  He was the only dude who could convey a Southern cordiality during flashbacks as Jebediah Morningside, while scaring the piss out of you as an alien mortician.

Oh, Dawn Cody.  I dug her.  She was the redhead.  I'm sorry, but the guy who played Chunk was the weakest link.  I didn't buy a word he said, and moreover, he's introduced past the halfway mark.  Why is that relevant?  Because Coscarelli and director/co-writer David Hartman decided that he would be the fucker to kill The Tall Man!  He celebrates, but for the death of me, I can't figure out why.  Minutes prior to his fulmination, The Tall Man clearly states that there are TENS OF THOUSANDS of Tall Men in other universes.  OblIVion already proved that he can't be destroyed.  This review is too long. In my defense, Phantasm: Ravager is too shitty, and I had too many comments to squiggle on the walls of my cell.

Night of the Devils

Sadly, I don't have time to review 1972's Night of the Devils (the "the" is optional), but I wanted to acknowledge it.  There are scads of ambrosial Italian horror films that get passed over in favor of the ones we've all digested.

This ditty was directed by Giorgio Ferroni, the man who delivered 1960's Mill of the Stone Women to our collective doorstep.  I didn't care for that picture.  I recall it slogging through my brain like the mantle cavity of a mollusk with puffy gonads.  Ah, but this spookshow is catered to my interests (wurdulaks, spellbinding redheads, quaint forest funerals, forced incest).  Speaking of wurdulaks, which is something I've always wanted to say, Night of the Devils is based on the same A.K. Tolstoy novella that Black Sabbath's "The Wurdulak" is (loosely) based on.

I'm referring to a vignette in a Mario Bava anthology, not a Black Sabbath song.  If you didn't already know that, retreat!  Anyway, this is an engaging, atmospheric vampire roguery. It's a slow burn, so you might have to hold its hand for awhile. There are spurts of dramatic gore, however.  Night of the Devils is worth a shot, is what I'm trying to impart.  Huh, I guess this could have been a Blood Capsule, but I have other content in the pipeline. Don't freak out.

Insomnia Theatre #1

You may recall a short-lived podcast that I did with a cuck named Tyler.  In 1934, we split due to creative differences, but guess what? WE'RE BACK!  And we have a new project to sell you that's even better/worse.  It's called Insomnia Theatre, and if more than one person watches it, we'll make it a series.  So what the hell is it? Bootleg MST3K.  It's been done before.  This is completely unoriginal.  We're just doing it for laughs, and as a matter of actual fact, that's the high concept (in Tyler's case, the concept is literally high).  Two buddies watching a b-movie.  That's it.

We didn't put undue pressure on ourselves to be funny.  Don't expect a joke around every corner.  Don't expect a positive experience. Look, I'm underselling, but we had fun recording the commentary.  I feel like we'll find our groove with future episodes.  In the spirit of randomness, here is an insanely hot picture of some redhead with Elvira on the tube.

Emmalina?

Not that she needed a makeover, but hell yes?  Maybe they're referring to her character.  If the brief promo was any indication, she is being reshuffled as a supermodel type.  I'm not sure that the shift in gimmick was necessary, but I'll certainly be glad to see her back in action.  For those who don't follow me on social media, Emma...lina (that could take awhile to get used to) is my favorite female superstar in the WWE.  I'm not claiming that she is the best; she is just my favorite.  The atomic Aussie is more than competent in the ring, and my circuits go haywire when she shows up on my TV screen.  Good heavens, look at her.  Stalk her!

On a related note, Raw was surprisingly worthwhile last night.  While I hate the fact that the cruiserweight division is already compromised by 50/50 booking, I was happy to see Kendrick grab a victory.  Hey, I have an idea for the Hell in a Cell match between Rusev and Roman Reigns - make it a literal fight to the death!  It's the only way to end this goddamn feud.  Another random thought...apart from one minor botch, the main event was mind-boggling.  From the corkscrew moonsault (!!!) on, that match fucking delivered.  Congratulations, ladies.  Seriously.  I will suggest to Sasha to lay off on the awful, dangerous bumps.  What is she doing out there?

Smackdown will be on in T-Minus fifteen minutes.  Wouldn't it be crazy awesome if Ziggler lost and left the WWE?

Nightmares

This is my wheelhouse, partner.  It's time for the almighty anthology. Whenever I review one, I feel like I say the same things, so I'll skip the dim notions and make a beeline for the specifics.  1983's Nightmares is a film that has escaped my clutches for a month of supine Sundays.  I found it online, but for various reasons (some unknown), I had built this fucker up in my head.  This was going to be the hidden gem to end all hidden gems.  So I waited for the Blu-ray, and almost immediately, my Blu-ray player went kaput.  The krimbuscape wasn't connecting to the uzopafry.  Apparently, I needed a new chylomier.  Long story short, the machine is working now, so I finally put those unfair expectations to the test.

It's good.  Honestly, those unfair expectations didn't come into play because it's been several whiles since my Nightmares delirium was at its sublimity spire.  I was merely in the mood for an entertaining fright flick.  For the most part, the four stories on the docket delivered.

"Terror in Topanga" ~ A Boy Meets World rape fantasy? Unfortunately, no.  Fortunately!  I meant fortunately!  That's what I meant.  Stop looking at me.  A chain-smoking woman goes out late at night to procure smokes against her husband's wishes.  Naturally, a mental patient is on the loose.  Our grout-gummed heroine stops for gas, and if you know your urban legends, you know what happens next.  John Carpenter told this tale slightly better in 1993's Body Bags, but it's still menacing.  Nice and creepy.  The payoff works, though I would have sculpted the lead to be less frigid.

"Bishop of Battle" ~ This vignette is worth the price of admission alone.  A tenderfoot Emilio Estevez is preoccupied with an arcade game that he can't seem to lick.  He's the best player amongst his peers, but for the life of him, he can't get past Level 12.  Some say there is no Level 13.  He doesn't care, man.  Regrettably, his grades have been dropping and he has become an alienated firebrand.  As a result, his parents see it fit to ground him.  No arcade!  Shit!  If they would just give Emil...er, J.J. another two days, he could beat the game.  That's fucking bogus.

That night, he flees from his bedroom window and heads straight for the arcade.  Insert suspense here.  He beats the Bishop!  But is there a Level 13, you ask?  I've already said too much.  I set it up. That's me in the corner.  It goes without saying that something discommodious happens to J.J., but you should really check it out for yourself.  The pace is steady, Moon Unit-Zappa cameos as a mall chick and the soundtrack rips.  J.J. listens to crossover hardcore bands such as Fear and Black (motherfucking) Flag.  He makes a boneheaded decision towards the end, but that doesn't cloud his status as a bad dude.

"The Benediction" ~ Didn't I review The Car a couple of weeks ago? The twist here is that MacLeod, as portrayed by Lance Henriksen, is a priest.  His faith?  Lost.  I would slap a frowning emoticon in this general location, but that's a trend I DO NOT want to start.  He decides to leave the monastery (or whatever the hell they're called) and drive off into the desert.  Okay.  It isn't long before a big, black truck with an inverted cross hanging from the rearview mirror nearly displaces him from the asphalt.  Gee, I wonder who is steering said pernicious pickup!  Lance is consistent, but there is only one of two ways for this generic backfire to slam its brakes.

There is a wicked shot that entrusted my pelvic girdle with a custard slinger.  The truck is nowhere to be seen.  Suddenly, the son of a bitch bursts out of the earth and continues chasing poor Lance.  It's a sight to behold, and yes, it deserves its own paragraph.

"Night of the Rat" ~ Easily the worst short.  A giant rat is prancing in the attic and between the walls of a white family's house.  The husband (Richard Masur) is an asshole, the wife (Veronica Cartwright) is shrill and I don't remember anything about the daughter.  Oy, the characters are nitwits, especially the wife.  If you're hoping that nasty creature effects will emancipate this cinematic riffraff, I'm sorry.  I'm so, so sorry.  They used a real rat. For the giant rat.  Don't make me explain it.  It's depressing enough knowing that Nightmares could have had "Bishop of Battle" plus a glorious monster in it.  Damn.

There is no wraparound narrative.  Frankly, that's not a huge deal.  I learned that these stories were originally intended to be episodes of Darkroom, an ABC anthology series from the early 80's.  According to IMDb, they were deemed "too intense" to air.  A custard slinger is an erection.

Ohputh

I'm currently listening to the new Opeth album as I peck away at the keyboard.  I don't know if I'm going to review it or not.  Depends on how strongly I feel about it in one direction or the other.  This is my first listen in full, and it may be that after a few more "spins," Sorceress fails to elicit any reaction out of me.  Like oatmeal.  We shall see.

Next is a movie review.  Speaking of movies (y'know, movies), did you get my sharp-as-a-broadsword visual gag?  Sorceress?  Henry, I don't know how I do it day in, day out.  I'm still laughing.  You can click off now.  I'll probably be laughing when you return.