Watchers

I'm a dog person.  That's important for you to know because my opinion may be colored by my affinity for cute canines.  I mean, I turn into a barmy, foaming twit whenever I see one in public.  Try as I might, I had a similar reaction to Furface, the hyper-intelligent pooch in 1988's Watchers.  Indulge me as I piece together a semi-coherent synopsis.  Scientists developing weapons of war chance upon precipitance when their research laboratory erupts in flames.  Two experimental subjects manage to escape unscathed.  Guinea Pig #1: A snuggly golden retriever described as a homing device.  Guinea Pig #2: The missile being guided, a bloodthirsty creature who instinctively hates his quadrupedal counterpart.

I'm fighting the urge to label Corey Haim as the third subject.  Aw, I'll be nice.  He tackles the role of Travis, your average teenager.  Furface hitches a ride in his pick-up truck, unwittingly painting a bright orange target on the backs of Travis and his mother.  The requisite girlfriend is caught in the crossfire.  Her father is mutilated by the aforementioned missile, which brings me to a lamentable drawback.  The kills are mostly dry and cut in a ponderous manner.  At times, I felt like I was watching the edited-for-TV version.  I've read reviews that poke fun at the monster suit, but I thought it was up to snuff.  Of course, I live on a strict diet of disgraceful scuzz.  I'm not exactly an unbiased judge.

The pacing is swift.  I was generally engrossed in the storyline, and despite the predictable outcome, I was invested in following the third act through to its denouement.  Why is this thing called Watchers?  Grand question.  I'm hoping that the source material does a better job of delineating the specifics of how the shadow-wreathed beastie was hatched.  For what it's worth, I've heard that this adaptation takes a plurality of liberties with the Koontz tome.  The novel doesn't even star Corey Haim.  Or Michael Ironside!  If I could read, I would be super pissed.

And I have nothing else to say.  Consider this an extended blood capsule.  On the whole, I enjoyed Watchers.  Y'know, I was up for the role of Furface, but Sandy (the mutt thespian) slept with the studio brass.  Heady play, bitch.

   

Album Cover of the Whatever

I know very little about Ocultan, but I know that's a rad album cover.  The band plays competent blackened death metal.  If you're into that sort of thing.

Koontz Bloody Koontz

Pretend that I made this announcement a few days ago.  As you can surmise from the brilliant title, I'm going to survey a handful of Dean Koontz adaptations.  Ol' Koontzy doesn't get as much love as King or Barker, but he has spewed worthwhile monster books into the world.  Keep an eye on this space!

Phantoms

The late 90's are known to horror historians (heh) for discharging slashers at an exhaustive rate, but there was another trend at work - monster movies!  It wasn't a successful trend.  I stagger to confab how it became a trend at all, and you may contend that there was no modish furor behind it, but these films did exist.  The Relic, Mimic, Deep Rising, Virus...they refused to be brushed off as mild alternatives for those of us who tired of masked assholes wielding acicular silverware.  In the end, they were brushed off at the box office.  Whether or not they found legs on home video is irrelevant 25 years later, at least as irrelevant as this opening paragraph.  Let's talk about 1998's Phantoms.

A young Ben Affleck stars as Sheriff Bryce Hammond, a former FBI agent investigating the designs behind a dropped call.  He finds a pair of sisters and precisely no one else.  The setting is a desolate, hibernal town in Colorado that has been plundered of life.  Residents?  Vanished.  Cars?  Empty.  Cadavers begin to accumulate, however, and there are no clues to be found.  This is where I'll chime in with a note of praise.  The first act is beautifully set up.  You would never guess that these establishing moments of austere doom were directed by the same guy who manned Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers.  Could it be that, independent of intrusive studio fingers, Joe Chappelle is actually talented?  Go figure.

The flawless build is short-lived.  You can almost smell the spot in the script where it realizes (yes, it's sentient) that it might have to explain away the mystery it took such great care to constitute.  We never get a clear answer.  What kind of heavy are we dealing with here?  Um, it's ancient!  How does it attack?  Um, off-screen!  How does it know the name of a random scholar, the exquisite Peter O'Toole?  Um, it's ancient!  Other points of uncertainty are left dangling.  Like Deputy Stu.  I don't mind Liev Schreiber, but what's up with this fucker?  He's the most childish, featherbrained cop in existence.  We are led to believe that he's under the influence of "phantoms," but I'm calling bullshit.

The CGI is spotty, though my nostalgia has intensified to where I'm almost fond of those bumbling, graceless varmints.  Would it be presumptuous to claim that early CGI spectacles are my generation's half-baked redactions of stop-motion effects?  It's something to chew on (and spit out).  The ending is scientific drivel.  Our ancient enemy is ravaged by a compound used to combat oil spills or some fucking shit.  There is room left for a sequel, but mercifully, it's been radio silence on that front.  Robert Z'Dar says, "I'm genuinely happy for Bennifer."

  

Quick note...

I realize that many, many things happened at last night's Summerslam, but I think we can all agree that the return of Io...er, Iyo Sky was the most significant moment of the evening.  We CAN all agree, right?  Just let me be happy.  I'll be honest; I didn't watch the bulk of the PPV.  Thus, I don't have much to say.  Edge's return was telegraphed, which isn't a drawback.  The fans called for him, so they should get him.  Likewise, the "WWE universe" is more comfortable with Becky Lynch as a full-fledged babyface.

It will take time for Triple H to steer his ship out of moiling, tempestuous waters, but we're already seeing the fruits of his labor.  For once, I'm hopeful.

The Anti-Review

Normally, I shun requests, but I entertained the notion of tackling 2018's The VelociPastor.  I was curious to see if it had the balls to approach its zany concept with earnestness and some degree of gravity.  It didn't.  It's still entertaining, though.  Unfortunately, it's review-proof.  The VelociPastor knows that it's a joke, so any holes I tried to poke in its pulmonary cavity would be dubious at best.  I feel like a failure!

I'm going to take a couple of days to rest my skull, but I'll return with a five-part review series that looks at...well, I shouldn't give it away.  Don't worry; it's not interesting.

Geek Out #155

You'll hear heshers defend their gatekeeping ways by insisting that you couldn't possibly understand because "you weren't there."  Oh, a hesher is a dyed-in-the-wool heavy metal adherent, usually associated with 80's thrash.  What does that have to do with The Mangler?  Well, I've often (maybe once) been asked why I've subjected myself to the film on multiple occasions.  My answer is simple, and it has nothing to do with laundry liturgy.  To be frank, you weren't there.  You weren't there, man!

1995 was the last year I can remember where flaky, ham-fucked b-movies could be given wide theatrical releases.  Imagine it.  Movies as splashy and preposterous as Tales From the Hood, Species, and Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers (eek) were consumed on a global level.  The infestation was widespread.  Clearly, The Mangler is deficient entertainment, but it's a token from a bygone era.  And I was there.  You wouldn't understand!

This is Gwar

I consider myself to be a casual Gwar fan.  As a kid, I simply regarded them as a regular on Beavis & Butthead.  It never occurred to me that they wrote actual songs and released actual albums.  The music itself didn't skim my neurological sensors until 2001's Violence Has Arrived, a meaty millstone for the band.  They decided to get serious.  And heavy.  The end result is seriously heavy, and their subsequent sets maintained a stabbing, discriminatory level of advanced musicianship.  That's just one facet of the Gwar universe, though.  The others are explored in This is Gwar, an exhaustive documentary hosted by horror streaming service Shudder.

I knew the basics, but this film dissects Gwar's inception in blood-streaked detail.  The project was torn between the punk/hardcore scene and the humbling, opprobrious world of independent filmmaking.  It's a small miracle that the band we know as Gwar shot past those early years of enterprising struggle.  When they focused on jamming, they meted out sterling, first-rate boneshakers (I'm mainly referring to 1990's Scumdogs of the Universe and 1991's America Must Be Destroyed; the latter is a personal favorite).  Am I the only loser who enjoys 1994's This Toilet Earth?  It's a fun record full of punk pyrotechnics and the kind of bonehead riffs that appeal to my inner Beavis.

Musically, Gwar wasn't exactly innovative, but they managed to siphon fandom from all walks of life.  This doc proves it by featuring interviews with "Weird" Al Yankovic, Randy Blythe (Lamb of God), and Thomas Lennon (The State, Reno! 911).  It goes without saying that there are plenty of segments where humor spills over into the running story arc.  Surprisingly, there are just as many moments of genuine emotion.  Tearful, lachrymose recollections of both Cory Smoot and Dave Brockie take up most of the third act.  It's a bummer, man.  Disregarding death, the film ends on a defiant note, which is surely how Oderus would have wanted it.

I'll be honest.  I haven't checked out the latest Gwar offerings, so maybe I should recuse myself from any position of judgment.  I did, however, order a copy of Skulhedface on VHS.  It will kick my ass.  In summation, you don't need to be a Gwar junkie to appreciate This is Gwar.  Hell, it might prompt you to become a fan.  I'd recommend starting with Violence Has Arrived, as it served as the soundtrack to my initiation.  If it sounds like I joined a cult, it's because I...well, I joined a cult.

    

Interruption, Interrupted

Originally, this post was going to be a review for the above comic book (a banger from 1954), but then life happened.  Two days ago, I had a minor procedure to replace my trach.   I had to stay overnight to do a sleep study, which turned out to be a waste of time (long story).  So basically, blah.  The next thing I write will probably be a movie review.  Stay tuned!?

Album Cover of the Whatever

I don't listen to a lot of brutal death metal, or tech-death.  It's a silly label.  Overlooking their subgenre diagnosis, I do like Deeds of Flesh.  This is the cover of their debut release, a fine EP by the name of Gradually Melted.  I'm listening to it right now, and dude, it smacks your face off.  As for the cover, the artist implemented a comic book style that befits the music.  Do yourself a favor and put it in your ears.

Rassle Inn #30

For years and years (and years), fans have been clamoring for this moment.  Well, those prayers have been answered.  Starting on the 18th, WWE's Monday Night Raw will be rated TV-14.  The much-maligned PG era of sports entertainment has come to an end.  My question is, so what?  I hate to sound misanthropic, especially on a day when so many others are celebrating, but what does this change, aside from an arbitrary watermark?  Inferior booking is still inferior booking.  Coarse language and skimpy clothing cannot (and will not) improve three hours of bloated television.

I'll give you an example.  Fuck!  Shit!  Piss!  Does this paragraph have greater value due to its inclusion of toilet words?  Yes.  Wait, I mean, no.  No, it doesn't.  I'm wondering how this will impact the women's division.  Diva segments had become so childish and sophomoric, it took a theoretically organic "revolution" to stem the tide.  Then again, I'm not sure that anything was reduced or modified.  Several superstars have quietly undergone breast augmentation surgery.  Plus, you've got the whole "hush money" scandal.  What rating would WWE be given behind the cameras?  I don't see there being too many TV-Y7 episodes of Vinnie Mac's Long Lunch.

The Attitude Era is propped up by near-revisionists.  It was unquestionably stacked with outstanding pro-wrestling, but do you know what else was outstanding?  The roster, the timing, the simple storylines...we can't reverse the clock.  Jesus, I sound like I'm preaching the apocalypse.  I need to pepper this column with positivity.  Raw...won't get worse.  That's all I can muster.  You'll often hear me say that I prefer AEW, and I do, but it's not because Jade Cargill loves to call herself a bitch.  It's just a better show.  Ironically, Smackdown was a TV-PG product during the exalted stretch of time where Paul Heyman was in charge of creative.

Okay, I'm done griping.  Here is Terri Runnels in a bikini.

Blood Capsule #125

VICIOUS LIPS (1986)

I watched this motherfucker with a friend earlier today.  If I had watched it on my own, I'd be in Hell right now.  I'm not intimating a presumptive suicide; I'm alluding to a murder/suicide that only happened in my imagination.  The murder victim?  The above anteater, a "character" who introduced himself before throwing to an all-female rock band.  In space.  See, it was at this moment that I realized I had just wasted 80-ish minutes of my life.  My friend was a tad more forgiving, but you're not reading his review.  Ostensibly, 1986's Vicious Lips is about a girl who joins the film's forked rendering of The Bangles after winning a talent contest.

All of this happens in space, by the way.  And if your b-movie is futuristic, you can get away with a few lapses in logic.  Lips, however, takes a powder and forsakes logic in the same way that God has forsaken me by execrating my home with this heinous hydra.  It's bad enough that the pacing is, shall we say, disinclined, but nothing makes sense.  NOTHING.  Dream sequences are sprouted within dream sequences.  The snozberries taste like snozberries!  Paul (the forgiving friend) wanted me to dive deeper into the plot, but I'd rather drag my cock across asphalt.  Ahem...I did not care for this motion picture.

Mansion of the Doomed

I've never been fond of hospitals.  Even if I'm visiting someone and I'm fortunate enough to be sitting next to a gurney (as opposed to lying in it), the deceptively sterile environment blights my nerves.  The needles, the tubes, the hot nurses I'm never allowed to victimize...it's a dour, off-putting scene.  My recent stay at an Aesculapian* institution has only compounded these feelings.  It's only natural that "medical horror" flicks hit below the belt.  1976's Mansion of the Doomed is one such flick.  I charged into it expecting liberal nips of cheese.  Charles Band owns a producer's credit, after all.  But while Doomed is lined with junky Grindhouse features (the poster tells you everything you need to know), it functions as a grim, gory sliver of entertainment.

Dr. Chaney is a respected ophthalmologist.  He looks like a cross between Tom Atkins and Klaus Kinski, which I suspect contributes to his prosperity in the field.  Anyhow, a car accident claims his daughter's vision.  He doesn't seem to appreciate the irony.  Go figure.  Given the fact that Chaney is a mad scientist, he immediately begins to abduct hapless candidates for ocular transplants.  He obsesses over the procedure, resorting to crude experiments that create a small army of eyeless terrors in his basement.  Halfway through the film, he has an epiphany.  "I know; I'll just rip out their fucking eyeballs!"  I'm paraphrasing, but Christ in a shopping cart, it took him years of research to come to the realization that he could simply hollow out an eye socket???

Chaney is an awkward dude, and now that I think about it, all of the players are arranged in a clunky manner.  Nancy - the daughter in question - is more naïve than an ostrich that was born yesterday (give it time...it still won't make any sense).  The immortal Lance Henriksen is privy to the best material.  He portrays Dan, the stoic boyfriend who loses his sight to Chaney's wicked forceps.  Blindness doesn't stop him from kicking ass, though.  The supporting cast is serviceable.  To be perfectly honest, you're not going to watch Doomed for nuanced character interaction.  This thing is about atmosphere, loads and loads of atmosphere.  To that end, the title is most appropriate.

A young Stan Winston manned the special effects unit.  The make-up is genuinely disturbing, so I must tip my typing wand to Stanley's handiwork.  Director Michael Pataki wrings striking imagery out of fairly simplistic locations.  Again, typing wand tipped.  I'm surprised that he didn't continue to peg away in our beloved genre.  His only other feature?  Guess.  Go ahead.  Fucking Cinderella!  Apparently, it's a chintzy R-rated version of the fairy tale.  And I have no earthly idea how to end this review.  Mansion of the Doomed is rock solid...no, that's a shitty closer.  Oh, I've got it.  How will I end my roaming twaddle?  Guess.  Go ahead.

*Medical.  Why I had to use that flippin' word...er, learning is fun?

   

Primus happened here today...

Apropos of absolutely, positively nothing, here is...Primus!  Because.

Rassle Inn #29

It has been a fair number of months since I last retched out one of these columns.  Has the wrestling landscape changed in the interim?  Yes.  For the worse.  Look, I'm not the kind of smart mark who makes a habit out of carping and grousing on the current state of pro rasslin', but certain failings are simply glaring.  AEW won't make it out of this blurb unscathed either.  At the very least, The Fed seems to be drawing impressive numbers and feathering its nest with dollars on top of dollars.  The product is irrelevant, apparently.

On the subject of irrelevance, does it even matter who steps in as CEO?  Vince still has creative control, scandals be damned.  On the other network, the guy in charge is in over his head.  Tony Khan's callow inexperience is bleeding through to both of his television shows.  While I prefer AEW by an olympic mile, it can't be argued that the inflated roster is drowning in excess titles and a superfluity of tournaments.  The fact that the All-Atlantic Championship is being contested in Japan should tell you something.  Ask yourself; do you honestly care who wins the belt?

I understand that the recent rash of injuries hasn't helped anyone, but this should have been seen as an opportunity to focus on homegrown stars.  The casual viewer isn't familiar enough with Hiroshi Tanahashi or Kazuchika Okada.  Jay White and Will Ospreay are generational talents, but they're getting lost in the shuffle.  Okay, I'm done bellyaching.  In spite of what I deem as imperfections, I look forward to Wednesday nights.  I fucking dread Monday nights.  And then there are Friday nights.  Goddamn.  On the whole, Smackdown is watchable spurtz entertainment, but I cannot abide by Max Dupri's Male Model Cumporium, or whatever the fuck it's called.  What happened here?  What???  Happened???

Remember when Eli Drake had a credible future?  'Tis a pity.  Right now, the most consistent promotion in the United States might be MLW.  Note that I didn't say "best," but give it a looksee.  MLW's flagship show is on YouTube, and mercifully, it only runs for an hour.  Brevity is the soul of shi--er, wit.  Brevity is the soul of wit.

Werewolf of London

I've said this a million times, but I'm out of the loop, and I always have been.  Ever since my near-life experience, I've been further away from the loop than any mortal soul on Satan's black earth.  I'm speaking in relation to all modes of society (music, politics, etc.), but if you want to get particular, I'm out of the horror loop.  Teenaged Dom had his bony finger on the supine pulse of the genre.  Now?  I wouldn't know a contemporary release if it jammed a PVC pipe into my spaghetti rim and notified my legal counsel.  Sorry for the visual.  I know that ambulance chasers tend to turn the stomach.

I broach these topics to tell you why I decided to dip back into 1935 for today's review.  See, the sodomy joke had purpose and meaning.  You would never know it, but Werewolf of London is a Universal classic.  For reasons I can't quite fathom, the renowned studio doesn't tout it as a seminal windfall for werewolves.  1941's The Wolf Man hogs the glory.  Let it be known that London was conceived first, and in this writer's opinion, it towers above its successor.  The film establishes many of the plot contrivances associated with lycanthropes.  The full moon, the means of "curse transference," an exotic plant influencing the victim's piecemeal mutation...this stuff wasn't derived from a literary source.

The story is basic enough.  Brilliant botanist Dr. Glendon is off on an excursion to pin down a rare flower, the Mariphasa.  The significance of the perennial bud (NOTE: I know dick about plants) doesn't come into play until later, but apparently, it hampers the progression of...er, Werewolf Syndrome.  Upon returning home, our protagonist-cum-antagonist is bitten by a flamingo.  Or maybe it was a wolf of some sort.  One of the two.  You can write in the rest.  Henry Hull commands the screen as Dr. Glendon.  It's a shame that he didn't act in more spookshows, as his striking features suit villainous roles.  And is it just me or is he the eidetic image of Jordan Peterson?

Warner Oland is rock solid as Dr. Yogami, a compeer suspicious of Glendon.  The entire troupe is game.  Characters are developed to where they need to be, and that's dandy, but I want to discuss the atmosphere.  Director Stuart Walker brews a tempestuous amalgam of dread and dismay.  The black-and-white cinematography is handsome (yes, handsome), and speaking of the camera, I dug the action shots.  At times, they are filmed behind some obstruction, which makes the viewer feel like a distant spectator to chaos.  It's neat.  Neat-o, even.

Does Werewolf of London take any missteps?  I must say, flaws are scanty.  I'm not comfortable assigning a perfect rating, but I seldom engage in 5-Z'Dar exhibitionism.  This critter comes awfully close, though.  Seek it out and make it a Dombuster night!

    

Album Cover of the Whatever

Now with more pixels!  So why another album cover so soon, you may (not) be asking yourself?  I'm bored.  This artwork belongs to a record that I actually listened to earlier today.  The band is Famyne, a doomy hard rock collective.  The release is eponymous.  They're fairly new on the scene, and it seems like I discovered them after everyone else.  I'm detecting grunge pheromones, a most pleasant balm in 2022.  As for the cover, it would have made 7-year-old Dom cry (even now, I'm misty-eyed...keep your opinions to yourself).  What kind of nightmarish sky crone is that?  NOTE TO SELF: Check the closet tonight for sky crones.

Blood Capsule #124

DESPERATE LIVING (1977)

I'm on something of a John Waters kick.  Heh, I feel like I've just admitted to struggling with drug addiction.  Most of his movies have subverted my DVD player, but strangely enough, Desperate Living has escaped my meddling eyes.  I came across a review that described this scrappy, prototypical piece of cinematic sludge as transitional.  That's about right.  Living sits in between Waters' early works of experimental "art trash" and his (slightly) more conventional fare.  It's also missing a key component that would come to exemplify a John Waters joint - Divine!  So how did I rate the film?  Was I able to cozy up to scenes of incommodious sex, do-it-yourself abortion, rape, and more rape?

The dialogue is customarily hysterical ("I'd like to stick my whole head in your mouth and let you suck out my eyeballs!"), and thankfully, it tends to make up for Living's grim tone.  But that's the thing; the atmosphere is almost too oppressive for a Waters joyride.  I didn't have fun with it.  Pink Flamingoes is just as warped and intractable, but all of its filth is accented with an off-center smile.  Don't get me wrong (or right, God forbid); I don't despise Desperate Living.  I just don't see many replays in the foreseeable future.  Oopsy-daisy...I forgot the synopsis.  That was intentional.  C'mon, make my life a little easier and consult any other review for a plot summary.  I'm a busy man, clearly.

  

Dead Review Collection #16 - VIOLENCE!

Well, that took long enough.  When you last visited your intrepid hero (that's me, asshole), he...er, I had just polished off Red Before Black.  It was a record that left me ambivalent.  While it proved that George and the gang still had combustible substances left in the tank, the actual songs showed a frustrating lack of forward momentum.  I didn't sense any real progression.  Was it possible that Cannibal Corpse had finally run out of impulses for new ideas?  Nope!  Okay, I suppose it was possible that they had exhausted their supply of meaty, distasteful riffs, but if Violence Unimagined proves anything, it's that Cannibal Corpse are neither cannibals nor corpses.

Story goes, longtime multi-tasker Erik Rutan joined CC's ranks on guitar in place of Pat O'Brien.  I'm not going to dredge up the palaver on Pat's personal life, but it was clear that he wouldn't be able to fulfill his duties, at least as it relates to the studio.  Rutan answered the distress signal (I imagine that it's similar to the bat-signal) and leapt into action.  I admit, I wasn't expecting him to be such a natural fit.  He did more than fit; he injected calcium into the hoary bones of an inveterate beast.  Granted, that's a terrible metaphor, but it holds water.  CC sounds younger on Violence.  A Benjamin Button joke wouldn't be out of place.  Should I?  Nah, I still have my dignity.

This necrotic flamethrower kicks into gear with "Murderous Rampage."  Normally, it's a harbinger of doom when the first cut is my favorite, but that's not an issue here.  Fuck, these riffs impale the listener.  Paul's work on the toms are key, as are the rhythm shifts that add intermittent bouts of density.  "Inhumane Harvest" was released as a single, and when it breached my ear canal, a couple of things happened.  A) I shit myself, on account of the weighty breakdown.  B) And I was assured that these gentlemen meant business.  "Condemnation Contagion" extends the hitting steak.  It was penned by Erik the Blood Red, and you can tell.  His leads force melody into the proceedings in a non-invasive manner.  That note applies to every tune, by the way.

"Follow the Blood" is a lurching Spinosaurus that picks apart its prey with crossbow claws.  Crossbow claws?  Folks, I'm low on metaphors.  There are only so many words that describe the brutality on display.  And I haven't mentioned "Slowly Sawn" yet.  It's fucking heavy, man.  Understand?  The production is tight across all numbers.  Alex Webster's bottom end is never sacrificed for the sake of simple loudness.  Honestly, I can't point to many missteps.  I mean, I could argue that Violence Unimagined is frontloaded, but that's such a minor gaffe, it's hardly worth typing.

I leave you with a facile, unaffected plea: LISTEN TO CANNIBAL CORPSE.  Please?

    

Album Cover of the Whatever

Still in "soft reboot" mode.  I'm just posting whatever whenever.  Then again, that has always been my approach.  I must recuse myself, as I haven't actually listened to this particular album.  The band is Esogenesi; the (sub)genre is doom.  Chances are, I would dig it, but there are three zillion records I want to hear, and that's an underestimation.  All I know is that the cover art is phenomenal.

You can download MUSIC?

I feel old.  Every day, I feel older.  As I understand it, I'm actually aging as time progresses?  I don't buy it, but at the very least, I feel ancient.  My heart will always live in 1995.  For example, I just purchased an album on Bandcamp, bypassing the tangible.  It's an honest-to-Satan download!  Er, some of you may have beaten me to the punch by 20 years or more.  I don't know if I'm proud or not.

Look, I'll always prefer having the album in front of me, but due to a myriad of unforeseen circumcisio...stances, circumstances, it simply makes more sense to absorb my jams through digital osmosis.  So what was my inaugural acquisition?  Inexorum's Equinox Vigil, a serious contender for Album of the Year.

I've been on a rabid, spirited black metal kick as of late.  Specifically, melodic black metal.  Vigil is supreme meloblack.  It's also supremely polished, but the songwriting is there.  It's autumnal to the core, whereas 2020's Moonlit Navigation (my pick for 2020's top record) spoke to a more frigid climate.  It's rad.  The layered guitar harmonies are fucking medicinal in their ability to restore the soul to its default setting, that being one of calm and stillness.  Or something to that effect.

I'm a gentleman, so I'll LINK you directly to the source.

IL

In baseball, it used to be called a "disabled list."  To fend off woke millennials, it was renamed the "injured list."  By the way, coming from an actual disabled person, the addendum...eh, it wasn't necessary.  You can call it the "fucked list" for all I care.  I mention it because I'M INJURED!  To make a very long story mercifully short, I aspirated pneumonia in late April.  Almost died.  I was hospitalized for roughly seven weeks.  I wasn't discharged until this past Monday.

If I sound awfully pragmatic about it, it's only because I'm fuckin' over it.  I just want time to speed up, to put one foot in front of the other.  I will say (for the sake of human interest) that in the process of determining a diagnosis, I ended up with two brain operations, a tracheostomy, a random fractured leg (unrelated), and other cartoonish misadventures.

I was planning on shooting boring YouTube videos that would plot out the whole debacle and explain everything in excruciating detail, but again, I'm wanting to move on.  I don't need to relive something I describe as a "debacle."  Ideally, I'd pick up where I left off and post a movie review tomorrow.  That's not realistic, though.  I'm still finding a groove.  My life feels new and foreign right now.  I feel...weird?

There was a period of two days (roundabout estimation) where I was unconscious.  It's a void.  A gulf.  Anything I did, say, one year ago?  Feels like ten years ago.  The entire hospital stay is blurry, even the parts I vividly remember.  Told ya I feel weird.

So when will RR Inc. return to its normal programming?  I have no idea.  Maybe a week.  Maybe never.  I can tell you that I no longer feel like an authority on horror films.  Was I ever?  That's not the point.  My perception is skewed.  I am WAY out of the loop, at least as it relates to modern horror.  Meaning, if or when the site returns unadulterated, it will be weirder and more random than ever before.

PS-The most likely scenario is a "soft reboot."  I'll probably post easy, small things here and there.  And I'm done typing.