Album Cover of the Whatever

It seems that every day, I discover a cool band.  'Twas just 5 (or 447) days ago, I discovered Whispered, a Samurai death metal band.  Yeah, Samurai death metal!  If I were hooked up to a polygraph machine, I would call them a melodic death metal band, but truthfully, their vibe is hard to explain.  The closest cousin is Children of Bodom.  Speaking of Finland, Whispered is from Finland, and no, that doesn't make sense.  Maybe they really dig dragons and swords.  Who doesn't, right?

But that's not the point!  Check out the cover art.  Decapitate two of its heads, and that whipping wyvern could cosplay as King Ghidorah.  I'm into Asian imagery in general.  Oh, the album is called Metsutan: Songs of the Void.  I don't usually do this, but I'm including a video because I want to give Whispered an infinitesimal boost.  Thank me later, guys!

Giant From the Unknown

I was hoping to get this review out a few days earlier, but I didn't.  It happens.  The string of heavenly b-movies produced in the 50's was just about to go kaput by the end of the decade, but there were still a few winners to be hatched.  For instance, you have 1959's The Monster of Piedras Blancas.  It's golden.  1958's Giant From the Unknown is...bronze?  It's nothing special, I grant you, but I couldn't hate it.  At least the storyline is whacked.  The grave of a centuries-dead Spanish conquistador is yawped by an electrical storm.  A lightning bolt disturbs his tomb, rousing the 6-foot-7 "degenerate" to leave his casket and plunge into a killing spree.

The actor behind Jack Pierce's make-up was actually 6-foot-7.  Trivia, bitches!  His name was Buddy Baer, and he was a professional boxer (not to mention the uncle of Max Baer Jr., who you might know as Jethro Bodine).  A word on horror legend Pierce, if I may.  He fortified his reputation applying make-up to the Universal monsters.  While his work here isn't bad by definition, it's certainly lacking.  My guess is that he wanted as much of Baer's performance to beam through as possible, but I want my monsters to look like monsters.  Yes, I'm nitpicking.  Monsters are my vocation, so I'm tough on them.  I assure you that it's tough love.

Let's see how many usages of "monster" I can cram into the rest of this disquisition.  As charming as Giant tends to be (I'll expound on this later if you mind your peas and queues), it does take its sweet time digging up its undead, armor-clad conqueror.  The exposition is pleased with itself.  And yeah, that's grating, but again, the whole thing charmed the Bermuda bloomers off of me.  Why, my jodhpur boots nearly kicked off in the prevailing winds of stupefaction!  I'm overselling, but I do find reels of this ilk to be amiable.  I was willing to brave the dry first half, and I don't recommend Giant to those without the same comportment.

Once the action picks up steam, our creature feature becomes an easier sit.  I have to hand it to screenwriters Ralph Brooke and Frank Hart Taussig for piecing a legitimate climax together.  Is it heart-stirring?  Is it as suspenseful as pissing with a kidney stone?  No.  No, no, no...nothing is that suspenseful.  However, the resolution presents as an honest-to-Dionysus battle.  I dug it.  People die, man.  The discovery of Indian Joe's hanging cadaver is surprisingly effective.  Um, about Indian Joe.  He's a carelessly, blunderingly racist character played by a white motherfucker.  I know I should have expected as much, but these itty-bitty issues instantly make the viewer dumber.  The film is also inclusive enough to feature pockets of sexism.  Why can't America be this great again???

Damn, that's a closing sentence if I've ever read one.  I'm ruining it.  So Giant From the Unknown!  It's a flawed, somewhat pedestrian drive-in spangle that I enjoyed a little more than most cult freaks would.  Robert Z'Dar says, "C'mon, Dom.  You're making Indian Joe shed a tear.  Go Redskins!"

Geek Out #136

This is the intro for The King Kong Show, a 1966 animated series produced by Rankin/Bass.  The actual animation was outsourced to Toei, a Japanese studio.  Technically, this was the first anime to be commissioned by an American company (thank you, Wikipedia).  I can't stand anime, but The King Kong Show isn't traditional anime.  No open jaws.

Hey, here's some more Kong trivia!  This series spawned Godzilla vs. the Sea Monster (a.k.a. Ebirah, Horror of the Deep), which was originally a Kong vehicle.  Eventually, Toho made King Kong Escapes instead.

New (no)filter!

Three!  Three episodes!  We did it!  Okay, we're still working out audio kinks (MIGHT have those fixed in a couple of episodes), but overall, this one...is a thing!  We talk about 1994's Funnyman, a film that I'm shocked I haven't discussed on this website.  It's about a demonic fuckin' jester!  C'mon!  Make some noise!

Yes! Yep! Yeah!

It's practically old news by now, but Daniel Bryan has been officially cleared by WWE medical personnel to be injured again.  Alright, so he's not injured again, but I know I wasn't the only one wincing at the end of Smackdown last night.  I guess if you can go, you gotta go full-bore.  Man, seeing DB laying in some of his signature offense?  Goose flesh.

Where do we go from here?  Wherever it is, tread carefully.  I mean, you can't treat the guy like a fragile wineglass, nor should you book him in a Street Fight.  The obvious play is to pair him up with Shane McMahon against Kevin Owens and Sami Zayn.  That would work.  Initially, I had zero interest in Wrestlemania 34, but the card has shaped up nicely.  Styles/Nakamura, Charlotte/Asuka, Rousey/Others (a circus match, but I'm fucking watching), Cena/Taker (we all know it's happening)...when you factor in the bloat, it's almost too much.

If they shave needless video packages (they won't), the show should run a lean six hours.  After the pre-show.  Fuck.

Headhunter

I have known of this film's existence for several years.  Because I'm me.  This is what I do.  1988's Headhunter has ducked my custody until just recently.  I expected it to be a supernatural slasher, the kind that the late 80's were so damn adept at cranking out with a heavy right foot.  And it was, but it surprised me with a stunted shot of suspense.  Miami detectives Pete and Kat are assigned to a bizarre homicide investigation that involves dead chickens, a missing severed head and black people.  That's right, kids.  I'm talkin' 'bout love.  I'm talkin' 'bout VOODOO!  If you think about it, "voodoo horror" is very rarely mediocre.  From Angel Heart to The Serpent and the Rainbow, this stuff is entertaining.  I even dug 2005's Venom in spite of its conspicuous lack of Oliver Reed.

Anyway, to make a long story short, our sleuths eventually come face to machete with the malefactor, an ancient...spirit thing.  That's him on the cover.  Yeah, we aren't propounded with much information, aside from a name that I couldn't begin to spell.  It's super-duper powerful, naturally.  The ambiguity is frustrating, but what really seared my septum was the fact that we don't get to see it until the last 15 minutes.  For the most part, the villain is a roving POV camera.  In one scene, he "attacks" from underwater.  We see the machete rising like a shark fin (deepest, bluest).  Admittedly, I'm cool with the killer's rubbery look.  I was reminded of The Creep from Creepshow 2, and that's never a trouble.

Those last 15 minutes I mentioned earlier?  Remember?  Back when we were happy?  They do kick ass.  The climax is actually worth the wait, which I hear is the point of a climax.  The rest of the third act is spent on building tension, and you won't believe this, but it works!  Okay, it worked on me.  I'm a little dumb.  I felt that I owed it to the movie to meet it halfway.  After all, it kept me supraliminal.  I linked you to a definition, but it doesn't even make sense.  It kept me awake!  There.  This is what I get for trying to be literate.  Um, the acting is good.  It's unbad.

No, they deserve a better analysis.  Wayne Crawford plays the world-weary cop well.  Extra kudos for nailing moments that required vulnerability.  The foxy Kay Lenz is fantastic as Kat.  These two performances must have been choppered in from an a-movie.  Production-wise, Headhunter wears the mark of an a-movie.  The cinematography is silken, the locations are eye-popping and Crawford's moustache is the real deal.  This is where I tell you that I'd recommend Headhunter on a late spring night.  In the olden days, I would say "check it out if you can find it," but in 2018, you are more than likely to find a video game commercial that isn't cinematic.  So watch it on YouTube.  If you can find it.

ADDENDUM: I fucking forgot a major selling point.  Headhunter references The Hideous Sun Demon on more than one occasion.  As a matter of palpable truth, the 1958 "creature suit" shindig plays on a television during the payoff.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Sicarius is a black metal band out of California, but their sound isn't kissed by the clarion rays of the sun.  This is grimy stuff.  The riffs are lethal.  I dig it, and I dig the artwork that finds a sect of congregants worshiping either light (perhaps their only means of escape) or a knife-bearing goddess.  The cover is telling a story of some sort, but I like that it's open to interpretation.  And the title is killer.  Serenade of Slitting Throats...fucking metal!

Blood Capsule #87

MUTILATIONS (1986)

Aww, yeah.  This is what I'm talking about.  It has been too long (like, a week) since I've enjoyed a frugal, prudential budget movie.  And this bastard has it all.  Dazed acting, awkward dialogue, a donkey dick plot and stop-motion effects.  You heard me right, dollface!  STOP-MOTION!  I'll start at the beginning.  This shouldn't take too long.  An astronomy professor takes a group of his most passionate students on a field trip to a small town where it has been reported that flying saucers are pouncing on pastures and mutilating cattle.  Mutilating.  Via...mutilations!

Ostensibly (ooh, we're high-brow today), Mutilations was filmed in 1986 and released in 1987.  I wasn't there, so I'm trusting web scriveners to guide me with good faith.  Most certainly, I will regret it.  This 50's throwback was stitched together with a demonstrable love for the genre, especially golden regalia such as Earth vs. the Flying Saucers and I Married a Monster From Outer Space.  It.  Is.  Fun!  You know what helps?  The running time, which spouts at anywhere from 67 to 70 minutes, depending on the version you are watching.  I have no clue what was cut or added, but I was able to peek at weirdo gore (see the above image).

Honestly, the "claymation" is well-mounted.  We get a tubular action sequence where the characters joust with the alien creatures, and the rear-projection imagery meshes alright with the robo-dinosaurs.  Yeah.  The monsters favor robo-dinosaurs.  I dig.  Mutilations isn't the best z-grade sci-fi/horror yarn I've ever seen, but fuck, it made me write the longest Blood Capsule to date.  Actually, that's up for debate, but I don't feel like counting words.  Sheep, on the other hand...

Dommy Impact?

So John Hennigan can just change his last name based on the company he's working for?  He has been Morrison (and Nitro) in ECW/WWE, he has been Mundo in Lucha Underground and ever since joining the Impact roster, he has been - you guessed it - Impact!  Readers, from hence and whence forth, I am to be addressed as Dom Random.

Ergh, nevermind.  I prefer my given appellation (Domstopher Valenzuela-Hakari Esq.).  So the other night, I decided to do the unthinkable.  I watched Impact Wrestling!  Apparently, I picked a good week, as the episode had a Crossroads theme.  It was essentially a 2-hour PPV with commercial breaks.  All but one contest was stipulated for a golden strap.  I will freely admit; I was impressed, although I had a feeling that I would be.  You see, management has been displaced again.  If what I'm reading is correct (it is), Impact's current bookers are Scott D'Amore and Don Callis.  And if I'm being honest (I'm not...okay, I am), the former TNA is in safe hands.

Then again, I was spared promo segments on account of the episode's match-only focus.  I'll watch again next Thursday to gauge the product and find out if it's still whackadoodle.  Other fans are into this shit.  Personally, I haven't watched Impact in years.  When I say it put me off, it really fucking put me off.  I don't expect to start watching it on a weekly basis because Satan almighty, there is a cunt-ton of wrestling in the ether!  Between NXT, Smackdown (I scarcely bother with Raw), NJPW and random (!) indie promotions that I follow, I don't have time to cum in my pants.

You caught me.  The truth is, I do have time to...let's change the subject, shall we?  The Sydal/Ishimori match was brain-melting, and it made me pine for the days of Evan Bourne.  Ha!  The main event was fucking killer.  Austin Aries versus Johnny Impact.  Need I say more?  They could have gone for half an hour.  Damn TV limitations.  I've mentioned this already, but I'm super curious to discover where this show is, really.  On a sliding scale from righteous X-Division wars to Dixie Carter sleeping with A.J. Styles, where are we exactly?  Which pole are we closer to?

PS-I don't get Laurel Van Ness.  Rosemary I get, but LVN?  She's tolerable in the ring, but something about the character isn't rendering for me.  My shoulders are shrugging.

DEATHWHITE - For a Black Tomorrow

I wouldn't normally review the album of a band I know next to nothing about, but I freaking love Deathwhite.  I do know that they hail from Pittsburgh.  I'm sure that the members have birth names, but they are credited as LM (vocals/guitars) and AM (drums).  In their only video, they are painted black.  Apparently, they have added a third member for touring purposes, but there are only two dudes on this year's For a Black Tomorrow, their debut full-length.  Aside from all that jazz, Deathwhite harken back to a simpler time when bands didn't say shit to the media.  Tool had that reputation, but if you do your homework, you'll see that they did their fair share of interviews in the olden days.

Not Deathwhite!  No, sir!  I realize that they just released Tomorrow, but they had put out a pair of extended plays (I can spell it out if I want to) previous, of which I recommend 2015's Solitary Martyr.  So LM and AM have had plenty of time to speak to rock/metal journalists.  What do they sound like?  Yes, I would agree with you that I should probably touch on the music.  Their genus is more akin to a scent or character than a simple qualifier such as goth or prog rock.  They fall in between subgenres.  To be specific, they fall in between goth and prog rock.  Tool interbred with Katatonia?  Closer to the latter, if we're dealing with lyrics.  These songs are obsessed with suicide and depression.

I dig sadness as a topic.  Minor keys!  I dig those, too.  "The Grace of the Dark" is a sturdy opener that finds its narrator dying and wilting into oblivion.  A toe-tapper, that one.  "Contrition" is the heaviest track offered, and I can't help banging my head whenever I hear it.  Sure, it causes irreparable damage to my neck, but I blame the power of the riff, for it compels me!  It also flaunts sweet guitar harmonies, as does "Poisoned," the first tune to take advantage of an acoustic guitar.  "Just Remember" has awesome vokill melodies.  By the way, those are the first four songs on Tomorrow, all sequenced and everything!

LM's voice brings Maynard James Keenan to mind.  I can sing like Maynard.  Big deal.  Whatever.  Single "Dreaming the Inverse" ends with an emotional crescendo, and I'd be lying if I said that the lyrics didn't hit home.  Usually, your enjoyment of a piece of art corresponds with your ability to relate to it.  That's what's happening here, but it's also just a good album.  However, it's not perfect!  Things dissolve a tad after "Dreaming the Inverse," an apogee of sorts.  "Death and the Master," "Prison of Thought" and the title track are growing on me, though.  It matters none.  I'm recommending the shit out of For a Black Tomorrow.  I've listened to it nonstop for two weeks, if that tells you anything.

Mr. Stitch

Sometimes, when you decide to watch a particular film, you have no idea what you're stepping into.  I bought 1995's Mr. Stitch.  Okey-dokey.  It's a sci-fi thriller (getting sick of those, by the way).  Okey-dokey.  Hey, look at that!  It stars Rutger Hauer and Wil Wheaton.  Okey-dokey.  It was the first Sci-Fi Channel original movie ever made?  Oh dear Satan.  It all makes sense now.  There may not have been any sharknados or arachnoquakes, but Mr. Stitch is the special kind of rotten that only could have been brought to pass by that Comcast-branded magnate.  That knife-wielding Hitler youth.  That pillager of sacred ground (read: MST3K).  That...that!

I'm choosing to review it for two reasons.  1) It's a modified retelling of Frankenstein, so genre-wise, it's up to code.  You might even call it hep or hunky-dory.  2) It's an anomaly.  Mr. Stitch doesn't remind me of any other film in existence, except maybe for The Item.  They both begin with a dissuading, inhospitable strangeness that makes it difficult to finish the damn thing.  Like a bad piece of meat that is hard to swallow.  Halfway through production, Hauer began improvising his dialogue.  He snubbed the script entirely, forcing director Roger Avary (yes, that Roger Avary) to revise lines to correlate with whatever Hauer disgorged on set.

Knowing that, Rutger Hauer has leap-frogged to the top of my list of personal heroes.  I should try to put some of this into perspective.  Mr. Stitch isn't the worst tripe I've endured, but I definitely didn't enjoy a solitary second of it.  A group of scientists - led by Hauer's Dr. Wakeman - are tasked with concocting an android for use on the battlefield.  One of their experiments enlivens, and naturally, he has questions.  I say "he," but he's a hermaphrodite who identifies as male.  Wakeman explains that he is composed of 88 bodies.  That's 44 male, 44 female.  The experiment decides that he wants to be called Lazarus, a name he found in The Bible, one of two fictional works he was permitted to read.  The other?  Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.

Lazarus confides in Dr. English, an attractive female scientist.  Through these interactions, English suspects that the experiment was stitched together with the flesh of former co-workers.  And her late boyfriend.  Now, I've just described an intriguing plot in theory.  The execution is way off.  The first 45 minutes are confined to a frost-white room.  That's all we see, unless you count the GIANT GODDAMN FLOATING EYEBALL, which is barely explained.  "Barely explained" is a running theme.  Lazarus is located in a top-secret, maximum security government facility, yet he faces no stumbling blocks escaping and driving anywhere he pleases.  He's never in a true pickle.  No pickles!

If you know me, you know that I'm not one to decimate a film for being modestly budgeted, but when Mr. Stitch doesn't leave an "examination room" for 45 minutes, I get testy.  You're supposed to hide your budget.  Fuck.  The concepts presented are compelling, but they're not compelling enough to cover for this frail, feeble Frankenstein monster.  I stretched for that alliteration.  Not my proudest moment.  NOTE: My rating might seem a bit generous, but there were spots where I could see effort.  I'm big on effort.  Still, don't watch Mr. Stitch.

Geek Out #135

I just realized that I used to format Geek Outs differently.  Text would go first; the video would follow.  Why I changed those dimensions is anyone's best guess, including mine.  Let's pretend that this is how I've always done it.  Okey-dokey?  Okey-dokey.  Today's Geek Out is the intro for the remake of Dark Shadows.  Funnily enough, I didn't watch either version, but I have vivid memories of seeing the modern variant while I was home sick from school.  It didn't freak me out or anything.  As I recall, it was one of the defanged moments that underscored the "soap opera" angle.

The Rowdy One

It isn't often (anymore) that I tune into USA on Monday nights to catch the beginning of Raw.  Rowdy Ronda Rousey, WWE's latest signee, made a ginormous fucking splash at Elimination Chamber, and I wanted to see the fallout.  Unlike in the Attitude Era, Vince doesn't start his shows with the big deal in 2018.  Ronda's the big deal.  Someone at Titan Towers has to know that.  When did the big deal finally emerge on Raw?  The last segment.  Of a three-hour show.  I figured that she would be used at the top of an hour, but fuck, I couldn't even get that right.

The segment itself was fine, albeit a tad clunky.  Triple H had no reason to punch Kurt Angle at that time.  It seemed random, and if anything, it made me giggle.  And it begs the question: how long until Ronda is either squandered or desecrated?  Monday night's "confrontation" doesn't bode well for her future as a pro-wrestler.  Listen, I'm cool with the proposed Wrestlemania match-up of Ronda and Kurt versus Trips and Stephanie, but what happens after that?  I suppose that it's a question of trust.  Friends, relatives, acquaintances, blacksmiths, silversmiths, knaves, cobblers, scallywags...I do not trust Vince McMahon.

I'm also conflicted.  As a fan of The Rousey, I want her to perform well.  As a fan of the women's division on both brands, I want the other challengers to the throne to be protected.  This is a good place to end what I would call a quasi-editorial.  There may be a wrestling-related rant in the coming weeks, but I shouldn't say too much.  It depends on week-to-week booking, and I may not be galled about it next week.  Until then, listen to doom and black metal.

Monolith

This flick is barely worth reviewing.  It barely exists.  Out of respect for Bill Paxton (a.k.a. probably God), I will soldier on.  Woah, is Bad Religion subliminally fingering my mental anus?  I'm listening to "All Good Soldiers" off of Recipe for Hate and it may have prickled my subconscious, my immaterial marrow into typing "soldier."  Neat!  Anyway, 1993's Monolith is a mediocre sci-fi/action glob that more than likely went straight to videocassette faster than the speed of love.  Paxton plays Tucker, a rugged cop with a penchant for bending rules.  Wait, don't cringe yet.  Louis Gossett Jr. plays Mac, the boss of the precinct.  At one point, he actually says that the mayor is riding his tail.

The "buddy cop" cliches are FIERCE with this bitch.  Who is the buddy?  Lindsay Frost plays Flynn, a cute, yet attitudinal bluecoat.  Quality actors, but Christ in a bumper car, the dialogue is grueling.  None of it sounds natural, mainly because the screenplay forces Tucker and Flynn to butt heads without a good reason.  Oh, I didn't mention the sci-fi elements.  A vague, forgettable alien entity is in the possession of the government.  Obviously, it escapes.  How?  I'm glad you asked.  It jumps from host to host a la The Hidden and a googolplex of other genre films made after 1993.  To be fair, the premise of Monolith wasn't quite as generic as it is in the modern day.

If we got to see a gooey, malformed creature, that would be one thing.  But of course, we don't.  The only special effects in Monolith are streaks of "alien light."  As for gore, half of a man's face is mangled.  Eh.  Profanity is the most R-rated event that happens here, unless you count how violated I felt after the end credits rolled.  Can a copy of this movie be used as a rape kit?  I mean, it's all the evidence I would need to put director John Eyres away for life (and then let out after a couple months for good behavior).  The cinematography is plenty polished.  Everything seems professional, but again, if the script were any dumber, it would have to be watered twice a week.

I'm being careful not to berate Bill Paxton.  He's kewl, and hey, a job is a job.  That's the fuck of it.  The plot holes!  Tell me, how do you shoot down a helicopter with a single bullet from a rifle?  And what the hell does the government want with this alien?  Matters of espionage, I would presume, but the viewer learns next to nothing about our extraterrestrial menace.  CORRECTION: We learn nothing.  Thankfully, the pace is switched to the "chop-chop" setting, so Monolith speeds by without causing a disturbance.  It will leave my mind entirely as soon as I punctuate this sentence.  Also available on laserdisc.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Mammothor!  You would expect brutal death metal from that cover, but nope.  These guys play southern rock.  I only listened to half of one song.  It was okay.  Hey, I don't need to like the bands I feature with this column; I just need to like their album covers.  Diddley-do-cumbubble, I like this particular sliver of artwork.

Soska Sightings and Chokeslams

Well, thanks to busy days and too much sleep, this write-up is late.  I apologize.  Enough with the excuses.  On with the show!  Thanks to Josh for the spiffy pictures.

Leatherface skins me with his eyes while I browse movies in the dealer room.

It's that time again, apostles.  Over the weekend, a friend and I attended the Mad Monster Party horror convention in Charlotte, North Carolina.  This is my fifth (possibly sixth) excursion to MMP.  I feel like a seasoned con-goer, though I know folks who have been to dozens of these blowouts.  This is a weird tangent to embark on at the beginning of this blurb, but autograph prices...what the fuck?  I admit that I don't go to conventions regularly.  One day, I'd love to be able to travel to Cinema Wasteland, but when did simple autographs skyrocket in perceived value?

I know these people need to eat (and some of them make a living off of conventions alone), but so do people outside of the entertainment industry.  $40 for the likeness of a moppet who impregnated a zombie squirrel in a direct-to-video slasher sequel?  I invented that person, but my point is valid.  And $40 was on the low end.  It's a good thing that I never cared about owning signatures.  "Pay top dollar for my precious calligraphy."  Fuck you, Rodney.  Rodney doesn't exist because apparently, I have a kink for inventing hypothetical humans, but no one has collectible penscript.  'Tis my two cents.  The memory of the experience of meeting genre notables is all I crave.

I hugged the Soska twins.  This is evidence.  I hugged the Soska twins.

One of my prime directives was to meet Jen and Sylvia Soska.  As soon as I noticed that they were on the guest list, I ordered my tickets.  The horror community has soured on them in recent years, and I understand it.  That has nothing to do with ME.  I'm just a silly cripple with crushes on both twins.  To be honest with you, I've only seen two of their works.  I do plan on rectifying that, but I'm more into their personalities.  And their boobs.  Having feminists out there writing and directing horror films can only serve to stimulate the latitude of the genre.

I asked to be choked.  No, it wasn't sexual, and yes, I forgot to act.

As you may be aware, the Soskas directed Kane in See No Evil 2.  It was a thin, yet highly entertaining "body count" cheese reel.  I can't believe that I've made it this far without screaming in all caps I MET KANE!  HOLY SHIT!  Back in 2011 (ah, to be semi-young again), I wrote a little tribute to Kane in celebration of a WWE storyline involving The Big Red Machine.  To sum up, I was a Kane freak in my freshman year of high school.  Actually meeting the man two decades later?  Goddamn surreal.  Of course, he was a chill gentleman.  Mellow and intimidating in equal measures.  By the way, do you see a scruffy dude in the top left-hand corner?

I fucking didn't!  I had a chance to say hello to Mick Foley, but I was so spluttered by the presence of Kane and the Soska sisters, I didn't know that he was sitting right behind my dumbfounded ass.

Me looking at...something.

While it's true that Robert Englund was at MMP, I didn't feel like waiting forever in line or coughing up mega-capital (we went over this already).  I regret it.  I do.  BUT later in the day, we found ourselves "behind the scenes," for want of a better maxim.  I was sitting in a hallway when someone shot me in the chest.  Shocked, I looked up from the bleeding wound to see my would-be assassin.  It was Robert fucking Englund!  Okay, maybe the scream king merely walked past me.  I did utter, "Holy shit, it's Robert Englund."  It came out sounding matter-of-fact, which must have amused Englund.  Several steps beyond me now, he echoed my "holy shit," only his was accented with scale and sonority.  It was awesome.

Robert Englund is awesome.

Yes, that deserved its own paragraph.  I presume that I had fun, as time zoomed by like a fast thing.  Yeah, I had fun.  I didn't bother with any other celebs.  Kismet or divine will (or...my mommy) invested a decent amount of money in this trip.  I mean, I had to spend it.  I HAD TO.  Without bogging this waffling, circumlocutory memoir down with specifics, I purchased...

• Ten-ish movies.  I nabbed Delicatessen on VHS for $4.  Steal!  Who wants to fuck me first?
• Two shirts, including a badass Goosebumps tee (get this - it's the cover of Attack of the Jack-O-Lanterns).  Who wants to fuck me second!?
• Universal horror plushies!  I picked up Frankie, The Mummy and Dracula.  The latter went to Booker, our adorable pitbull terrier.  Who wants to fuck a dog?  Please do not answer that question.
• A small bottle of Coca-Cola.

I know for a fact that I bought more, but my brain is toast.  Sorry again for the delay.  You fuckers.

Bonus Soska!

Telegraph the Stars

I'm not going to explain this post except to say that...okay, maybe a mild explanation is warranted.  A) The above image is dumb.  In actual fact, it's dumber than I need it to be, but it serves its purpose.  B) What purpose?  To raise suspicion.  I'm foreshadowing tomorrow evening's post.  It's a floozy, sports fans!  Or a doozy.  I get those two confused, but I'm sure that I'm in the ballpark.  Anyway, come back tomorrow.  Same channel.

Album Cover of the Whatever

A jester-in-the-box!  In a human body!  That's fucking mortifying, I'm sorry.  It's also a great album cover.  That is Bruce Dickinson's fourth solo jam you're eyeballing, and for some unforgivable reason, I have yet to hear it.  I'll spin it eventually.  Get off my case, maaaaaaan.

BLACK SITES - In Monochrome

Ooh, a whole band dedicated to websites maintained by black people.  Saucy!  No, a "black site," as I discovered through backbreaking research, is an undisclosed location where the CIA (or the government in general) conducts highly classified...er, stuff.  This could be anything from hush-hush weapons development to the interrogation (torture) of detainees suspected of terrorist activity.  The more you read about black sites, the scarier it gets.  Thankfully, I'm only touching on Black Sites, a Chicago-based metal band led by vocalist/guitarist Mark Sugar.  This guy is talented, as evidenced by his other outfits, most of which have folded their respective tents.

It's clear that he listens to a wide ambit of mehtalz.  Trials was a thrashy, quasi-metalcore beast and they were damn good.  Bear Mace, an ongoing venture, is listed as a death metal collective, though I haven't listened to Butchering the Colossus, their 2017 affair.  I have listened to In Monochrome, the only Black Sites boogie kit to date.  It's a hard son of a bitch to classify.  If I had to propel a dart in this long player's direction, it would land somewhere between groove metal and hard rock.  Off the top of my head, I can't name another band that serves as a sonic double.

Ironically, the music is simple and straight to the point.  You've got riffs, mostly mid-paced drums and a dude singing over it all.  "Singing" is a key word.  Sugar employs clean vokills for 85-90% of In Monochrome.  For me, that's refreshing.  It seems like every modern band either grunts or squawks at you as if it makes them appear tough.  Y'know, one of those flinty, hard-bitten American Gladiator types that kids moon over.  This is 1990, isn't it?  Not the point!  After awhile, hearing hoarse, atonal screaming becomes old hat.  Nevermind the fact that I love black metal; I may (or may not) be jamming to something tr00 and Norwegian this very instant.  Again, not the point!

Let's examine songs, shall we?  "Dead Languages" is the opener proper after a non-germane intro and it washes my dishes.  By that, I mean it rocks.  Nifty riffage, a catchy pre-chorus, a full arrangement...this is a vital example of strong songwriting.  In my younger days, I didn't understand what music journalists meant by "songwriting," but the best records spell it out for me.  It comes down to dynamics.  Whomever mapped out the 8-minute "In the Woods" is an excellent songwriter because they knew the right time to intercalate a plush twin-guitar harmony (it submits itself at the end of the chill breakdown, for those curious).

I was shocked to learn that said tune ran for eight minutes.  Likewise, I was shocked to learn that "Monochrome" ran for seven minutes.  That's how well-written they are, and the same applies to the entire aural registry itself.  It flies by with the gait of a winged wing.  Sour notes?  Well, none of the tracks are crude or meager, but I do remember the first half more fondly than the second half.  No real reason.  The lyrics are bland, but I don't pay attention to lyrics unless I'm dealing with a personal deity-level group (i.e. favorite).

Yeah!  In Monochrome has replay value.  I've already popped it into the ol' CD player six times since its date of release, February 17th, 2017.  Of course, I only purchased it recently, but forget what the numbers tell you, Carmen.  This is a solid buy.

It Gets Worse

This will be a weird post.  I want to start writing more music reviews.  That doesn't mean that I will, just that I want to.  Why is it hard for me to write music reviews?  Here's a better question, you fiddle-footed fuck (I'm cursing myself, not you); why is it hard for me to write period?  I never actually wanted to be a "professional" writer.  It's one of the things that I can do, and it just so happens that I do it marginally well.  It doesn't help that I'm constantly feuding with my brain.  If I could, I'd stay in bed all of the time.

That's the scary part of the matter.  I COULD stay in bed all of the time.  I mean, I'm sure that my mother would force me out at some point, but pragmatically speaking, I have no reason to get out of bed.  No job.  No social life (on a day-to-day basis anyway).  I'm taking you deeper into the recesses of my mind than I'm comfortable with, but hey, this is what I wanted to write.  I won't take you any deeper, though.  It gets worse.  Darker.  On a dumbhearted note, I watched 1994's No Escape earlier today.  It's a sci-fi actioner starring Ray Liotta, Lance Henriksen, Kevin J. O'Connor and Kevin Dillon.

Set in the future, the film follows convicts on a jeopardous prison island.  Remember TBS's "Movies For Guys Who Like Movies"?  This is one such movie.  It will make you feel like a man, even if you're a bicycle.  Or a kettle!  I enjoyed it.  Music?  Oh, I'm currently listening to Marduk's Heaven Shall Burn...When We Are Gathered.  I'm letting you know so that you think I'm cool.  I'm cool.