Matches That Time Forgot #60

How about a Sgt. Slaughter match?  I was looking for an AWA ditty when I stumbled upon this doozy.  I didn't realize that the Sarge clashed with Ric Flair in The Fed.  This might have been his unofficial retirement from active duty as a full-time wrestler.  The Mountie makes a shocking (punpunpun...pun) appearance, and Slaughter is stretchered out of the arena.  Not much else to report.  Excited yet?


Pickled Spunk

I just finished archiving the Matches That Time Forgot page.  Go check it out!  Next, I'll sort the music reviews.  My plate is full, but that would be a stupid thing to complain about (unless it was full of pickled spunk).


Blood Capsule #42


Alternately known as The Death King, this experimental film served as Jorg Buttgereit's follow-up to Nekromantik.  It's an informal anthology in that the narrative is abscinded into seven segments, all of which address a congruous theme.  What is the theme of the day?  Suicide.  Speaking in broad terms, I suppose that Der Todesking simply addresses death, but there are billows of conceptual chowder to lade with your jesuitic...um, ladle.  Baby Jesus, where the fuck am I going here?  I do apologize, dear reader.  I get lost in words from time to time.  If you're not careful (segue alert), you will lose yourself in Mr. Buttgereit's seemingly abstract editing.

I'm not entirely sure how I feel about Der Todesking.  Cryptic, yet provocative symbolism struggles to sync up with buckram acting and an erratic score.  There are certainly a couple of stand-out performances, and I was genuinely impressed with the camerawork (the "bridge" tableau is goddamn stellar).  I can't deny that there is something about this flick that gestates in your mind's womb long after the credits roll.  Your mind's womb???  Man, I can digress like a motherfucker.  I could write a flatulent disquisition on Buttgereit's sophomore outing, so it's probably a good thing that this is a blood capsule, as opposed to a bloodbath.  In short, it's worth scoping out.


Album Cover of the Week

This one comes out in late April.


Death Spa

NOTE: Due to the convention, I missed an Album Cover of the Week, so that will occur tomorrow (Friday) night.  On Saturday, I shall pen a Blood Capsule.  I'm on a roll, baby!  Don't stop me now!

The first half of 1989's Death Spa rivals Spookies in terms of waggish ineptitude.  It's goddamn flaky.  You and I have known each other since we were spermatozoa, just a couple of thallophytes in the oogonium of an oomycete (try not to dwell on my mismanaged metonymy).  You know how much I love Spookies.  If I'm saying that Death Spa approaches that level of brilliance - and that's precisely what I'm saying - you need to take me seriously.  To be clear, this b-cream does not dethrone Spookies.  It splinters toward the end, but it earns four whole Z'Dars without breaking a sweat.  Did you know that movies could sweat?  Because they can...like a whore in church!

I once foot-fucked a colored hussy with psoriasis behind a cabinet in a synagogue that contained the Torah scrolls.  Offended?  Me, too.  Cancel The Colbert Report!  If this review seems inordinately caustic and scattershot, it's because I wanted it to mirror the absurdity of Death Spa.  The script begins with a health club being struck by lightning.  Since this is a horror picture from the 80's, the firebolt kindles ghost-powered calamity.  Over the span of two days, a trim blonde is scorched (and subsequently blinded) by low-grade chlorine vapor, tiles fly off the walls of a locker room (it's okay; that bitch didn't need her right cheek anyway), a meathead is ripped apart by a shoulder press machine and a diving board malfunctions, narrowly missing a swimmer's head.

Now, the owner is aware of these mystifying happenings.  He suspects that something weird might be going on, but hold the motherfucking phone!  The Mardi Gras Party is creeping around the corner.  If they surcease the resort's activity, they risk losing money AND memberships!  Besides, how much damage can a shark cause?  I mean, what?  I haven't even mentioned the wheelchair garden suicide and the gun-toting parapsychologist.  See, I told you that Death Spa was nucking futs.  The pace races in hyperdrive, the gore is ample and there is female nudity everywhere.  I had to have a smile surgically removed from my doltish face.

At a certain juncture, our suave hero romances the aforestated trim blonde after she comes home from the hospital.  I guess the bandages and the comically huge sunglasses turn him on?  I couldn't contain my laughter.  The viewer is supposed to root for the virile jock, but it's strongly implied that he cheated on his then-disabled/now-dead wife.  It's also implied that he still cheats on a regular basis.  Does he show any signs of remorse?  Nope!  So that's a bummer, as is the errant, contumacious finale.  It stumbles forward on fumes, and to be perfectly honest, I didn't quite understand how the baddie was routed.  Electricity?  How in the hell does that work?

Death Spa pairs well with 1986's Killer Workout.  Shit, I need that double feature to happen.  And soon!




Geek Out #102

I'm not the biggest GWAR fan in the universe, but man, Dave Brockie's unexpected death has bummed me out something fierce.  I was listening to America Must Be Destroyed earlier.  Bittersweet, yet explosive.  Enjoy "Gor-Gor" in Dave's honor.



A fool and his money...

Obviously, I attended the third annual Mad Monster Party horror/sci-fi convention in Charlotte, North Carolina this past weekend.  After haunting the first two events, I had a good idea of what to expect.  I guess you could say that I was decorously acclimatized to my surroundings.  Don't get me wrong; it was still surreal to be within spitting distance of cult celebrities.  Henry Winkler walked by our table during breakfast (no, I didn't spit on him).  I squired my maternal progenitor to the hotel where we stayed Friday night.  In years past, I was only able to visit the assemblage for a couple of hours on a single afternoon.  This time around, I had more time to relax and enjoy myself.

Of course, that meant I had a blast.  It also meant that I spent a superfluous amount of money in the (multiple) vendor rooms.  Holy shit, you guys.  I always get a bigger kick out of merchandise than autographs, and year three was no exception.  Apart from Tom Atkins and Heather Langenkamp (more on them later), I didn't really indulge in accosting genre notables.  I did have my eye on a wrestling cynosure, but his prices were...immoderate?  Hell, I'll just say it - "Rowdy" Roddy Piper was charging forty clams for an autograph.  That was disappointing, to say the least.

An Elvira photo-op was tempting, but that would have been another fifty dollars down the tubes.  As much as I heart everyone's favorite horror hostess, I chose to invest in cool shit that I can either read or watch.  Before I divulge my cargo, please allow me to apologize for the paucity of pictures.  To be honest, I fucking forgot to take a bounty of photographic evidence.  I was too "in the moment," if that makes any sense.  Plus, you have to keep in mind that I don't physically hold the phone/camera, so it rarely enters my mind.  The images enclosed are pretty boss, though.

Eight!  Movies I procured.  Two!  Shirts total.  I picked up a sweet Blacula tee and my third badass Creepshow shirt.  You better believe that my Creepshow collection is flourishing in stature and tonnage.  Two!  That's the admittedly low number of autographs I obtained, but again, I had particular priorities.  One!  Rare Undertaker action figure (fret not, I will eventually write a separate blurb on this bad boy).  One!  Back issue of Fangoria.  One!  Plush Frankenberry head.  One!  Street Sharks sticker book.  That's right.  Be jealous.

Clearly, I shot my wad.  On the "special guests" front, I spotted William Shatner, Sid Haig, Bill Moseley, Cassandra Peterson (in normal attire, goddamn gorgeous), Corey Feldman (black gloves, ridiculous hat, gratuitous shades...the works, basically), Patty Mullen, Ox Baker and Richard Kiel among others.  I felt bad for Kiel.  The guy is old, and he was enervated by nightfall.  Respect.  Due to scheduling conflicts, I missed Sunday's Q&A panel featuring Piper and Hulk Hogan, which was moderated by "Mean" Gene Okerlund.  Fuck!  Maybe I'll catch a panel next year.

That's all.  Here are the pictures, you grumbling ingrates!

THE Tom Atkins.  Need I say more?  Quite approachable.

Nancy herself!  She was such a sweetheart.  Naturally, there were oodles of Elm Street press photos to choose from, but I detected a lone still from Just the Ten of Us.  I decided to be that motherfucker.  Hey, I dug the show as a youngster.  She signed it "Sweet Dreams."  Seriously rad.

Lounging with a dead deadhead.

My friend, Paul, being goosed by Elvira.  Lucky son of a bitch!


Hotel Wi-Fi

I've already spent way too much money.  Got a sweet Blacula shirt.  Write-up coming either tomorrow or Sunday.  With pictures!


Festivities on the horizon...

Now that I've successfully raped your retinas, allow me to unspool the site's schedule for the rest of March.  Heh, who am I kidding?  There is no schedule!  I am, however, attending Mad Monster Party for the third year running.  It's a kewl horror convention that explodes this weekend.  I leave Friday night, and I return Saturday.  As per usual, there will be a write-up.  I don't have too many goals or expectations this time out.  I'm just going to dig on the general atmosphere and have fun.

Guess what I'm prepping?  The long (like, really fucking long), long-awaited third installment of Bookworm Infested.  Go back and read the first two installments to get yourself properly lubricated for the event.  Stay tuned, flying robots!


Shitty Album Review

I discuss Mayhem's Chimera (which came out in 2004...I don't know why I said 1996), and I touch on other topics of interest.


Yeah, so I accidentally slept ALL DAY yesterday.  And some of the night.  So I got nothing accomplished.  I'll be posting a video later today, and I'm going to try to finish a chunk of archiving.  Hang in there, brothers and sisters!


Album Cover of the Week


The Milpitas Monster

Your opinion of 1976's The Milpitas Monster will depend on how much you know about the film going in.  On the surface, it's an archetypal no-budgeter.  The acting is unsightly, the audio is muffled (more on sensory deprivation later) and the special effects are scroungy.  I've seen worse b-movies, but yeah, I've seen better.  What if I told you that Milpitas was made by high school students?  That a homework assignment pullulated into a far-flung community project?  That the mayor of the actual Milpitas starred as himself?  These factoids don't excuse porous, pregnable storytelling, but they do exonerate some of first-time director Robert L. Burrill's amateur moves.

Needless to say, financial backing came at a premium.  I couldn't believe that this flick had an eleven thousand dollar price tag.  Why did I choose to spell out that particular number?  Only Satan knows.  I've said this before, but heart is a big deal in my book.  Y'know, passion.  Zeal!  There is no doubt in my demagogic noggin that Milpitas was a labor of love.  The cast members can't camouflage their smiling eyes for a solitary second, mainly because they are paltry actors.  Again, I'm inclined to let express infirmities slide.  Our paltry actors are not actors at all; they are residents of Milpitas, a burg south of San Jose, California.  Maybe it's north of San Jose.  I don't fucking care, and I don't appreciate being put on the spot.

At its pith, Milpitas is a heavy-handed aphorism.  The storyline speaks out on environmental issues in generic ways.  An example, you ask?  The titular monster is a hideous construct of trash.  Why it resembles Baxter Stockman is anyone's best guess.  And it's fifty fucking feet tall, so the quantum majority of the action shots are achieved with cruddy stop-motion animation.  It's glorious.  We also get classic man-in-a-suit turmoil.  I have to hand it to the greenhorn crew for their decent miniature sets, considering the circumstances.  Unfortunately, it's a challenge to see much detail, as Milpitas was apparently lit with a kerosene lamp.  NOTE: The gaffer ran out of kerosene immediately.

There are no real characters.  I mean, there are people who do stuff, but as far as attaching names to faces, I'm drawing a blank.  Wait!  I take that back.  George, the town drunk, sacrifices himself to save the day.  He's supposed to be amusing, I gather.  The tone of this garbage-scented Grand Guignol is screwy in inflection.  It can't decide if it wants to be campy or earnest.  Tongue-in-cheek narration clashes with a script that doesn't seem to be in on the joke.  Make no mistake; this motion picture is a joke, albeit an acceptable one.  Remember my allusion to sensory deprivation?

My guess is that The Milpitas Monster was filmed without sound.  The dubbing is appalling.  What's more, half of the dialogue is barely audible.  "But Dom," you squawk.  "Is it worth watching?"  Eh, it's alright for a Saturday afternoon.  It deserves your respect, if nothing else.

Saturday Afternoon Matinee

Wanted to post the movie review last night, but I got in late.  So it's coming this afternoon instead.  Have you figured out the foreshadowing yet?


Geek Out #101

A little foreshadowing for tomorrow's review.  And no, it's not Street Trash.


Dead Links #14

I realize that this has nothing to do with horror, metal or wrestling.  Trust me; I realize.  But I'd like to start using this column to explore the uncharted capriccios of the world weird web.  Think of it as a reconnaissance mission.  Today, I use Random Reviews as a dredging machine to clear out silt from the business end of a suction pipe.  Understand?  Terrific.  I will tell you right now, this dead link is not safe for work.  In all frank sincerity, it's not safe for home either.  Should you choose to forge ahead, make sure you're alone, and even then, tell God to avert his/her eyes.  I mean, God is everywhere, right?  Personally, I imagine that our tutelary creator scarfs down a can of Pringles while I flog the bishop.

So Efukt is...porn comedy?  How else can I describe it?  The most hygienic (I almost typed "jejune," I swear to Gloopen) videos are mere bloopers.  Other updates are borderline illegal.  I felt awful for watching some of them, but of course, I couldn't look away.  Pissing, crying, slapping...the bases are covered, and (in)appropriate clips are inserted for optimum effect.  Ugh, why the hell am I posting this pond scum?  You know you're going to click the link.  You disgust me.  Go apologize to your mother.


Shitty Webcam Site Update Movie Review I Have Heartburn #54

I talk about wooden dildo sodomy.



Catalog Schmatalog

Ever since I accidentally deleted the Blood Capsules page, I've been putting off archiving.  But I'm going to get back to it!  It's going to take time, and I may force people (forcefully) to help, but it's going to get done.  I just need some cocai...incentive.  I need incentive.

And cocaine.


One-Eyed Doll - BREAK

I'm a guy.  A straight guy.  It stands to reason that I enjoy anything involving attractive females.  On the music front, attractive females are all the rage.  They are especially popular betwixt heavy riffs and black clothing.  Regrettably, I find the average chick-fronted metal band to be a heinous nevus on the pelt of the headbanger commonality.  Would In This Moment be within pissing distance of the charts without Maria Brink's cleavage?  I think not.  Would The Pretty Reckless lay claim to millions of views on YouTube without Taylor Momsen's hindquarters?  Doubtful.  But for every rotten example I can give, there is usually a pussycat rejoinder.  NOTE: In this instance, I'm using "pussycat" as an adjective meaning "pleasant" or "vagina-ish."

If you look a little deeper, you'll see that there are several kickass units moored by petticoats.  As a matter of fact, I've been listening to a lot of Huntress lately, a trad-metal squadron featuring a witch on vocals (no, really).  Oh, and One-Eyed Doll.  I've been listening to a lot of One-Eyed Doll lately.  Break is their third album, and if I had to describe its sound, I would go with "heavy goth."  Not quite metal, although I detect hints of Pantera rampancy.  The Texan duo strikes me as a melodic mestizo of Jucifer and So Die Fluid.  Vocalist/guitarist Kimberly Freeman has a cute chirp of a voice that pairs well with the chug-a-lug grooves storming underneath.

I admit, Break has an offputting Hot Topic/Tim Burton vibe that crimps my gastrointestinal tract.  The imagery is stock, but the songs themselves are dynamic.  "Beautiful Freak" is an energetic stomp.  "See Jane Run" is a minatory dirge stacked with vocal harmonies and augural giggling.  "Cinderblock" is a catchy power ballad about a 10-year-old nipper who snuffs out her abusive sot of a father.  "Resurrection" serves as the epic closing track, and it's my second favorite number here (the first being "See Jane Run").  One-Eyed Doll abrades an assortment of subgenres from impregnable doom to sprightly punk.  Despite morbid lyrics, Break is a blast to...well, blast.  Who says depressing jams can't rock?

I don't dislike a single moment of this compact disc, but some cuts are less memorable than others.  "Airplane Man" is an odd choice for an opener, its steady beat notwithstanding.  "Bumble Bee" and "Redneck Love Song" are amusing, yet questionable filler spots.  If I had my druthers, Break would be an EP, and a damn fine one at that.  Partake in the canticles I listed above (at least sample "See Jane Run").  If you rejoice in murder, psychosis and lovelorn lunacy, One-Eyed Doll could be the band for you.  This record really deserves 3.75 Z'Dars, but I try not to get carried away with fractions.  Robert Z'Dar says, "Broads playing the rock and the roll, huh?  What's next?  The rhythm and the blues?"


Album Cover of the Week

For those curious, the "band" is Ruins of Beverast (a one-man black metal project, hence the quotation marks) and the album is 2013's Blood Vaults - The Blazing Gospel of Heinrich Kramer.  Tomorrow, a music review!


Blood Capsule #41

VIY (1967)

Yes, that's an actual screen grab from Viy (a.k.a. Spirit of Evil).  What is Viy?  It's a Russian horror fairy tale based on a short story written by Nikolai Gogol.  A cassock is sent to pray over the corpse of a beautiful girl for three nights.  The injunction comes from her father, and his wishes are very specific.  Khoma, our hesitant lead, must absolve the unfortunate doxy and remain by her coffin's side in the pelvis of a dank monastery.  Tattered witches, giant hands and misshapen goblin sightings ensue.  Parts of Viy are incredibly eerie; other parts are clunky.  It's a mixed bag, but I honestly can't believe how damn obscure it is.  It may be an inaccessible import, but that hasn't stopped Jigoku or Fascination from becoming cult classics.

Extensive make-up effects and confounding camera tricks exhibit a stirring level of ingenuity.  The third act is awash with more creepy shit than the most gleaming CGI could ever hope to replicate.  I have proof.  Using YouTube as your reference guide, check out the trailer for the recently refurbished remake (or just click HERE, you lazy gimp).  It's meant for Russian audiences, but it looks American to me.  I don't mean to suggest that Viy is an exemplary showpiece.  I didn't care for the bits of nincompoop humor, and the "epilogue" is wholly useless.  For real, yo.  It feels like an afterthought.  I frown on afterthoughts.

Oh, I recommend the movie, by the way.


Man, this is such a great video...

Site update.

Click HERE if the video doesn't load.


Album Cover of the Week


Geek Out #100

One hundred.  My mind is blown.  I thought I'd switch it up a bit for such a momentous occasion.  Please enjoy geeking out to 80's metal cheese in the form of Helloween's "Halloween."  I like to think this video inspired 1995's Jack-O, a waypost in gourd-based slasherdom.