Bookworm Infested #4

BONE CHILLERS: STRANGE BREW (Betsy Haynes)

It was only natural that the success of Goosebumps would prompt a corkscrew crest of disputers to the throne.  My buddies remember spotting Bone Chillers in bookstores and school libraries, but oddly, I don't.  I don't even remember the Saturday morning TV show.  Yes, it had a boob tube counterpart and yes, some of the books were adapted for the small screen.  This is my vestal voyage reading a BC tome (probably my laziest abbreviation to date...I am not proud).  Is it similar to Goosebumps?  Do cyborgs peculate tiled hopscotch diagrams from the offices of prepubescent masons?  Um, yes!  It's another horror series aimed at tweener consumers.  To my utter shock, this one is legitimately good.

For all I know, the companion BC titles could be drivel, but I can vouch for the validity of Strange Brew.  It manages to entertain without banking on drippy nostalgia.  Betsy Haynes cooked up an original premise for this, the fifth link in her chain of chillers (later entries were authored by different folks).  Tori's best pal - Heather - is leaving for a family trip, so she is faced with the prospect of a lonely, woebegone summer.  Gah, she is gonna be so bored, you guys.  In the weeks preceding her doomed "off-season," she begins to find recipes in strange, random places.  These aren't regular recipes, though.  In fact, they read more like magic spells.  One calls for toenails, horsefly wings and six cups of pond scum.  This putrid potpourri is supposed to conjure a tempestuous thunderstorm out of thin air.

Can you believe that shit?  I mean, as if!  BUT HOLY FUCK, IT WORKS!  Tori's makeshift monsoon (I'm trying not to alliterate, I swear to Abyzou) floods the neighborhood and stamps out her brother's baseball game.  Pretty exciting, but she proceeds with cautious awareness.  Spells keep materializing around her, intensifying with each discreet invocation.  Who is sending them?  Heather warns her to stop playing with danger.  "Stop playing with danger," she warned.  God, this synopsis is too fucking long.  Should I spoil the identity of the entity sending the spells?  I mean, it's fairly easy to predict within a few chapters.  It's Tori's imaginary friend from when she was younger.

An evil imaginary friend.  I dig that.  If Strange Brew was penned by R.L. Stine, it would be called My Imaginary Friend is Trying to Kill Me!  And I'd still read it.  Haynes isn't Mark fucking Twain, but she does know how to frame action and suspense.  The characters are realistic enough.  I enjoyed the subtle application of literary tools to drive a worthy message home.  Remember, kids...learn to love yourself.  Otherwise, your imaginary friend will try to kill you with shoelace serpents.  I'm looking into obtaining further Bone Chillers bookies.  If anyone wants to donate Frankenturkey or Toilet Terror to the site, I'd be down to review those bitches.  Holla.

More like SHITTERnet!

Internet has sucked fuck all day, so I'm postponing today's shit until fucking tomorrow.  Goddamn alright.

Baby Girl

I talk about NXT, Veruca Salt and my next book review.

Geek Out #106

Once in a blue moon, I just post a whole fucking movie as a Geek Out.

SEBASTIAN BACH - Give 'Em Hell

Friends give me shit for championing Sebastian Bach's solo output.  Yes, he comes off as a strutting, haughty douchefuckle, but what does that have to do with his pipes?  The guy is nearing fifty, and he can still belt out high notes with the best of them.  Is it the hair metal stigma?  I'm repeating myself, but in my scientific opinion, Skid Row didn't belong in the same puce lavatory as Poison.  NOTE TO SELF: Try puce balloon shades in the master bedroom.  Failing that, don't be afraid to experiment with a tart, ruddy vermilion.  Don't settle, Dom.  Pamper yourself.  I am incredibly sorry.  As an interior decorator, I am always at the mercy of the creative process.

Um, so this isn't Bret Michaels we're talking about here.  This shit actually rocks.  Bach's first solitary stag, 2007's stormy Angel Down, was a killer collection of metallic scorchers and melody-conscious hard rock tunes.  2011's Kicking & Screaming was a tad more radio-friendly, but it's worth spinning from time to time.  Now it's 2014, and we have Give 'Em Hell.  I...struggled to reach a concrete conclusion on this one.  My initial impression was daubed in disappointment.  Seb seems poised to slide further in a commercial direction with each release.  Is he actively trying to water his style down?  Beats me, but I don't recall the songwriting on Angel Down sounding this formulaic.

Even the vocals are, shall we say, simpler.  Practically every line is double-tracked and prohibitively processed.  It's sad because Seb's voice doesn't need to be produced to death.  I don't hear enough soul, and I definitely don't hear enough of his natural vibrato.  The vein-popping screams still persist.  After several listens, the flexuous hooks and catchy choruses began to corporealize on my person.  Like fever blisters.  Or keloid scars.  I have plenty of issues with Give 'Em Hell, but in all actuality, it's damn listenable.  At his most mediocre, Mr. Baz is quite capable of outperforming the gravamen of modern "rock."

Let's take a look at individual compositions, why don't we?  "Harmony" lives up to its title, seeing as how vokill harmonies augment the verses.  "All My Friends Are Dead" has an interesting midsection that might appeal to guitar geeks.  The pained "Push Away" is the finest cut for my money, while "Gun to a Knife Fight" hedges its bets with a super melodic refrain.  The album has a steady flow going, but it's bollixed by a head-scratching cover of April Wine's "Rock and Roll is a Vicious Game."  What the fuck?  It's entirely out of place, and to make matters worse, it's a shit song.  Seb, I get that you're proud of your birthplace, but couldn't you have picked a better Canadian band to commemorate?

It's subjective, I suppose.  Give 'Em Hell is a solid follow-up to Kicking & Screaming, but man, it cowers in the shadow of Angel Down.  If you want a good laugh, scope the video for "Taking Back Tomorrow."  Me.  Oh.  My.

Off Day Off

Kinda-sorta gave myself the day off, but I'm working on a muzak review.  Hold on tight?

Album Cover of the Week

The forthcoming Mastodon long player is sure to divide fans, but you've got to hand it to them for keeping album artwork alive.  I mean, that's just fucking gorgeous.

Blood Capsule #44

DEMONSTONE (1990)

This one is...odd.  It's a "demon possession" pic, a political thriller and a lubberly actioner all fucked into one.  Do you like cornball Chuck Norris movies?  What about cheap, aimless slashers?  Yeah?  You're good to go!  Demonstone (a.k.a. Deathstone) has the ideas of a capricious conspiracy theorist and the budget of a penny-pinching skinflint.  The convoluted plot finds R. Lee Ermey and Jan-Michael Vincent (that's right, motherfucker) struggling to solve ritualistic murders in Manila, the capital of the Philippines.  Each victim is branded with the same acroamatic insignia.  To make a stupid story short, it dates back to a slain Monk and his vengeful curse.

Corrupt bureaucrats pin the blame on an American Marine, but the viewer knows better.  We get to see the comic, yet uneventful death sequences.  Demonstone is frugal in the gore department, unless you count soft-pedal squibs.  There is plenty of gunplay, however.  Fuck, these people waste more bullets than I do when I masturbate.  This is the very definition of direct-to-video urine.  In spite of itself, Demonstone is entertaining, and while I'm throwing around hospitable laurels, the acting is alright.  If it were the 90's, I would tell you to rent it from your local video store.

My Godzilla review!

Cumshots.
 

I just saw Godzilla...

Video review forthcoming.

Dead Links #15

Wolf in a Gorilla Suit

I have a Mexican friend.  He lives in Mexico.  Apparently, Mexico has access to the Internet (???).  Anywho, his name is Diego.  His website thing is called Wolf in a Gorilla Suit.  It's similar to this website thing, only worse.

Marshmallow badgering aside, Diego is a pal and a cool dude.  He recently remodeled his site, and he just posted a review of Devin Townsend's Casualties of Cool record (I told you he was a cool dude).  He also breaks down movies, books, sports and...well, everything else.  Check him out.
 

H.R. Giger (1940-2014)

I'm a complete dumb-dumb when it comes to art, but I've always known enough to know that H.R. Giger was one of the most unique and brilliant artists on the planet.  Like most genre nuts my age, I became aware of Giger's work through 1979's Alien.  It's a classic film for many reasons, set/creature design chief among them.  Take a second to cogitate on the history of sci-fi/horror cinema.  Has there been a monster more imitated (read: ripped off) than the xenomorph?  Godzilla has been the only beast to reach that level of prestige.  Impressive company, no?

Of course, the come-slither occupants of LV-426 represent a bald fraction of Giger's oeuvre.  His art is nightmarish.  Stark.  Provocative.  Dripping with subtext.  And it all resides in the same harrowing universe.  We lost a supernova, folks.  Thankfully, we are still afforded the privilege of staring in bewilderment at Giger's masterstrokes.  I hope they play Triptykon at his funeral.

R.I.P.

Hard Rock Zombies

By sheer coincidence, I've touched on a string of giddy, witless b-movies.  Okay, maybe it's not a coincidence.  Random Reviews Incorporated tends to felicitate itself as a channel of centrality for fans of mega-mucho cheese.  Having said that, I cover "a-movies" as well.  Rarely do I review two consecutive cult strudels as glutinous as 1965's The Rider of the Skulls and the mutt that stands before me now, 1985's Hard Rock Zombies.  How in the hell do I keep finding films that defy description?  Luckily, this bad boy is a little easier to imagine in your head, and in consequence, it's a little easier to write about.  But that doesn't mean it makes any goddamn sense whatsoever.

A rock band flounces into the town of Grand Guignol to play a gig for a prospective record label executive.  While on the road, a sexy hitchhiker offers room and board in the heart of the city.  Despite vague and ultimately nugatory warnings from a concupiscent piece of jailbait ass (I can't be the only bachelor who has used the expression "concupiscent piece of jailbait ass" in a pick-up line, can I?), our protagonists forge ahead.  They meet the hitchhiker's family.  Her husband is a voyeuristic photographer, her grandmother is a wheelchair-bound werewolf and her grandfather is Adolf Hitler.  Oh, and there are dwarf servants.  One of them is Phil Fondacaro, while the other is a malformed freak who eventually eats himself.

I couldn't fabricate this shit if I tried.  I expected wall-to-wall entertainment, but Hard Rock Zombies fizzles halfway through.  Ironically, it becomes an interminable bore after the hard rockers assume the form of zombies.  There are too many music video moments that are hindered and buttonholed by confounding editing.  The soundtrack isn't terrible, but fuck, I wasn't in the mood for a musical.  Hard Rock Zombies was affianced as the feature presentation in American Drive-In, released the same year (this according to IMDb).  Originally, it clocked in at a mighty 20 minutes.  20 minutes!  Do you know what that means?  Ladies and gentlemen, it means that we have roughly 20 minutes of a suitable spookshow on our hands.

AND it means that we have roughly 70 minutes of trite wadding on our hands.  Ugh.  The script contains a spoonful of amusing ideas (werewolf granny, incognito Hitler, undead rape ceremony, etc.), but if you're looking for heavy metal horror, God knows you have options.  Satan knows, too!  You're much better off renting Rocktober Blood, Trick or Treat or my personal favorite from this sub-subgenre, Black Roses.  Those flickies jam better tunes anyway.  I will give Hard Rock Zombies an extra half-Z'Dar for the scene where Jessie resuscitates a tarantula with a bass riff.  Now that's fucking metal!

Album Cover of the Week

The title of this Facebreaker EP is Zombie God.  That's a nifty title.

The Rider of the Skulls

Every day seems to be an oddball holiday of some sort.  Like Cheeseburger Day (christened, I'm sure, by a Hakari elder of bovine extraction) or Pinata Day (christened, I'm sure, by a Valenzuela elder of equestrian extraction).  Well, I hereby decree May 10th to be Spanish Western/Horror Serial Day OR Spanish Western/Horror Abandoned Pilot Day.  I'll level with you, amigo; I don't know what production house The Rider of the Skulls crawled from.  I don't even know what it was supposed to be.  There is scant information available on the web.  Signs point to this vaquero* vehicle being a cross-stitch of serial segments.  Was the serial ever completed?  Are there other chapters curdling and corroding in a warehouse somewhere?

Don't ask me.  For all I know, Rider could be a dense anthology.  The film is episodic in nature.  It follows a poor man's Zorro as he battles a werewolf, a vampire and a headless horseman (!).  In that order.  The lycanthrope seems to be targeting an orphan and his legal guardians.  I'll get to the fanged fleabag in a minute, but I want to establish the fact that The Rider adopts the orphan.  He also adopts the orphan's odious, obnoxious caretaker, himself an orphan.  Literally.  This fat guy refers to our black-clad hero as "Dad" and "Daddy" throughout the rest of the picture.  It's fucking weird.  It's fucking annoying.

Okay, back to the wuhrwolf.  The budget was extremely low, but I have to hand it to the effects crew.  The monster masks are wicked in their own beleaguered way.  After disposing of Monster #1 (via monkey flips and arm drags), The Rider encounters Monster #2 in...um, a different town.  It's a vampire with bat wings for ears!  Did I mention that Rider also employs the faculties of a witch, a zombie and two grim reapers?  Because it totally does.  It was induced in 1965, so writer/director Alfredo Salazar wasn't granted access to gnarly prosthetics or advanced gore.  Can you imagine how dope this shit would have been in 1985?  It would have been Mexico's rejoinder to Spookies.

Monster #3?  The Headless Horseman.  A woman finds a bandit's severed noggin in a coffer, and the fucking thing - halfway decomposed - instructs her to reattach it to the host body.  She is understandably shaken.  Of course, the problem is resolved with violence, but not before Beheaded Billy (shut up, that's my name for him) sasses God.  Let's just say that God wins the argument.  As you can surmise, The Rider of the Skulls is a buggy, fluky b-wonder.  I'm not married to my rating.  Honestly, I'm not sure how much I dig this butternut, but I know that I dig it.  When it comes to vigilantes whose parents were murdered, Batman is near the top of the list.

*Spanish for "cowboy" or "herdsman."

Geek Out #105

I never did see Rectuma.  Maybe I should...n't.

Don't tell me what to do...

The Comeback Tour

I'm calling this my comeback tour.  I'm revivifying the site (again), and I started by archiving the Music Reviews page.  Go ahead, check it out.  Random Reviews will be updated DAILY, just like old times.  I may tweak the weekly "schedule" a bit, but I'll explain more in the coming days.  Stay tuned, frick-fracks!

Frazzle Fuck

I really, really wanted to write a full review of Evilspeak #1, but I haven't been able to focus on anything.  My fucking life is...eh, it's not relevant (or terribly interesting).  Here is what you need to know.  Evilspeak is a rad horror rag that focuses on pre-90's dementia.  It's well-nigh overwhelming at an elephantine 80 pages, and there are no ads to speak of!  Highlights?  The heartfelt tribute to Chas Balun, the retrospective on Gore Shriek, the coverage of the Blood Island "trilogy," the interview with Heather Langenkamp and Amanda Wyss...basically, the whole whoppin' honker.  Motherfucking buy it HERE.

Imploder

My life has been super stressful for a couple of days, so the blog hasn't been super active.  But (there is always a but) Random Reviews will be back in business tomorrow night-ish.  As a quick aside, I like the new Slayer song.  The production is much improved from the neutered World Painted Blood sessions.  The guitars actually sound...y'know, metallic.  Still, I stand with the majority when it comes to the name of the band.  Call it something else, guys.  No Lombardo is one thing, but no Hanneman?  He was your best songwriter by leaps and bounds.  He was arguably the most vital fucking member.

Again, I dig "Implode," but I can't accept the current iteration of Slayer.  It doesn't ring true.

Geek Out #104

I really, really want to see this movie.

Blood Capsule #43

DR. CALIGARI (1989)

I doubt that it's considered canon, but for what it's worth, this is presented as a sequel to 1920's The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.  The sets are visually stimulating.  And that's where the similarities end.  The granddaughter of the original Caligari runs a mental asylum where she conducts controversial experiments on her patients.  Our lead character begs the doctor to ameliorate his nympho-psycho wife, even though he doesn't trust her methods.  If you told me that the term "art house" was coined to describe this flick, I would believe you.  It's relentlessly weird.  Abstract dialogue is delivered with a musical cadence, and taboo-exhausting special effects bring David Cronenberg to mind.

Why don't we go over some of the acts depicted?  You've got your sodomy, your transgender incest, your pedophilia, your cannibalism, your plastic surgery fetishism and your scarecrow crotch fondling.  I'm sure there are others I'm forgetting.  It's fun trying to make sense out of the wanton imagery and innumerable metaphors.  Dr. Caligari is one cult classic that lives up to its crackpot reputation.  Smoke it if you can find it.

Album Cover of the Week

I have ghoulish goodies being anointed in the Random Reviews laboratory (of madness).  A blood capsule, a new edition of Vanity Scare (!), an album review and more!  I probably just made your day, didn't I?

\m/

First of all, that's not my picture.  I found it on Facebook, but it's from the show that I attended.  Most of my pictures came out shitty except for one, and it's at the bottom of this post.  So that kind of sucked.  HOWEVER!  It was a badass concert.  I had a good fucking time, and all of the bands were in fine form.  Let's go in chronological order...

-- We left early so that there would be ample time for a sinewy powerhouse meal.  I had a hamburger stacked with onion rings.  It was so goddamn manly, it added weight to my dick.  And my dick was already fucking enormous.  All of those stricken with arthrogryposis multiplex congenita (the rare condition I have) are blessed and bedecked with bulbous boners at birth.  That's not true.  Yes, it is.

-- The opening band?  Newcomers Black Crown Initiate.  I heard that they bought their way onto the tour, which wouldn't surprise me.  Their only release is a four-track extended player.  I would describe them as a progressive "djent" unit.  Imagine Opeth transfused with Meshuggah.  Trust me; it's not as epic as it sounds, but I did enjoy their set.  They have a freighter load of potential.

-- Next up?  Motherfucking Inquisition.  If you're not savvy to this grim-as-cunt two-piece black metal dreadnought, I pity you.  I've been getting into them quite heavily for a couple of years now, so I was stoked to see them on the bill.  On my way into the venue, I passed vocalist/guitarist Dagon and we exchanged pleasantries.  For two Colombian dudes (the band was founded in South America, although they are currently stationed in Seattle), they emit imposing, stentorian vibrations.  They don't need a bass guitar to rankle your solar plexus.  Personally, they left my tummy in a tizzy, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

If you're curious about their brand of riff-driven black metal, I recommend checking out "Darkness Flows Through Unseen Horizons" and "Command of the Dark Crown."  Admittedly, the frog vocals are an acquired taste, but I dig that shit.

-- 1349?  It's a number.  It's also the next band in the batter's box.  Prior to the evening's entertainment, I had heard a modest spattering of their music, but I had no real opinion of them.  1349 simply existed.  After the evening's entertainment, I consider myself to be a fan.  They aren't reinventing the pentagram, but their jams are so caustic, it's hard not to be stimulated.  I plan on buying Hellfire, which seems to be their magnum opus.  On a sidenote, frontman Ravn has serious stage presence.

-- The penultimate ass kickers?  Goatwhore, a favorite Cajun cuisine of mine.  This was my second time seeing them live, and they did not disappoint.  Fuck, I love Goatwhore.  Before the festivities kicked into high gear, I promised myself that I would go easy on the headbanging.  I really didn't want my neck to be in the throes of discomfort the following morning.  Well, that token of circumspection went out the fucking window mere seconds into "The All-Destroying."  That was the opener, and what a fine opener it was!  Luckily, we were treated to a cut off of the forthcoming Goatwhore release (!).  I am happy to report that it's a proper scorcher.

-- And your main event?  Behemoth!  They put on a killer piece of extreme metal theater.  Nergal locked eyes with me and actually smiled.  He threw me a SWEET pick.  The whole thing was awesome.  The lighting, the sound, the costumes...you name it, it was awesome.  I do declare, the material from The Satanist is ferocious in a live setting.  Oy, I'm tired of maundering.  Better wrap this up.  Here is Inferno's godly kit.

SATAN!

Tomorrow night, I'm seeing Behemoth, Goatwhore and Inquisition.  It will be the most metal Wednesday in the history of mankind.  I shall write about my experience.  I'll probably rest my brain until then.  Stay tuned!

Pin

How about a legitimately good film for a change of pace?  Hey, I live for schlock, but my body does not bounce back from a cheese-only diet.  My figure is excitable, mercurial you might say.  I've been known to gain weight just from peering at kaiju posters (the burbling one-sheet for Varan: The Unbelievable cost me a couple of dress sizes).  1988's Pin has a sterling reputation amongst serious horror nerds.  I knew that it was held in high favor, but since when do expectations - grand or pragmatic - guarantee anything?  In the case of this Canadian crumb of psychosomatic horror, you would be well-advised to believe the hype.

Leon's father is a doctor.  Often times, he and his kid sister (Ursula) fritter the time away by sitting in on Dad's patient visits.  I'm pretty sure that's illegal, but whatever.  Oh, I forgot to mention that Dr. Papa is portrayed by Terry O'Quinn.  He gives off "stepfather" vibes.  If you think that's creepy, keep fucking reading.  He entertains his bored brood by anthropomorphizing a medical dummy and giving it a voice through amateur ventriloquism.  At first, Pin (short for Pinocchio) acts as a harmless educational tool.  Both Leon and Ursula (aged 7 and 5, respectively...sorry for the parenthesis overkill) believe it to be real.  Six years later, we see that Ursula has cracked the code.  She has debunked her father's gambit, but her older brother isn't quite as perceptive.

Poor, poor Leon.  For various reasons that I'll denominate in a minute, his mental faculties never stabilize.  His views of sexuality are warped, to say the least.  Of course, watching a nurse violate the anatomically correct Pin as an impressionable youth probably didn't help matters.  Ew.  But how unstable are we talking here?  Well, Leon learns how to ventriloquize (???) and begins to speak for Pin.  At this point, he can be classified as a full-blown schizophrenic adult.  The parents are now dead.  As for Ursula, she's trying to deal.  Satan bless her, she genuinely loves her brother in spite of his cerebral cachexia.

Okay, I've spent way too much of this review expatiating on the synopsis.  Normally, that's a no-no, but it's important that you know exactly what Pin is about.  The script is rich with subtext, the people are three-dimensional and the acting is incredible.  All of the players nail the nuances of their given roles.  Cynthia Preston deserves an honorable footnote for her sensible, informal performance as the ripened Ursula.  There is such a strong emphasis on character dynamics, the viewer develops empathy for each of the main troupers.  Get it?  Troupers?  On a sidenote, V.R. Troopers is superior to Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers in almost every conceivable way.

Pin is deep, but it also ticks as a menacing genre flick.  The mannequin itself is spookier than thou (I may have just named the next Rob Zombie album), and the score is a mishmosh of gnarled reverberations.  Grievances?  Arraignments?  Citations?  Eh, I can't point to a recognizable flaw, which isn't to say that Pin is the meridian of filmmaking.  It's fucking awesome, though.  FACTOID: Director Sandor Stern wrote the screenplay for The Amityville Horror.

Album Cover of the Week

Geek Out #103

Recently acquired this bad boy.

Turbulence 3: Heavy Metal

I don't know where to begin.  This fucking movie.  First of all, watch it.  I definitely recommend it.  It's so...words...escape me.  1999's Turbulence 2: Fear of Flying starred Craig Sheffer.  2001's Turbulence 3: Heavy Metal stars Craig Sheffer as a different character.  And immediately, my mind is violating itself with skewers and brochettes.  He plays a thirtysomething hacker dressed like a fucking teenager, and his favorite rock star is performing his final concert on a 747.  It's being broadcast online, so Hacker Dude taps into the feed, accessing every camera installed on the airbus.  Meanwhile, fucking Gabrielle Anwar is an FBI agent inching closer to imprecating Hacker Dude for, y'know, hacking.

MEANERWHILE, a fucking Satanist kidnaps and masquerades as the rock star.  He commandeers the plane, shoots the co-pilot and makes his intentions clear.  His intentions?  To open the gates of Hell by crashing the skyjacked dirigible in fucking Kansas.  This fucking movie.  Let me back up and discuss the rock star, a poor man's Marilyn Manson by the name of Slade Craven.  If you thought Black Roses was cheesy, well, you're right, but Turbulence 3 is impossible.  We get to see a full performance of a Slade Craven number.  Imagine a studio executive's idea of paint-by-numbers Goth aggro-industrial muzak, and imagine Hot Topic groupies squirting over every histrionic lyric.

Actually, you don't have to use your imagination.  Click HERE!  Was it everything you expected and less?  Here is what I'm struggling to comprehend.  The real Slade and the fake Slade look identical.  Body type, bone structure, fucking phonetic elocution...for the love of jizzum whistles, it's the same actor!  And yet, we are told that they are not related.  Fake Slade is just a random whackjob.  Do you care if I spoil the ending?  The pilot - fucking Rutger Hauer - turns out to be a member of the Satanic cult.  He commits suicide, which leaves Real Slade to his own devices.  He must save the day!  I don't want to reveal every idiotic detail, but suffice to say, the last five minutes are too fucking much.

Turbulence 3: Heavy Metal is dumber than a bassinet of monosynaptic unicorns.  All foam, no beer.  One spade short of a royal flush.  I think you get the picture.  However, I had a stupid blast with the fucking thing.  It's nowhere near boring, and it gave me belly laughs when I needed them most.  You won't believe these next two sentences.  Anwar, Hauer and Sheffer headline another 2001 airplane thriller.  It's entitled Flying Virus, and it's about killer bees on a plane.  Motherfuckin' killer bees on a motherfuckin' plane!  These fucking movies!  Jizzum whistles!

The Ultimate Warrior R.I.P.

Here is my rambling tribute to The Ultimate Warrior.  You had a good run, Jim.

Bookworm Infested #3

STILL MORE SCARY STORIES FOR SLEEPOVERS #3

(Q.L. Pearce)

Sometimes, I wonder if the fact that I really, really enjoy reading children's horror novels is a symptom of some peremptory mental illness.  Am I a tottering convalescent?  More to the point, am I a fucking yo-yo?  It's possible that these books are fun, easy ways to pass time in a spiteful world of agony.  As you can deduce, this is the third volume in an anthology series called Scary Stories for Sleepovers.  It was published as a literary antiphon to Harper & Row's Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark.  Because of the tongue-in-cheek covers and the tame illustrations, I remembered Sleepovers to be a flossy, harmless set of tomes.  I mean, I knew it didn't approach the pants-shitting nightmare fuel of Tell in the Dark.

While the tone is lightweight - it's a touch more appropriate for youngsters - these stories imply grisly goddamn death.  The key word is "imply."  Almost every bite-sized tale ends with a substantial suggestion.  Another key word is "death."  Author Q.L. Pearce stops writing right before the campers are maimed, the parents are devoured alive or the genial, buddy-buddy neighbor is evulsed by dire wolves.  That actually happens.  The two main characters in "All the Time in the World" leave the poor bastard to meet his horrid, artery-cleaving demise.  Did I forget to mention that this particular yarn also features a time machine?  And a saber-toothed cat?

"The Storm" is probably the best story here, and strangely enough, it doesn't climax with barbarous bloodshed.  Pearce sticks to a simple, accessible style.  That's not necessarily a bad thing.  I will say that the kindergarten reading level contrasts with the mean-spirited nature of the plots.  Even a couple of the protagonists are complete assholes.  See "Household Help" where a girl uses voodoo juju to excel in school and on the softball field.  Then again, you could just as easily say that it's a parable warning of karma.  I sound like a concerned teacher.  Ha!  Obviously, I enjoy piles upon piles of dead sucklings.  The victims are too old, I say!  Kill toddlers!  KILL TODDLERS!

That should be the last sentence of this review.  But it's not.  Still More Scary Stories for Sleepovers flaunts a multifarious multiplicity of monsters.  We get alien babysitters, zombie cowboys, slime mutants and a Kii-Kwan (a werewolf, basically).  Nothing mind-bending, but I consider it to be a diverting read.  KILL TODDLERS!  Erm, sorry.

This stunned silence was brought to you by Diet Mtn Dew!

I was originally going to post a book review next, but I can't go forward without commenting on a certain Wrestlemania match.  I'll talk about the rest of the card once Raw is behind us (should be an interesting episode).  If you haven't heard, the streak has ended.  Yeah.  Brock Lesnar defeated The Undertaker.  Clean.  One, two, three.  I was just as shocked as the crowd members.  I wasn't sure if I was angry or despondent.  Or both.  But I've given it some thought with my booker cap on.  Yes, I have a booker cap.

This isn't a disgrace. Why?

1) Lesnar winning single-handedly made this match memorable.  I don't know if you noticed, but the fans were spiritless and inimical.  They were just waiting for 'Taker to tombstone his way to victory after a routine twenty minutes of signature spots and false finishes.  And it wasn't a very good match either.  As a matter of fact, it was downright sloppy.  If 'Taker won, it simply would have been another placeholder match to dilate the streak.

2) I am now convinced that my beloved 'Taker won't be able to go another year anyway.  He can still wrestle Sting (at SummerSlam perhaps), but unless that was a case of cloak-and-dagger selling, it's clear that the tank is empty.

3) This doesn't hurt Lesnar.  Sure, it doesn't help him, but who would it have helped?  Ending the streak automatically means that you're a heel.  Roman Reigns?  Cesaro?  Daniel Bryan?  Future babyfaces, all of them.  The WWE doesn't need the next big heel; they need the next Hogan, the next Sting, the next Cena.

4) Cry foul if you must, but this was assuredly 'Taker's decision.  He wanted the streak to end.  Shouldn't it be his choice?  Besides, his career shouldn't be defined by the streak alone.

At the end of the day, I'm fine with the streak ending the way it did.  After reading knee-jerk reactions on Twitter, I was compelled to offer a diametric perspective.  Stay tuned to this channel for more gut-shaking action!

What day/year is it?

Took some time off.  Sorry about that.  If it's any consolation, the next thing I post will be pretty amazing.

Shitty Webcam Site Update Movie Review I Have Heartburn #55

I break down the Wrestlemania card.