The Soda Jerk Unbound: Part 2 of 6

Did you guess The Soda Jerk?  No one did!  I probably won't keep the series going beyond this six-issue run, unless I happen upon other rare, hard-to-find sodas.  Here's the thing(amajig); I found these bubbly waters at a Cracker Barrel of all places.  I mean, they usually sell sodas in glass bottles, but the last time I was there, I spotted a twat-ton of pops (this will be the only instance where I use that term, Mr. Hakari).  Without further bullshit...

MOXIE

I had never heard of the beverages that I'm spotlighting in this undead procession of editorials, but a few of them (maybe all of them) are regional favorites.  Moxie is a head-scratcher.  It's been around for a little while.  It was invented and patented in 1885 (!).  I mean, it was literally one of the first carbonated drinks commercially available in America, just beating Coca-Cola (rolled out in 1886). And it's still kicking.  It's popular among the residents of Wherever the Fuck, Midwestern State.  My question is, how?  How has it existed for 131 years?

I understand people are different.  I also understand that some (sick) fuckers enjoy bitter flavors.  My aunt tried a couple of swallows of Moxie at my behest and she couldn't stand it.  Theoretically, I have cut to the chase.  I hated Moxie.  The label refers to it as an elixir in a playful, chimerical way.  God, why didn't I see the signs?  FACTOID: This toxin was originally marketed as "nerve food."  It was sold on the strength of its medicinal properties, not unlike a panacea or a wonder drug.  The health angle was eventually dropped, but the image of looking bold and courageous?  A word became attached to it.  That's right, friends; moxy.  It's usually spelled with a "y," but that's where it came from...a shitty soda!

Now the back deck tastes like bitter root beer.

That's enough education.  More about Moxie.  It smells of root beer. The bouquet isn't offensive in the slightest, and to be perfectly honest, when this aerated birdlime first hits your tongue, it's not so bad.  That's because you haven't really tasted it yet.  The midtaste (I doubt that's English) brings with it a skerrick of bitterness.  The aftertaste...fuck, the aftertaste.  It's so bitter, I halfway expected the bottle to hand me a subpoena.  Like, dude.  My wheelchair didn't dent your sports utility vehicle.  Go fuck yourself, you cuntshark!  Um, anyway, I don't know how else to describe the notes.  It's a single note - BITTER.  Again, how has Moxie lasted for 131 years? How?????

The label is an eye-catcher.  Moxie's graphic design department is on point, I'll give them that.  I can't say I'm a fan of orange as the anchor color.  Probing their website, I kept getting the impression that this was supposed to be a traditional cola.  I don't know about you, but orange makes me think of...oranges.  Eh, I'm picking nits. The bottom line is that I wouldn't recommend Moxie to a terrorist.  I would kill a terrorist, but I wouldn't let them drink this slop.  What does that tell you?

Don't listen to this dead-eyed dick.

Godzilla Marathon OR How I Lost the Plot

Didn't I post about El Rey last week-ish?  Yeah, I did.  I'm doing it again.  I don't care for most national holidays, except Halloween. Independence Day fucking grates my peripheral nervous system because half of the bumpkin bushpigs in my taint of the woods probably don't know why we celebrate it beyond a surface understanding of AMERICA!  They see it as an excuse to load up on firecrackers.  I'm sorry; did I say firecrackers?  I meant professional fireworks, the kind you see at sporting events.  Hey, I love pretty colors, but these boastful explosives sound like cluster bombs, and they're freaking out our dogs.

It's ridiculous.  It's happened two nights in a row, and tonight is the actual holiday!  I know I'm hard on America (maybe that's more on Facebook), but we completely miss the point of almost every holiday. Thanksgiving?  Food and football!  Christmas?  Trees and presents! Easter?  Eggs and a giant fucking bunny!  Valentine's Day?  Flowers and chocolate, but only on V-Day!  Halloween?  Ah, that's why it's the best holiday.  The point of Halloween is to have fun.  Ideally, you would have fun in a horror-centric way, but it's not mandatory.  You can't fuck this one up, unless you simply hate fun.  Wait, what the hell was I planning to discuss before I took an off-ramp and turned right onto Fustian Blvd.?  Popped a vein and shit.

Just kidding.  My cock is as smooth as a baby's co...mmon sense.  El Rey!  Right now!  They're airing a massive Godzilla marathon to usher in the fourth.  Fourteen films, if I'm not mistaken, and one of them is Rodan.  Rodan is lousy.  But hey!  Thirteen Godzilla films! I've heard grumbling that they're not in order, but who gives a lick? Obviously, this writer is pro-randomness.  I'm going to get cracking on part two of The Soda Jerk Unbound.  It's a big deal!

Album Cover of the Whatever

This cover left off the name of the band, and I'm wondering if that was a marketing decision.  I somehow doubt it, considering the target audience and the country of origin.  The band is Murder Rape.  The country is Brazil.  The subset is black metal.  The album cover is mammoth.  If it seems like all of my picks for Album Cover of the Whatever deal with evil shit, it's because they deal with evil shit.  I dig evil shit!  On a sidenote, the album itself - Murder Rape's second full-length - is a deadly, atmospheric billet of abnegation.  It hates you.  It's choice.

The Sandman ('95)

Was it really necessary to indicate a year?  Yes.  There is a spattering of films called The Sandman, including an animated short from 1991 that I recommend.  It's only ten minutes long.  Super creepy.  Anypiss, you also have Sleepstalker, which is about a killer on death row who is turned into a sandman by way of runic prestidigitation.  Ironically (it's not ironic at all), that fright feature came out in 1995 as well.  The arenicolous mazuma (or sand dollar...I don't see why I should do things the easy way) I'm reviewing was directed by cult maestro J.R. Bookwalter, the b-buff responsible for The Dead Next Door and Zombie Cop.  If a reader wants to send me all of Bookwalter's films on VHS, I do have an electronic mail address located in the top-right hand corner of the page.  How 'bout that?  I'm going to let that sit with you for a minute.  Drink it in, man.

The Sandman bears an exceptionally simple plot.  Gary is a romance novelist whose insomnia keeps him up at odd hours writing.  What else would he be doing?  One scary night, he sees two red eyes glaring at him through the blinds.  He rushes outside to find a neighbor's dog torn in half.  Everyone assumes that a bigger dog did the damage, but Gary isn't convinced.  Eventually, he learns the truth, as does the viewer.  It's The Sandman!  A centuries-old creature who manipulates your dreams and slaughters you when you wake up.  That may sound Freddy-like (and it is), but Bookwalter (who also co-authored the screenplay) tweaked the mythos just enough to give The Sandman his own stroke, his own jingle-jangle.  For example, the victim has a happy dream before it turns sour and the corpse-in-training gains consciousness.

I haven't leaked much opinion into this audit yet, but I liked The Sandman.  It was fun.  An aspect I have failed to mention thus far is the setting.  The story takes place in a trailer park.  Horror addicts know that monsters and trailer parks are always a winning combination.  The opening credits are fantastic if you're like me and you enshrine "small town" terrors.  I have family members who live in identical trailer parks.  Forgive me for feeling gooey (for the scenery, not the family members).  Bookwalter's early output was shot on 8mm, but this was shot on...a higher number?  I wear a dunce cap as it relates to the technical side of filmmaking.  My estimation is 16mm.  Eh, all I'll say is that it looks more professional.

Of course, The Sandman is still a low-budget production.  IMDb jackasses drub and sound off on the beast effects.  Yeah, they're cheap, but I thought the titular baddie looked boss.  He's basically a colossal grim reaper with matching accessories.  That sickle was sick, yo!  It was a sick sickle!  In a sense, this is atypical Bookwalter mania.  I pinpointed no gore, no nudity, no gore and no gore.  I hate to come across as a slabbering bloodhound, but that was a slight inefficacy.  On the positive end of the eigenvector (???), I was able to direct my attention on the moving picture without red stuff.  On the negative end of that very same eigenvector (I seriously don't know), there is a surplus of useless side characters.  Cousin Ozzy?  Why even bother?  Did he die?  Did he move out?  Do I give a fuck?

My rating might seem a shaving high.  The truth is that I treasure any smaller film that makes me feel emotions that the bulk of $200 million tentpole releases don't.  I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to end a sentence with "don't," but fuck it.  Hey, did the "trailer park" scene in Rawhead Rex give you a throbbing whistle?  Then check out The Sandman.

The Soda Jerk Unbound: Part 1 of 6

Did you guess The Soda Jerk?  No one did!  I probably won't keep the series going beyond this six-issue run, unless I happen upon other rare, hard-to-find sodas.  Here's the thing(amajig); I found these bubbly waters at a Cracker Barrel of all places.  I mean, they usually sell sodas in glass bottles, but the last time I was there, I spotted a twat-ton of pops (this will be the only instance where I use that term, Mr. Hakari).  Without further bullshit...

HOLLYWOOD'S ORIGINAL SHIRLEY TEMPLE

I'm not reviewing the mixed drink.  Nope, I'm reviewing the soda based on the mixed drink inspired by the actress.  Granted, there isn't much of a difference.  Neither libation* is alcoholic.  But Hollywood's Original has their own recipe, which contains a couple of secret ingredients.  It would be funny if one of those ingredients was vodka.  I swear, and this is my doltish tongue speaking, my bottle of Shirley Temple tasted a tiny bit alcoholic.  I know it's not.  See, a lovely pill I am currently taking stupefies my 'buds (that's how cool fuckers write it), and certain brews/vittles taste "off."  So who knows?  More importantly, did I just invalidate this column revival?  My tongue still works 95% of the time, so read on, you bitch-candied bandicoot.

It took 25 years, but my "soda" seeds finally grew.

For starters, why don't you stare at that beautiful label?  Hot pink and turquoise...my two favorite colors.  I'm not kidding.  I've always wanted to see those two colors twined as a result of some kind of promotional contrivance.  Like The New Day's ring gear!  If I ever saw a can in the aluminum flesh, I might faint.  I bet Shirley tastes better from a can.  On a sweltering summer day.  Condensation dripping from her body.  Why do I have an erec--woah, I got carried away there, didn't I?  Anyway, the beverage.  When it hits the palate, there is an initial gust of chilled nip.  A coolness.  Dare I say, a freshness.  The aftertaste isn't as gracious, in my expert opinion.  I enjoyed my experience with Shirley (am I reviewing a female escort?), but she was a tangy broad.

Dirty whores.

The flavor of a Shirley Temple is typically described as "cherry-ish, with pomegranate."  Before imbibing this baby, I had never tried one, so I can't comment on accuracy.  I'm envisioning a bartender producing a half-full glass of generic cherry cola, adding a cup (or whatever) of Sun Drop, mixing in grenadine, and finally, jazzing it all up with a splash of orange juice.  I was hoping for something closer to sarsaparilla, but it...well, it wasn't.  It was fruity and almost acidic.  Again, I'm not mad at it.  A whole big bunch of mortals seem to dig it just fine.  Plus, hot pink and turquoise.  I'm dumb enough to buy a case solely for the color scheme.  Judge me.  I don't care.

*I understand that libations by definition contain alcohol.  I was using the term in a loose, metaphorical way.  I'm full of whimsy.  That's why I'm so goddamn lovable.

It's About Dollhouses

That's the reaction most people have to the Amityville sequels (past the second entry anyway), but yesterday, I took in Amityville 1992: It's About Time, and I thought it was slushy fun.  No, I couldn't find anything else to watch.  Yes, this is the one with the evil clock.  Most of the Amity adventures after part deux catch flack for their whacked narratives.  See here, my dysmorphic tribe...if you are mature enough to give the actual movies a chance ("I know I am," he said, looking down at the lowborn, declassed peasants), you'll see that they are entertaining spookshows.  They're certainly not spooky, but they're showy as shit!

I've seen quite a few of them.  Amityville 3-D rocks, and you know it. The Amityville Curse was enjoyable, but I admit that details are sketchy.  Apart from the flavorless remake, the only other chapter I have witnessed is Amityville Dollhouse.  Again, batty gimmick, but I recall digging it.  So what's your problem?  Huh?  Maybe different folks have different opinions.  Nah, that sounds like an urban legend.

Okay, let me reference the elephant on the toilet.  I still haven't posted the six-part "old column" project because I need my mom's help to kickstart it.  Her work schedule has not afforded us the opportunity to do the things.  The things will seem simple to you, but it takes more time for us.  If I don't believe I can get it up and running by Sunday night, I'll just skip ahead to the next review.  Rest assured, it will happen!

Tong Podunk

I love having the El Rey Network.  I got it via Sling TV via Roku via DIRECT TV FUCKING SUCKS MY COMPASSIONATE ROD! Anyway, yeah.  Roku is where it's at.  My plan is to stay in bed tomorrow morning and absorb El Rey's Kickboxer marathon.  Yes! Next week, I will focus on the "old column" thing.  I'm excited, bro.

Just how much is Worth worth, BUFFY?

I did a Google image search for Worth Keeter and this shiftless son of a bitch popped up.  No idea who it is, but I don't believe it's Mr. Keeter.  Who knows?  Maybe it is.  Maybe Worth has tapped out.  Maybe...he's worthless.  Fuck, I apologize.  I should be above that joke, but you and I both know it's the other way around.  Who is Worth Keeter???  You shiftless son of a bitch!  You should know that he's a bottom-rung b-reel director, an etiolated dabbler in all genres.  I'm most interested in his fright fucklings.  Baby, if you haven't seen 1979's Wolfman (his directorial debut), then sugar, get out of my trailer.  This was actually his debut as a writer as well.  To say it's rough around the edges would be an understatement.  It's closer to disheveled around the edges.

Speaking of disheveled, have you met Earl Owensby?  He produced this effort, and since he was holding the cash, he decided to cast himself as the lead.  Note that he possessed neither the looks nor the acting chops to lead Chairman of the Board, much less a Southern-fried werewolf lark.  Wolfman is awful, but it's not awful.  Right-o.  Sweetie, it has a certain charm, and it's brimming with Hammer-style atmosphere.  I don't know what it says about my criminal background, but I found this flick easy to finish.  Look, I can't change who I am.  Honey pie, where are you going?  Give me a chance!  Again!

And on the left/right (lol wtf ikr), you will see Kristy Swanson's fly ass in 1992's Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  I never watched the show.  It always seemed like a teenybopper pursuit, and any time I tuned in, it felt...well, it felt like a teenybopper pursuit.  I'm open to the idea of giving it another shot.  I enjoyed the motion picture, which I recently picked up on videocassette.  The first half is a whiff too scattershot.  I am told that the TV series more closely resembles the second half, so that's a foretoken of benediction, wouldn't you say?  Well, wouldn't you?  DEREK?  I'm hoping to really catch someone off-guard one of these days with my random name call-outs.  They are going to freak out, especially if I add a last name and it syncs up.  That's an idea!

Isn't it, KAREN RILEY?

More stupid words are on their way!

The last few days have been so fucking serious.  Watching the news only adds to my square mix of anxiety and paranoia every time I leave the house (which I actively avoid).  Fuck.  And then there is THIS.  You're supposed to click "this."  Go ahead.  I'll wait.  Right, so I've been worrying about that, although the immediate response from friends and family did lift my heart.  I was not expecting to meet the fixed goal in 24 hours, much less exceed it.  I knew I had good friends, but I was honestly blown away.

After all of this serious stuff, I miss things that don't matter.  I'll dive back into the trash pond soon, kiddies...

Baskin

A current release!  I haven't touched one of those in awhile, so this film must be awfully special.  Or just something I wanted to cover.  Actually, I've been looking forward to 2016's Baskin since I first started seeing the hideous trailers for it last year.  It's a Turkish import, and it has a reputation as an odious, insalutary maggot of a movie that has caused walk-outs at festivals.  Potentially, it could end up as the latest A Serbian Film, although it's not quite as extreme (and frankly, I think theater patrons are too jaded to carelessly create another "shock classic" on recoil alone).  We begin with a van full of cops.  They stop at a diner, they shoot the shit, they bully their waiter, they speak Turkish...y'know, typical dickhead activities (no offense to Turkey).  Then they receive a disturbing call for backup.

And that's all I'm synopsisizzling.  Honestly, the trailer reveals a glut of key imagery and most reviews broadcast way too many plot details.  Go in fresh, if at all possible.  That may not affect your overall opinion of Baskin.  You can probably infer that from my rating, but I recommend it.  I was pleased.  I enjoyed its zalcroom ass-prex, as the kids say.  Unfortunately, crackwhores in the foundation present themselves as the story arc gains ground.  Primo (Italian for "first"), I want to propose a toast to director Can Evrenol.  You would never guess that this was his first feature gig, what with the rich lighting and the marble-smooth camera movements.  Even dialogue scenes dazzle. I was worried that the spooks would be shot in an epileptic manner (no offense to spooks), but apart from an introductory bit, that doesn't become a problem.

The gore is gory.  I'm not privy to the budget, but everything looks fantastic.  On the acting front, I have no gripes.  The Father is a veritable villain.  Across the board, the creepy stuff is creepy.  If I had to quibble, it feels at times like Baskin is straining to emulate Hellraiser.  The Father's pseudo-philosophical palaver means jack shit, and I kept waiting for the protagonists to simply ask, "Huh?"  The first half of this foreign object hums.  Isn't that what car people say about quality engines?  They hum?  Whatever.  The first half is really good.  Zip it.  The second half tries to get cute.  Don't get me wrong; that's where the chassis of the violence has been interred.  The chassis is the body of a car, right?  Stop making fun of me.

Baskin ripens into demented territory, but as it carouses with waking nightmares, it makes less and less sense.  In my stir-fried opinion, you have to be careful with dream sequences.  I'm trying to tiptoe around spoilers.  I can safely say that the ending pissed me off without spoiling a damned thing.  It's such a cliched genre denouement.  Was it tacked on by someone who didn't watch the rest of Baskin?  Because I could believe it.  It's, shall we say, bullshit (Italian for "first").  For those curious, the title, when translated in English, means "first" in Italian (Italian for "first").  Robert Z'Dar says, "I had my hopes up for more baby rape.  I didn't walk out once!"

For the TRUE fans!

Upcoming!  I'll be dusting off a retired, long-forgotten column that I used to write in the olden days of Random Reviews Incorporated.  It will be a six-part series.  What will it be???  I doubt that anyone even remembers the original column.  We're talking seven years ago.  I didn't bother archiving it, so you would have to be a hardcore fan to name it out of limbo.  The number of hardcore RR Inc. fans totals in the negative tens.  You're free to guess.  It's true; the above painting...er, photograph...okay, statue is a clue.  Can you solve the puzzle?  Do you care?  What if I die never knowing the feeling of being embraced by a beautiful woman?

I'll probably write another movie review before doing that thing.  Hail Satan!

Blood Capsule #63

FREAKED (1993)

Sometimes, you don't get around to seeing a certain movie that is right up your alley.  Scientists will never discover why, and for years, Freaked has been one of those contingencies for me.  It's a rainbow-skewbald horror/comedy (mostly comedy, if I'm being upfront with you) starring and co-directed by Alex Winter.  From the image I have chosen, it may seem like z-junk, but it actually commanded a budget of $11 million.  That's paper money!  Most of those banknotes were funneled straight into the special effects department.  As the title suggests, the plot implicates freakishly freakish freaks.  Winter plays Ricky Coogan, an actor who agrees to do promotional work for a chemical company, and you could probably finish this synopsis yourself.

The poor bastard is victimized by Randy Quaid's freak machine.  I promise that sounds worse than it is, but it does result in moldered, gangrenous creatures.  Aren't those the best kind?  They were designed, in part, by Screaming Mad George.  Those freaked in Freaked range from nauseating to preposterous (I dug Sockhead, as voiced by Bobcat Goldthwait).  This is a fun flick to look at, but it's also just plain funny.  I laughed on a regular basis, and I deplore the corpus of American comedy.  Freaked is instantly quotable.  And the soundtrack!  That tune with Henry Rollins and Blind Idiot God is a fucking jam.  Keep a Rastafarian eyeball out for cameos by Brooke Shields, Morgan Fairchild and Deep Roy.  In addition, see if you can spot Keanu Reeves.  Get it?  See?  Spot?  Go!

Album Cover of the Whatever

Fucking listen to this album.  It's unique black metal from the Czech Republic circa '92.  It doesn't sound like typical BM at all.  Jettison your expectations.  Your ass has already been kicked.

Oh, and the cover is cool!

Unlucky Charms

I don't know if this warrants a disclaimer, but I've been sick for a few days.  I believe I may be coming out of the "bug fog."  Congestion persists, as does the loblolly (it's a word, I swear on my own grave) secreted by my mucous membranes.  I mention these yucky details to point out that my dragging condition could very well color my opinion of 2013's Unlucky Charms.  I'm fucking irritable.  However, it's likely that a healthy Dom would find the exact same faults.  I thought it might be nice to conclude my Full Moon Five experiment with a recent production minted by the b-budget studio.  This one was directed by Charles Band himself.  We can blame him, just like I can blame myself for deciding to watch. Because I thought it would be "nice."  Hold up; I need my DayQuil hit.

On Full Moon Streaming, the running time is 70 minutes.  On IMDb, there is an uncut version listed at 80 minutes.  In fact, it's the only version listed.  What gives, Charlie?  Are you holding out on us?  The cuts would have to be related to the plot, as the death sequences don't leave room for extra gore.  Maybe extraneous characters crop up only to be carved up (think F13 Part IV...the hitchhiker).  Either way, I'm fine with Unlucky Charms being a spuddy, abbreviated sit.  It was marketed as yet another "killer leprechaun" romp and Mr. Band had the foreskin to sell Special Edition copies in a cereal box.  He's one hell of a huckster, you have to give him that.  As it turns out, the lep-dude is one of four "villains."  Quotation marks denote sarcasm, which means...

They're the good guys!  Look at the poster again.  Those are the good guys.  They lost their precious gemstones above ground (on Earth), and that's terrible news for humankind.  Whomever possesses said bangles wields power over the four sprites, and of course, the current owner happens to be a miserly narcissist.  Farr Darrig (the red leprechaun) doesn't want to commit acts of evil, but is his will strong enough?  Is he strong enough to be my man?  For some Band-y reason, this cinematic picador is known as Miscreants on Full Moon Streaming.  He has done that with more than a couple of flicks, I've noticed.  "Which title shall I change today?  I'm goddamn God!"  Oh, is it worth watching?  I forgot that part.

It's enjoyable to a certain extent.  The bulk of the acting is wretched, but Jeryl Prescott gives a standout performance as a Tyra Banks type.  She's the true antagonist.  It doesn't surprise me to learn that she was on The Walking Dead because I kept thinking that she was too talented for Unlucky Charms.  The make-up effects are weak.  Farr Darrig does not - I repeat - DOES NOT resemble the imp on the cover.  He's merely a guy with bad acne.  We are treated to bare flesh, though the lovely Anna Sophia Berglund seems to cover her breasts during a sex scene after we've seen her breasts.  It's odd.  She's on top.  There is no conceivable reason for her to obscure her nipples with one arm.  What the cuntiferous jizm???

To top it all off, the pace...actually, the pace is dandy.  There are plenty of lapses in logic I could dislimb, but I've reached my flagellation quota for the day.  Unlucky Charms is stunningly average.  The ending is rushed, so taking the running time misinformation into consideration, I'm willing to bet that a "Director's Cut" will surface, if anyone gives two fickle fucks.  And that!  Was!  The Full Moon Five!  I hurt!  Inside!

Geek Out #123

I'm under the weather, so I don't feel like writing much of anything today.  The next item I post will most certainly be the last gasp of my Full Moon Five spree, but first, you gotta...GOTTA see this.  It's the trailer for 1992's My Grandpa is a Vampire.  The vampire is played by none other than Al motherfucking Lewis!  I use too much profanity, don't I?  In a sense, Lewis was Pappy to all of us.  He may have been typecast as Grampa Munster, but that's because Grampa Munster was the straight dope.

Totem

That isn't the image I wanted to use.  I wanted the original VHS cover, but the only version that I could find kept uploading as grayscale.  I didn't convert it to grayscale.  No, I did my usual resizing routine, I boosted the contrast a smidgen (these are cabalistic insider tricks of the spade) and it was goddamn grayscale.  Apparently, it was a problem with that specific file.  Could it be that 1999's Totem cursed my machine?  It's plausible.  Back when I reviewed the entire Puppet Master series, a friend of mine - I'm not mentioning any Mexican names - jokingly suggested that I review Totem since it's tangentially related to Charles Band's tentpole franchise.  I told him to suck a taco.  NOTE: I'm a horrible, horrible racist.  Not really.  Please don't forsake me.

Of course, the plot has nothing to do with Puppet Master.  I'm not even sure it has anything to do with the Totem creatures in PM 4 and 5.  At.  All.  More than likely, I'll kick my friend's ass later, but that doesn't concern you, dear reader.  Where does Totem take us?  A cabin in the middle of nowhere.  We join six folks already in progress, most of them teenagers.  None of them know why they are there or why they felt the clamant compulsion to run in the cabin's direction.  An enclosure of charged "kill-owatts" won't let them leave the premises.  They can walk a few miles, but that's it.  While shuffling in the open night air, our dick squad (I'll explain in a minute) chances upon a graveyard.  They notice a totem pole standing to the side.  It's gilded with three soulless kobolds.  Hmm, that's probably not the right term...let's go with "bullies."

In any event, Totem is nonsensical, cheese-budget gab.  Three-quarters of the characters are dicks, and yeah, the majority of the dicks are male.  When the film starts, these people are strangers, so they have no reason to be dicks to one another.  But they are!  The dialogue is rasping and incessant.  The acting ranges from solid to inanimate.  By that I mean, I mistook a lass for a butane torch.  I was going to say "dishwasher," but golly, I didn't want to come off as misogynistic.  It could have been any home appliance.  Actually, it could have been any inanimate object period, so I suppose a football would have worked.  Fuck.  Listen, she's a dreadful actress, whatever her name is.  Be upset with her, not me!  I wonder if the characters had names.

Totem's biggest flaw (and I count it as a single scrape) is its vague demons and their vague backstories.  When the beat comes for mud to be made clear, we are shown stock footage from B&W viking flicks poorly superimposed over newly-shot footage of fire.  Oh, and it's narrated.  Something about spirits of war being unleashed.  I don't know.  I have a feeling that it was compiled in post-production.  Call it a convalescent's intuition.  The Totemites look neat, unless they're in transit.  I know for a fact that they had multiple puppeteers toiling behind each puppet, so why is the movement shoddy?  For twat's sake, you can see wires!

Thus far, this has been a 1-Z'Dar review.  I'll get to the stuff I enjoyed soon, but Charles...CHARLES.  You know as well as I do these pole-smokers didn't need to be midgets.  What is your obsession with tiny terrors?  It would have been cheaper to toss a guy in a suit!  Get help.  Band didn't direct Totem, by the way.  That distinction belongs to Martin Tate (a.k.a. David DeCoteau, of course).  The stuff I enjoyed?  The climax is straight out of a Halloween theme park.  It's ridiculous.  Would it shock you to learn that zombies are involved?  I'm assuming that authentic make-up effects were too exorbitant, so the undead actors are forced to wear zombie masks (!).  The last 15 minutes straddle the line between epic and insulting.  This freelancer is leaning toward epic.

TV-Y7

After being threatened with violence, I finally watched Batman: Mask of the Phantasm.  It was good.  It was a good thing.  Almost frustrating, though.  The target audience is mootable.  The film was primarily made for children, yet mature enough for adults.  TV-Y7?  My point is, where do I go with any complaints I may or may not have?  Should I even bother "critiquing" it?  Then again, most of the people who own Mask of the Phantasm are probably adults.  They enjoyed it, and hey, so did I!  But this fucking Phantasm character.  Don't worry, citizens of Gotham; I won't spoil the villain's identity.

He/she can disappear at will.  How?  Imagine a cripple shrugging their (crippled) shoulders right now.  He/she is seemingly followed by a fog machine, unless the fog is expended through some sort of intubation system.  A catheter?  But it would have to be the inverse of a catheter.  Does Phantasm piss steam?  If that were the case, then why-OH FUCK, I FORGOT TO POST PICTURES!

KO...a.k.a. the fucking man.

The weapons atop Dean's Asylum.  Notice Mitch in the back.

Looks like they're standing in milk.  HEY, BECKY!

The New Day pre-time travel.

The Bulletproof Balor Club of Styles.  Or whatever.  They need their own name.

Natty was fly.

Sad RomanTron is sad.

Cesaro post-strip.

Stephanie checking me out.

If you click on each image, you will see a version that is exactly the same size. lol Fuck off. lol

The "I Attended Raw" Write-Up

I'll try to post actual pictures tomorrow.

I had a blast!  That's all you need to read, but I worked too hard on this (no, I didn't).  Please read the whole thing, or I'll kick your ass (no, I won't).  In retrospect, I feel a little silly telling friends to tune in and look for me, not realizing I would be behind the camera.  That's where a block of "wheelchair people" were sitting.  I could barely see the TitanTron, and the poor Crips next to me couldn't see it at all.  There were other wheelchairs in the audience.  I can only hope they had more RESPECTFUL seating.  NOTE: I'm not talking about the view of the ring.  Our view was great.  I'm not going to bash WWE here, as it may have been the fault of the venue (in this case, the Greensboro Coliseum).

Let's talk about wrestling, shall we?  I've watched clips on WWE.com, and yeah, that's pretty much what the crowd sounded like.  I'm proud of us.  North Carolina is the fuck-up at state family gatherings.  The other states stop talking when NC walks into the room because they were prattling on our recent arrest, our pregnant stripper girlfriend and our discriminatory bathroom bill.  BUT we're a wrasslin' state.  Right now, as a Carolinian, that's all I have to cling to, aside from campestral mountain ranges and shit.

It is time.  For a list.

~ The crowd loved A.J. Styles.  Early on, they were booing the fuck out of Roman Reigns.  By the end of the Uso/Club match (which was awesome), the crowd was split evenly.  I dug the post-scuffle scuffle.  Styles Clash on a steel chair, bruh!  This feud is working.  I'm convinced that Reigns is the next Cena, but fuck that.  Turn him heel.  Soon!

~ Zayn/Owens versus Miz/Cesaro was the bout of the night.  All four guys understand storytelling...yes, even Mike.  At some point, they will have to make KO a babyface.  That's his only flaw as a heel; he's too likable!

~ The Shining Stars!  And so Raw became mediocre for a spell.  You can only repackage talents so many times before momentum is at an impasse.  Viewers know that these courtly Puerto Ricans are Los Matadores, and they still don't care about them.  Needless to say, the crowd was deceased for this one.  Beg Carlito to come back.  That's Epico and Primo's only hope.  I suppose you could run an angle with their grandfather.  Have him pay off a contract killer to stab Dana Brooke in the shower.  I'm kidding, I'm kidding.

~ Since I'm on the topic, Dana was fine in her match against Becky Lynch, but why did she win?  Why???  I understand that my precious Emma is injured (back surgery...son of a shit), but Dana?  And a roll-up?  Did Becky pay off a contract killer to stab Linda McMahon in the shower?  What the fuck?  If I had to wager a guess, creative wants to send Becky on a losing streak while the title picture sorts itself out.  This would also include beating the women who defeated her on her way back up the ladder.  Hopefully, it ends with Becky taking on Sasha Banks for the WWE Women's Championship.  Hopefully.

~ Jericho and Ambrose.  Whatever.  I'm loving Jericho's heel work.  I'm a fan.  I dig Ambrose.  But...meh.  They're trying so hard to push Dean as the new Mick Foley, the hardcore legend for this generation.  I'm not buying it.  Christ, he revved up a chainsaw in his match opposite Brock Lesnar.  What, was he going to chop him in half?  An Asylum Match.  Because he's crazy, remember?  One of the weapons hanging from the top of the cell was a mop.  Is goddamn Perry Saturn going to pop up out of nowhere?

~ Not entirely sure how it played off on TV, but the crowd erupted after the Golden Truth montage.  They're finally a tag team.  I was skeptical at first, but it clicked.  Okey-dokey, so book a confusion finish where R-Truth kicks Goldust in the face.  Fucking what!?  If they break up in the coming weeks, I will find a random child and remove his/her skeleton.

~ Kofi's callback to his old gimmick was hysterical.  I'm cool with The Vaudevillains standing tall, even though it's painfully obvious that they're not winning the belts on Sunday.

~ A word on the pyrotechnics.  My ears are sensitive, but I basically knew what to expect.  You can brace yourself, unless it's supposed to be a surprise.  Like The Dudley Boys.  They interrupted Big Cass, and my dick jumped into my nasal cavity.  My poor mom almost pissed herself.  There were little kids sitting close to the bang-boom illuminations.  Fuck them, I guess.

~ The ending was a riot.  I couldn't believe I was hearing a "Steph-an-ie!" chant.  In Flair country, of all places!

~ We didn't stick around for the dark match, but I know it was Jericho/Ambrose.  You could hear Y2J shitting on everyone throughout the coliseum.  Heh.

Oh, and Kalisto died.

Fangirling

This weekend-ish, I will work toward concluding my Full Moon Five (and all the girlies scream), but on Wednesday, I'll be reviewing Monday Night Raw.  Why not tomorrow?  I'll need a day of recovery.  See, I'm not just reviewing an episode of Raw.  I'll be attending the fucking thing.  Kind of a big deal because this is my first WWE/F event ever.  Am I fangirling?  MAYBE.

IHSAHN - Arktis

Vegard Sverre Tveitan, you son of a bitch.  You've done it again!  Oh, I'm sorry.  That's Ihsahn's birth name.  Only true metalheads would know that.  True metalheads...with access to Wikipedia.  But that's not important!  I could have whipped up this review a couple of weeks ago, but I wanted to sit with Arktis.  I wanted to absorb its flavors as though it were marinating me.  And there are a lot of flavors here.  My God (er, Satan), Ihsahn cranes his blackened wings and interposes everything from black metal to witch house.  From 80's traditional metal to piano balladry.  From Weather Channel jazz to killer shit you can't even categorize (I'm looking at you, "Frail").  From here to eternity!  Fret not, votarients; the whole of Arktis sounds like Ihsahn.

This album is so fucking good.  Can I just end it there?  No?  Aw, piss.  2013's Das Seelenbrechen was highly experimental to the point that at least half of it was improvised in the studio.  I didn't care for it, but I recognize Ihsahn's need to make that record and I would never begrudge him artistic freedom.  Thankfully (for me), Arktis is more song-oriented.  The arrangements are "pop-influenced."  I use quotation marks because I don't want to scare off any obstinate metalheads.  This isn't a pop opus, you goons.  You know what it is?  It's MUSIC.  The three opening numbers bring you the kind of commotion one might expect from a regulation Ihsahn disc.  "Disassemble" features melodic vocals from Einar of Leprous fame (those dudes are frequent collaborators).  Sweet leadoff track, and then...hold on, let me break this paragraph.

There we go.  "Mass Darkness" cleaves your cock/clit off and spits it down your mother's throat.  Too much?  I'm laughing out loud.  The riffs are mean-spirited, and overall, the song simply feels apocalyptic.  The kicker is that Matt Heafy (yes, the Trivium lad) helps out on the chorus.  If it's any consolation, I couldn't tell it was him.  Skipping ahead to "South Winds," this is where Arktis gets expansive.  Electronic elements are introduced, and somehow, it feels like they are supposed to be there.  Righteous stuff.  My favorite ditty is "Until I Too Dissolve."  Holy shit.  This is King Diamond spliced with Van Halen spliced with, well, Ihsahn!  Musically, it's the 80's traditional metal I was yacking about earlier.  Vocally and lyrically, it's gorgeous.  It's one of those songs that aims directly for the ticker.  Or in this case, my ticker.  Your results may vary.

"Frail" is experimental art rock?  Avant-garde?  Avant-prog?  Avant-art experimental progressive black metal?  Look, I don't fucking know what to call it, but it's amazing.  Smooth harmonies, a succinct solo and optimal weirdness.  Einar handles lead vox duties on "Celestial Violence," a lovely madrigal (I'm totally misusing that word, and there is nothing you can do about it).  It closes Arktis with tampation (I totally made that word up, and there is nothing you can do about it).  If I haven't made it clear, I love this album.  You should purchase it with the currency of your country.  I'm honestly not sure where I would personally rank Arktis in Ihsahn's solo discography.  It's awfully close to being the best, but I hold Angl close to the chest.  Now I shall rest.  In my nest.  And await the results of my blood test.

I can't be a father right now.  I swear to Christ.  She needs to shut the fuck up.  She knows I don't understand Mandarin!  Goddamn.