Pantera and Darkthrone = Trend Hoppers?

Aww, it's Baby Fenriz!

Call this an editorial.  I was pontificating on the pot, as I'm wont to do. We know that Pantera catches hell for their 80's output and image. In my eyes, 1988's Power Metal is their true debut.  That's when the "classic" line-up was solidified.  The music was beginning to show traces of the aggression that they would embrace full-bore on the very next album.  The common argument is that they switched to a sound that was gaining momentum, either for money or to be seen as badasses.  I disagree.  But that's not what this editorial is about. My question is, why doesn't Darkthrone catch the same flack for abandoning their style after one LP?

I want to be clear.  I DO NOT feel that Darkthrone "sold out" or anything.  This is just rumination.  Darkthrone formed in 1986 as a straight-up death metal band.  They released four demos and of course, 1990's Soulside Journey (which kicks almighty ass, by the way).  Image?  There was no real image.  They were dudes in shirts and - quite possibly - pants.  The next album was a complete overhaul, both musically and stylistically.  Sure, it contained death metal elements (mainly the riffs), but let's be honest; it's pure Norwegian black metal to the bone.  Don't forget the addition of corpsepaint!  "But what would they stand to gain from an about-face?"  I don't know.  Maybe they saw what was happening around them and wanted in on it.  Maybe they wanted to be on the left hand of metal history.

Obviously, that's bullshit.  Simply put, Fenriz didn't dig where the Norwegian DM scene was heading.  It was an artistic decision, so why can't we give Pantera the benefit of the doubt?  Why couldn't the jump from traditional heavy metal (and goofy outfits) to groove-anchored thrash have been an artistic decision?  If you listen to defeatists, they were chasing trends.  My rejoinder has always been...what trends?  Was groove metal a big deal when Pantera was writing Cowboys From Hell in 1989 and 1990?  "They wanted to look macho and tough."  Um, 98% of metal bands try to look macho and tough.  With Pantera, it felt genuine.  Phil Anselmo was an exceedingly metal individual from the get-go.  He was the guy wearing Deicide shirts and Celtic Frost shirts.  Maybe not in their 80's promo shots, but...

I believe them when they say they were just trying to get gigs.  I'm glad that they got those gigs because they built a following that lead to them roping Anselmo into the fold.  He was the catalyst.  It might have taken a wee bit of time, but they eventually shook off the spandex.  To be honest, I enjoy Power Metal.  Apart from the vocals, it's not THAT dissimilar to Cowboys From Hell.  Brings me back to my original inquest.  Why doesn't Darkthrone catch flack for pole-vaulting from one subgenre to another?

My theory?  Soulside Journey is tr00er than Power Metal.  That's all it comes down to - metalhead elitism.  Hey, you can't chide Fenriz. He's an underground metal GOD!  Nevermind the fact that he's good friends with Anselmo and they have recorded together.  He listens to every stripe of metal under the sun, so he probably likes Power Metal.  I know he listened to Agent Steel as a teenager.  It's not farfetched.

Were Pantera and Darkthrone trend hoppers?  No.  I love them both, but Darkthrone does seem to get a free pass for ditching death metal and donning corpsepaint.  Maybe it's me.

Woah, Vinnie Paul ALMOST looks cool.

TWELVE FOOT NINJA - Outlier

Several days ago, a fucking piano fell on me.  From a great height! I've been in a coma since, but I just woke up.  Like, right before I started writing this review.  Something seems different.  Who died?  I thought that "world funeral" was just the title of a Marduk record. The skies are suffused with a trembling, blanched gloom.  I don't know what happened while I was out, but these misgivings are bumming ME out.  That cannot stand, as I'm extremely, extremely selfish.  All I can do is fence off the news (it's always depressing) and focus on stuff that makes my heart go pitter-patter.  Take music, for instance.

Twelve Foot Ninja is an Australian hard rock band that fuses djent riffs with every other genre under the sun.  If I had to describe their sound, I would say...imagine a djentrified Faith No More.  Look, I'm not a fan of "the djent."  It's a stupid term, for one.  I don't even listen to Meshuggah, although I do enjoy most of 1995's Destroy Erase Improve.  Twelve Foot Ninja manages to write songs strong enough to withstand any toxic elements.  And I should note that the djent-y elements are minor.  You will never confuse "Oxygen" or "Invincible" with a Veil of Maya tune.  Again, the songwriting is too fucking good. The vocal melodies latch onto your scrotal pouch, the arrangements know when to ebb and I'm craving Golden Grahams.

2016's Outlier is their second full-length recording.  Unfortunately, there was a four-year gap between this set and their perfect debut, 2012's Silent Machine.  Yes, perfect (in my opinion blah, blah). That's the one thing working against Outlier.  As much as I wanted it to, it doesn't - and possibly couldn't - equiponderate its predecessor. Er, match up to its predecessor.  I should have typed that instead. Seriously, Silent Machine is imbued with grand slams. Outlier is solid, and that's underselling it.  It's been on repeat in my bedroom since it arrived via whore and carriage.  But I have my nitpicks.  Chief among them, this long player isn't long enough!  A little over 38 minutes?  After four years?  An election season has come and gone in the time that--OHHHH.  I know who died now.

Anyway, Outlier isn't filling.  I'm left wanting more, and not in the desired way.  This is less of a nitpick, but the second half of the album isn't as habit-forming as the first half.  It could simply be my shoddy ears, I suppose.  Songs such as "Post Mortem" and "Monsoon," while entirely listenable, don't kickstart my heart. Skydive naked from an aeroplane.  Or a lady with a body from outer space. My heart, my heart.  Kickstart my heart.  "Sick" and "Oxygen" are the real winners, and those are the ones you should sample. Expect smooth harmonies.  Hell, even the second half of Outlier contains parts I love.  The unpredictable midsection of "Monsoon." The emotive (not to be confused with emo) chorus of "Adios."  It's a beguiling collection of sounds, is what I'm saying.

Check out their music videos.  They're pretty damn funny.  It's located on Silent Machine, but you must hear "Mother Sky."  Listen to me.  Listen!  You must hear "Mother Sky."  Argh, I don't trust you. Click HERE.

Satan Cake

I've been sick for a few days.  I've also had personal issues to trudge through, so I haven't felt like writing lately.  But I will soon!  Right now, my brain is on autopilot and I'm looking at pictures of Satanic desserts.  Hail Satan.  And chocolate.

Insomnia Theatre #4

I'm getting sick.  Pity me.  My throat feels yecchy.  While I try to stave off influenza, watch the fourth episode of Insomnia Theatre - Creature of Destruction!  I'm realizing now that I hate my voice. God, how can people stand it?

By the way, you can click on "Insomnia Theatre" up top to view past episodes.

Hallowed Be Thy Ween

I had planned on my next entry being a music review, but I wanted to post something horror-centric today.  After all, it's Halloween.  That reminds me; HAPPY FUCKING HALLOWEEN!  It feels good to be alive and dead inside.  Since I'm a lifer, I'll still be celebrating through Thanksgiving and Christmas.  I do enjoy the latter holiday a teensy bit, but fuck Turkey Day.  Fuck it and the snowflake potatoes it skeeted on.

Here are my succinct, hastily arranged thoughts on a few flicks I've taken in over the past couple of weeks.  I wish I could review everything that I watch, but if I did, I'd be mentally spent (moreso than usual).  Thanks to a penpal for the title.  Satan knows I'm not that clever.

Axe Body Spray has seriously recalibrated their promotional campaign.

Somehow, 1982's Pieces had escaped my prying peepers until just recently.  I expected an absent-minded bloodbath, and by (Christopher) George, that's exactly what was presented to me.  The gore effects are top-notch.  The pace is rapid.  I mean, the prologue is followed immediately by a chainsaw offing...in broad daylight, no less!  Now, I will forgive the villain for using Leatherface's weapon of choice, but only because Pieces came out eight years after my movie truelove.  This would be a good place to link to my review of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  Consider it recommended reading.

Wednesday?  Shit, I'll have to DVR Lucha Underground.

As much as I claim to love made-for-TV fright fritters, I had not seen 1973's Don't Be Afraid of the Dark, possibly the most lauded of them all.  I have seen the remake, and from where I sit, it edges out the original by a slim margin.  Heresy, I'm aware.  Look, I wasn't a kid when this aired.  I didn't view it from behind a sofa and have nightmares about the little archfiends who want to shanghai Kim Darby.  Speaking of those pee-wee pests, I didn't find them to be creepy in the slightest.  Maybe it was the shot of them stumbling up the stairs, or maybe it was their traffic cone scalps.  I don't know, but they didn't do it for me.

That's not to say Don't Be Afraid of the Dark antagonized my senses.  It's still a fun chiller, the perfect genre treat to pop in on a drafty October night.  The opening credits.  Dude.  There is more eerie atmosphere packed into those frames than...well, I was going to insult modern horror filmmaking, but I know better than to generalize.  The credits are killer.  That's all I need to type.

This.  This is my soul.

I revisited Halloween III: Season of the Witch.  Even though I had this serotinal favorite stored in the ol' memory banks, I had only ever doted on my VHS copy.  No joke.  This gave me a reason to finally pull out my Halloween Blu-ray box set (alright, I may have pulled it out a time or two before).  It felt like a fresh viewing.  It's amazing to me how much this sequel's reputation has been rehabilitated in the last 15-20 years.  No longer is the cheesy, yet disturbing tale of a pagan warlock flogged as a whipping boy for the sins of low-grade slashers.  Fans figured out that this is a cool spectacle.  That's justice.  Street justice!

Geek Out #127

Here is one for the pro-wrestling crowd.  This is a veritable treasure trove, and I'm shocked that it made its way online.  Well, I'm not shocked; I just can't believe it exists at all.  The video above is handheld backstage footage of wrestlers essentially waiting for their match at 1988's The Great American Bash.  Out of character.  I mean, this is "fly on the wall" material.  As you might have guessed, the boys didn't wait around in measured peace.  They goofed off and raised H-E--gracious gosh, I don't know if I can type it.  Double hockey sticks.  There.

You get a peek into their real personalities.  Road Warrior Hawk is the class clown.  It's obvious that he kept everyone entertained on the road.  I'm sure the cocaine helped (we see him snort a bump* of blow at one point and "chase" it with water!).  Lex Luger is stoned into oblivion.  He holds onto his cock for dear life (!?).  Dr. Death is certifiably insane, and Dusty is...well, he's Dusty.  Paul Ellering is seen sitting far afield from the babyface buffoonery reading a book. Because of course.  It's so surreal to consider that he's still pegging away in the industry, now managing NXT's The Authors of Pain.

Heels and faces dressed in different locker rooms in those days. God, can you imagine the debauchery on the evil side of the building?  Actually, it looked the same, if shoot interviews are any indication.  I almost forgot!  Jim Cornette cameos and performs stand-up, so to speak.  His Rodney Dangerfield impersonation is spot-on.  Yeah, you need to click play as soon as possible.

*That's right.  I know the street slang.  I live on that fucking street, and it's called Google Blvd.  Step to me, bitch!

Leprechaun

Story time!  Leprechaun came out when I was in 4th Grade.  A friend of mine was just as much of a monster head as I was, and when I first saw the TV spot for this charmed cult classic, we talked about it the next day at school.  As a point of fact, we talked it up for weeks.  "Will this be the new Freddy?"  "It looks pretty scary."  "I wonder how big it is."  A note on the last question - we were stoopid. I knew what a leprechaun was, but the dimensions of a movie leprechaun had yet to be furnished in my hampered head.  Hey, I was nine at the oldest!  Anyway, it mattered none, as Mom wasn't going to let me rent an R-rated horror film.  My friend didn't have this obstacle in his path, so he helped devise a scheme that would gull Mommy Dearest into bringing Leprechaun home for me to watch.

Basically, I told her about this kiddie flick called Leprechaun.  I flimflammed a plot involving a little boy who befriends the malachite gnome (I'm sure that I used the exact same loquacity), and together, they go on a shopping spree using a pot o' gold.  Not bad, eh?  "But didn't you feel guilty?"  Well, no.  But only because I didn't think for a solitary second that she would fall for it.  One look at the back of the box and there goes my jovial, G-rated rainbow adventure.  You might be able to see where this is going...while out running errands, she rented Leprechaun for yours truly!  She didn't look at the back of the box!  Believe it or not, I wasn't defrocked.  I wasn't even incarcerated.  She actually let me watch the tape, and some would say that was punishment enough.

Obviously, I have viewed Leprechaun a few times since 1993.  I'll be scrupulous and acknowledge the fetters of nostalgia connecting my ankles to this b-clover.  It's funny; the sequels are infamously heave-worthy, yet the original tries to be a "good" feature presentation. There was money behind this.  Granted, it wasn't an extravagant chunk of change, but compared to Leprechaun 4: In Space, it was Guardians of the Galaxy.  The special effects are quite reasonable. At the end of the film (spoilz oh no), Lep is reduced to melting framework, seeping grue in a very old school way.  You know what I'm talkin' 'bout.  Ain't talkin' 'bout love!  My love is rotten to the core. Ain't talkin' 'bout love!  Just like I told you before.  BEFORE! BEFORE!  AWWWWWAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

For the life of me, I can't figure out why Jennifer Aniston is so embarrassed by Leprechaun.  Okay, I guess I can, but it's not that bad.  She has since appeared in much more reprehensible offal. Besides, if it weren't for this puppy, she wouldn't have landed the role of crack-addicted board game tycoon Latisha Dickwell in Friends. Apart from Warwick Davis, Aniston gives the best performance of the lot by a country mile.  Mark Holton is beyond inconsistent as Ozzie, the developmentally delayed fellow who accidentally swallows a fucking coin.  I swear to Ross, there are moments where Holton simply decides to stop acting.  As if he didn't hear the call to action. It would be too difficult to cite specifics, but it's noticeable.  Honestly, I just want to move on.

The kid is annoying.  The "hunk" doesn't really exist.  And those are your supporting players, give or take a meager quantity of dead cops.  The pace is swift.  If I were a writer, I'd say that Leprechaun rolls along effortlessly like the tiny modes of transportation that Lep uses throughout.  See, it's that type of shit.  How am I supposed to deplore a motion picture in which an evil leprechaun chases Jennifer Aniston in a rest home while seated in a wheelchair?  I can't! Writer/director Mark Jones does his damndest to keep things visually interesting with sharp lighting and weird camera angles. After all these eons, I still appreciate his labor.  The whole package has an enterprising spirit that twists my arm.  You win, Mr. Jones.  I enjoy your movie, despite the spongy script.

In terms of plot holes, Leprechaun is a horn of Amalthea.  You were waiting for the Amalthea reference, weren't you?  Well, there it is! End.  This.  Review.

Insomnia Theatre #3

We're three episodes in, babies!  Yes, I plan to archive these on a shelf of some sort, but I need to adjust to my new schedule first.  My mumsy switched shifts at her place of work, and that directly impacts my agenda.  Thus far, I have either been sleeping too much or not at all.  I'm foggy.  By the time I become acclimatized to the new hours, Mumsy will switch back to the old hours.  Not her fault.  I'm only explaining why I haven't written much in the last week.  Excuses, excuses!  At least you have Insomnia Theatre to keep you company, and jolly good fellow, this is the strongest episode yet.  Join us as we watch 1971's Werewolf vs. The Vampire Woman!

Album Cover of the Whatever

Gosh, I could write a full-fledged paragraph about this one.

Blood Capsule #67

FADE TO BLACK (1980)

There isn't much to say about this modest, unvarnished slasher.  As muted as the film comes across, it could stand to be simplified even further.  We are "treated" to a subplot involving a crime psychologist and his cop lover that goes nowhere faster than a speeding seminal spore.  Technically, they don't collide with our psycho star, so they're useless anyway.  Who is our psycho star?  Thanks for asking!  Eric Binford (seen above realizing he has a penis), a sheltered cinephile who lives with his prune shrew of an aunt.  She's a real termagant, let me tell you!  Boy, what a bag!  You can see how Eric lives a soon-to-snap lifestyle, and it's not long before he does just that.  When he stalks his prey, he cosplays as his favorite characters from cinema's golden age.

Eric dresses up as a vampire and a mummy, but oddly, his Hopalong Cassidy get-up is the creepiest by far.  We only see his cumbersome silhouette hugged by fog.  It's a highly effective death sequence, and I must credit writer/director Vernon Zimmerman with parenting a hefty sheaf of cool set-ups.  But that's all I'll remember about Fade to Black.  The shots, the kills, Eric's costumes...Eric himself isn't exactly sympathetic.  No one is, really.  I haven't mentioned the plot holes, and yet, I still recommend this flick.  It's good enough to rent. Or download or steal or bliviodize (not a word).  Look, I review movies like I'm lost in 1995 since my mind is commonly lost in 1995.  In summation, Fade to Black is worth checking out on video.  I would suggest renting first!

2016's Halloween Special Spunktacular

I usually do something "special" every year during the month of haunted hayrides and slasher marathons otherwise known as October.  Usually.  This year, watch out!  Oh.  Man.  You won't believe what I have planned.  It might actually make you uncomfortable.  In fact, if you're pregnant, I would advise...that you keep reading.  The unlit austerity of this announcement may induce labor, so you can finally toss that fetus into the nearest garbage pail. Get on with your life.  Don't let a yowling purse of flesh suspend your enjoyment of Random Reviews Incorporated's Halloween Special Spunktafuckle.  Or whatever.

So what am I doing this year?  NOTHING!  Not a damn thing.  I thought about going all out this year.  Other sites/blogs indulge in "31 days of horror," but that's a drain to maintain.  I had several ideas.  I basically celebrate Halloween for twelve straight months, though.  In 2015, I experienced overkill as I went fucking bonkers, snorting lines of cheap decorations and miniature Krackle bars starting in early September.  By the middle of October, I was dead tired of the gimmick.  I also fell into a hollow of depression (which I doubt was related; who knows, Sally Jimenez?).  It was a really rough patch. You can check the archives if you don't believe me.

That's when I decided that next year (this year), I would just relax and take in the Halloween ambiance.  I don't want to work any more than I normally would.  It's no good for my goddamn anxiety.  Fret not, monster heads!  There will be a Blood Capsule in the skies tomorrow, and I have my next bundle of reviews preordained.  In addition, you never know when the next episode of Insomnia Theatre is going to jump out from behind a bush.  Because it's kind of an asshole.

Insomnia Theatre #2

Back by nominal demand, it's...this!  As Tyler notes in the description area on YouTube itself, there are minor issues with the audio levels. But they will be rectified by the next episode.  Also, I suck.  What I mean is that it takes me 15-20 minutes to "wake up" or something. Was I bobbing for Xanax in a barrel of cough syrup before recording?  We are our own worst critics, I know.  I get funnier as the film progresses (in my hilarious opinion).  Man, I'm really insecure.  I haven't said much about Tyler because CLEARLY, I'm the star.  Man, I'm really pompous.

Still finding our footing, but I honestly think IT #2 outranks IT #1 by a smidge.  Enjoy!

Phantasm: Ravager

Yesterday, I was driven a number of miles that I'm not comfortable broadcasting (thanks, Mommy!) to see two films.  Some called it a double feature.  The first attraction was the remastered version of 1979's Phantasm, a horror classic that I've had a lukewarm relationship with since I saw it at the grizzled, calcified age of 13.  It went right over my head.  That initial viewing does leave a mark.  I've wizened up a little, and man, seeing it on the silver sph...screen did the trick.  It probably didn't need to be remastered for me to enjoy it as much as I did, but for the record, the print was irreproachable.  I had tiny hearts in my eyes.  I was later told by my optometrist that this is NOT normal.  He has prescribed 46 eye drops twice a day for the remainder of my life.  Something called embalming fluid.

The crowd puller?  Phantasm: RaVager.  Look, I capitalized the "v" that time.  It means "five" in Spanish.  My expectations were fair.  I was expecting the new Philm to be lovingly kooky and somewhat confusing.  Um, how do I say this?  Let me tell you what I personally wanted from Ravager (that's right; one capitalized "v" and no more than one).  I wanted closure.  Just a mite!  A driblet!  Sure, I'd give my eyeteeth for all of the answers (or maybe my deciduous set; those milk chompers have to be around here somewhere), but this is a Philm.  I knew that I wasn't going to get all of the answers.  This is where I spoil shit.  If you want my general opinion, well, that's what my ratings are for.  If you want general adjectives, it's cheap and irritating.  And stupid, though well-acted.

Okay!  So how many answers did I receive in thine hands?  None! Closure?  What the fuck is that?  I'm wheeling ahead of myself.  The headmost hindrance is the shrimpy budget.  Ravager should never have been produced on a shrimpy budget.  It was shot on digital, for Alchemy's sake.  You shoot this series on film.  35mm, buddy.  It's the age of crowdfunding, so that should have been priority number uno (that's Roman for 1-ish).  You can't tell me it was an artistic choice.  I don't mean to belabor the point, but that really grinds my coffee.  The majority of the effects are lousy.  It goes without griping that CGI is used as an elementary unit, mainly for gags that could have been achieved via practical means.  Listen, if the CGI looks crisp, I don't complain.  My conservative estimation is that 80% of the cybernated pseudo-sorcery resembles actual shit.

But that's the candy wrapper.  I spoke to you earlier (on the phone, naked) about closure.  Ravager's fucking storyline is infuriating.  I didn't exit the theater angry, mind you.  No, I was much too deep in thought.  The asperity I am now directing at poor, innocent Don Coscarelli (I am aware that he didn't direct this sequel) didn't hit me until I returned home.  My home, Elaine!  We learn nothing about The Tall Man that we didn't already know, we learn nothing about his home planet, we learn...fuck.  Hold onto your genitals.  We learn that Reggie has been in a nursing home for years on account of his early onset dementia.  Mike and Jody?  They have never heard of The Tall Man!  Also, they're dead.  And alive.  ALSO, Reggie is fighting alongside wasteland warriors, as The Tall Man has successfully warped Earth into his home planet.

Bolides of fire, zombie mutants donning gas masks, big silver spheres, bigger silver spheres...I know it sounds rad, but we're talking video game graphics.  It's pitiful.  All of this shit happens simultaneously.  In my book, Ravager's worst offense is ignoring the ending of Phantasm: OblIVion.  The Tall Man was preening Mike (against his will, but it counted) to be his substitute.  He was passing the torch so that - it has been speculated - he could conquer another planet.  That plot thread may have squired the franchise to a universe-cuckolding confrontation between two Tall Men.  Yowza! Apparently, it was too costly an idea, so we got Raper instead.

Do I have anything positive to yelp on the subject of Ravager? Yeah. Christopher L. Stone's score is seriously amazing.  Outside of the main theme (which is still perfect), he steals dalliances with melodies that suit the scene and become glued to your encephalon. As I noted above, the cast is up to the challenge.  This is probably Reggie Bannister's best performance in a Phantasm movie.  I'm out on a limb, but there are key moments where I was genuinely struck by his emotive-ing.  Emo-ing?  Erm, no.  Acting?  Nah, that's crazy. He was really good; I know that.  Of course, Angus Scrimm is flawless.  How the hell was he both rigid and nuanced?  He was the only dude who could convey a Southern cordiality during flashbacks as Jebediah Morningside, while scaring the piss out of you as an alien mortician.

Oh, Dawn Cody.  I dug her.  She was the redhead.  I'm sorry, but the guy who played Chunk was the weakest link.  I didn't buy a word he said, and moreover, he's introduced past the halfway mark.  Why is that relevant?  Because Coscarelli and director/co-writer David Hartman decided that he would be the fucker to kill The Tall Man!  He celebrates, but for the death of me, I can't figure out why.  Minutes prior to his fulmination, The Tall Man clearly states that there are TENS OF THOUSANDS of Tall Men in other universes.  OblIVion already proved that he can't be destroyed.  This review is too long. In my defense, Phantasm: Ravager is too shitty, and I had too many comments to squiggle on the walls of my cell.

Night of the Devils

Sadly, I don't have time to review 1972's Night of the Devils (the "the" is optional), but I wanted to acknowledge it.  There are scads of ambrosial Italian horror films that get passed over in favor of the ones we've all digested.

This ditty was directed by Giorgio Ferroni, the man who delivered 1960's Mill of the Stone Women to our collective doorstep.  I didn't care for that picture.  I recall it slogging through my brain like the mantle cavity of a mollusk with puffy gonads.  Ah, but this spookshow is catered to my interests (wurdulaks, spellbinding redheads, quaint forest funerals, forced incest).  Speaking of wurdulaks, which is something I've always wanted to say, Night of the Devils is based on the same A.K. Tolstoy novella that Black Sabbath's "The Wurdulak" is (loosely) based on.

I'm referring to a vignette in a Mario Bava anthology, not a Black Sabbath song.  If you didn't already know that, retreat!  Anyway, this is an engaging, atmospheric vampire roguery. It's a slow burn, so you might have to hold its hand for awhile. There are spurts of dramatic gore, however.  Night of the Devils is worth a shot, is what I'm trying to impart.  Huh, I guess this could have been a Blood Capsule, but I have other content in the pipeline. Don't freak out.

Insomnia Theatre #1

You may recall a short-lived podcast that I did with a cuck named Tyler.  In 1934, we split due to creative differences, but guess what? WE'RE BACK!  And we have a new project to sell you that's even better/worse.  It's called Insomnia Theatre, and if more than one person watches it, we'll make it a series.  So what the hell is it? Bootleg MST3K.  It's been done before.  This is completely unoriginal.  We're just doing it for laughs, and as a matter of actual fact, that's the high concept (in Tyler's case, the concept is literally high).  Two buddies watching a b-movie.  That's it.

We didn't put undue pressure on ourselves to be funny.  Don't expect a joke around every corner.  Don't expect a positive experience. Look, I'm underselling, but we had fun recording the commentary.  I feel like we'll find our groove with future episodes.  In the spirit of randomness, here is an insanely hot picture of some redhead with Elvira on the tube.

Emmalina?

Not that she needed a makeover, but hell yes?  Maybe they're referring to her character.  If the brief promo was any indication, she is being reshuffled as a supermodel type.  I'm not sure that the shift in gimmick was necessary, but I'll certainly be glad to see her back in action.  For those who don't follow me on social media, Emma...lina (that could take awhile to get used to) is my favorite female superstar in the WWE.  I'm not claiming that she is the best; she is just my favorite.  The atomic Aussie is more than competent in the ring, and my circuits go haywire when she shows up on my TV screen.  Good heavens, look at her.  Stalk her!

On a related note, Raw was surprisingly worthwhile last night.  While I hate the fact that the cruiserweight division is already compromised by 50/50 booking, I was happy to see Kendrick grab a victory.  Hey, I have an idea for the Hell in a Cell match between Rusev and Roman Reigns - make it a literal fight to the death!  It's the only way to end this goddamn feud.  Another random thought...apart from one minor botch, the main event was mind-boggling.  From the corkscrew moonsault (!!!) on, that match fucking delivered.  Congratulations, ladies.  Seriously.  I will suggest to Sasha to lay off on the awful, dangerous bumps.  What is she doing out there?

Smackdown will be on in T-Minus fifteen minutes.  Wouldn't it be crazy awesome if Ziggler lost and left the WWE?

Nightmares

This is my wheelhouse, partner.  It's time for the almighty anthology. Whenever I review one, I feel like I say the same things, so I'll skip the dim notions and make a beeline for the specifics.  1983's Nightmares is a film that has escaped my clutches for a month of supine Sundays.  I found it online, but for various reasons (some unknown), I had built this fucker up in my head.  This was going to be the hidden gem to end all hidden gems.  So I waited for the Blu-ray, and almost immediately, my Blu-ray player went kaput.  The krimbuscape wasn't connecting to the uzopafry.  Apparently, I needed a new chylomier.  Long story short, the machine is working now, so I finally put those unfair expectations to the test.

It's good.  Honestly, those unfair expectations didn't come into play because it's been several whiles since my Nightmares delirium was at its sublimity spire.  I was merely in the mood for an entertaining fright flick.  For the most part, the four stories on the docket delivered.

"Terror in Topanga" ~ A Boy Meets World rape fantasy? Unfortunately, no.  Fortunately!  I meant fortunately!  That's what I meant.  Stop looking at me.  A chain-smoking woman goes out late at night to procure smokes against her husband's wishes.  Naturally, a mental patient is on the loose.  Our grout-gummed heroine stops for gas, and if you know your urban legends, you know what happens next.  John Carpenter told this tale slightly better in 1993's Body Bags, but it's still menacing.  Nice and creepy.  The payoff works, though I would have sculpted the lead to be less frigid.

"Bishop of Battle" ~ This vignette is worth the price of admission alone.  A tenderfoot Emilio Estevez is preoccupied with an arcade game that he can't seem to lick.  He's the best player amongst his peers, but for the life of him, he can't get past Level 12.  Some say there is no Level 13.  He doesn't care, man.  Regrettably, his grades have been dropping and he has become an alienated firebrand.  As a result, his parents see it fit to ground him.  No arcade!  Shit!  If they would just give Emil...er, J.J. another two days, he could beat the game.  That's fucking bogus.

That night, he flees from his bedroom window and heads straight for the arcade.  Insert suspense here.  He beats the Bishop!  But is there a Level 13, you ask?  I've already said too much.  I set it up. That's me in the corner.  It goes without saying that something discommodious happens to J.J., but you should really check it out for yourself.  The pace is steady, Moon Unit-Zappa cameos as a mall chick and the soundtrack rips.  J.J. listens to crossover hardcore bands such as Fear and Black (motherfucking) Flag.  He makes a boneheaded decision towards the end, but that doesn't cloud his status as a bad dude.

"The Benediction" ~ Didn't I review The Car a couple of weeks ago? The twist here is that MacLeod, as portrayed by Lance Henriksen, is a priest.  His faith?  Lost.  I would slap a frowning emoticon in this general location, but that's a trend I DO NOT want to start.  He decides to leave the monastery (or whatever the hell they're called) and drive off into the desert.  Okay.  It isn't long before a big, black truck with an inverted cross hanging from the rearview mirror nearly displaces him from the asphalt.  Gee, I wonder who is steering said pernicious pickup!  Lance is consistent, but there is only one of two ways for this generic backfire to slam its brakes.

There is a wicked shot that entrusted my pelvic girdle with a custard slinger.  The truck is nowhere to be seen.  Suddenly, the son of a bitch bursts out of the earth and continues chasing poor Lance.  It's a sight to behold, and yes, it deserves its own paragraph.

"Night of the Rat" ~ Easily the worst short.  A giant rat is prancing in the attic and between the walls of a white family's house.  The husband (Richard Masur) is an asshole, the wife (Veronica Cartwright) is shrill and I don't remember anything about the daughter.  Oy, the characters are nitwits, especially the wife.  If you're hoping that nasty creature effects will emancipate this cinematic riffraff, I'm sorry.  I'm so, so sorry.  They used a real rat. For the giant rat.  Don't make me explain it.  It's depressing enough knowing that Nightmares could have had "Bishop of Battle" plus a glorious monster in it.  Damn.

There is no wraparound narrative.  Frankly, that's not a huge deal.  I learned that these stories were originally intended to be episodes of Darkroom, an ABC anthology series from the early 80's.  According to IMDb, they were deemed "too intense" to air.  A custard slinger is an erection.

Ohputh

I'm currently listening to the new Opeth album as I peck away at the keyboard.  I don't know if I'm going to review it or not.  Depends on how strongly I feel about it in one direction or the other.  This is my first listen in full, and it may be that after a few more "spins," Sorceress fails to elicit any reaction out of me.  Like oatmeal.  We shall see.

Next is a movie review.  Speaking of movies (y'know, movies), did you get my sharp-as-a-broadsword visual gag?  Sorceress?  Henry, I don't know how I do it day in, day out.  I'm still laughing.  You can click off now.  I'll probably be laughing when you return.

The Soda Jerk Unbound Part 6 of 6

KICKAPOO JOY JUICE

We made it!  Together, you and I.  I'm not saying that I won't disinter this column in the future, but I am putting it to bed for a restful, slumberous autumn's nap.  Winter's nap?  That has yet to be determined.  At any rape, The Soda Jerk will be on the kip.  I must write about Kickapoo Joy Juice first, a distillation of marsupial semen. Everloving Cthulhu, can a review go off the rails before its engine collects enough steam to power the...I'm lost inside of an analogy. And of all locomotives, I pick a steam engine.  They're not trendy at all, doofus (I'm talking to myself; you're not a doofus).  Citrus! Kickapoo Joy Juice is a lemon-lime palm leaf oxygenating your weather-beaten body after a day of slave labor.

No, this drink has nothing to do with Tenacious D.

It doesn't say "lemon-lime" anywhere on the bottle, but that's clearly the objective here.  I'm reminded of Mtn Dew.  I would say Sun Drop, but it isn't nearly as pungent.  The caffeine punch is in attendance, though.  I only mention it because I know some people have to watch their intake.  I used to monitor that shit, but I was pissing calcium buckshot anyway, so all bets are off!  You hear that, kidneys?  You traitors?  Let's see; what other words can I use to describe the flavor of Kickapoo Joy Juice?  Apricate, to bask in the sun.  Rizzar, to dry in the sun.  Turnsole, a type of plant that turns with the movement of the sun.  Um, heliolatry, worship of the sun.

Okay, Dictionary dot com has a cool feature called Rise and Shine: 9 Sunny Words.  This carbonated solar energy tastes like sunshine. It's fucking sunny!  With a slight chance of my balls on your chin! Oh, and it's rather soothing.  It hits the throat without a flyspeck of friction. As you may (not) have noticed, I haven't alluded to an aroma. That's because I didn't smell one.  No, I didn't forget; there simply was no aroma to smell.  Whatev(er).  Hey!  Here is a useless piece of trivia. The name Kickapoo Joy Juice was taken from L'il Abner, a comic strip that ran for 43 years.  It ended in 1977, but I wish I could have read it while it was still in publication.  The title character was a pro-fighter for a spell.  He could beat up wrasslers and boxers alike!

I should clarify.  In L'il Abner, Hairless Joe and Lonesome Polecat concoct a "volatile brew" dubbed Kickapoo Joy Juice.  Apparently, it wasn't supposed to be moonshine, but have you seen Hairless Joe? He's the one on the left in the image below.  Yikes!  I'll close this puppy by formally requesting Donald Trump to send me the other three flavors of Kickapoo.  You've got your Fruit Shine (sangria, baby), Maliblu (pina colada, baby) and Fuzzy Navel (peach, baby). Click HERE to check 'em out.  This is not a sponsored review. However, I recommend the hell out of Joy Juice.  It brings an alpenglow to mind, the coral glimmer that kisses the ridge of a mountain just after a sunset.  Or argent, the silver, yet golden...you're not perfect either, y'know.  Maybe you ARE a doofus!

I'm just saying.  Dude's either downing moonshine or snorting coke.

Dead Links #18

Monster Brains

I can't remember how, but I stumbled upon this rad art blog yesterday.  Art blog???  Put down your suitcase, you zonked transmigrant.  Monster Brains is fucking cool.  It's called Monster Brains, for Mary's sake!  The dude behind it all spends "many hours tracking down artwork, scanning, editing, cleaning up and formatting" the pieces he showcases.  As you can imagine, these abstractions - whether they are paintings or sculptures - share certain qualities. They are bizarre.  Creepy.  Boffo.  Thus far, everything I've scoped out is incredibly obscure (then again, I'm not much of an art buff).

He uploads in chunks by artist.  Take Per Krohg, for example.  I gravitated toward his style, which I would describe as "kvlt as shit." He was Norwegian.  Of course.  I'm providing a cropped section of one of his watercolors.  Actually, I have no clue if it's a watercolor or not; file that guesstimation as a ballpark figure.  No, file it a guesstimation.  Sounds less ridiculous.  Jesus.  BTW (Break The Wallydrag), click a few of the wild images on the right-hand side of the page.  You'll see more bedlam including righteous VHS covers...!

Carpenter Calls Zombie A Darn Scoundrel

"Two posts in one day?  The cripple has gone mad!"  Possibly.  I just had to put this crumb of joy on the site.  It won't make everyone happy, but it made me happy.  During a recent interview, John Carpenter casually referred to Rob Zombie as a piece of shit.  His words, not mine.  And you can read them HERE.  He goes on to give his opinion on the remake of Halloween, which isn't very positive.  In my mind, I keep circling back to joy.  That's the theme of the night, I guess.  NOTE: While I'm not the biggest Rob Zombie fan in the world, I will find a way to see 31.  Because why not?

Blood Capsule #66

SINBAD AND THE EYE OF THE TIGER (1977)

Well, I've managed to cap off the trilogy.  I was expecting my third journey with Sinbad to be the least fulfilling, yet here I hunker with cackleberry on my face (it's an egg; don't test me).  The Seventh Voyage is still the best, but Eye of the Tiger ranks above The Golden Voyage.  These are just the opinions of a frail earthling. Honestly, I impeded this viewing, as I forecasted more of the same. Sinbad and his merry mates are skirring the open seas, a princess is pirated (I have cutlass-sharp wit, I tell you), our bevy of swashbucklers encounter cool monsters on their way to an island...that's the thing.  That's the thing I was anticipating.  While the formula isn't trifled with too much, the structure of the script does have its own propulsion judder.

We get two hot chicks in peril.  Jane Seymour and Taryn Power melted the electronics in my wheelchair.  Their performances are commendable, so it's unfortunate that their roles were lazily written. Patrick Wayne injects some personality into Sinbad.  Needles to type, Ray Harryhausen injected A LOT of personality into his creations.  He crafted a baboon (it was decided that a real baboon would be too hard to wrangle), a troglodyte, insectoid freaks (not sure what the fuck they were), a giant saber-toothed tiger (I wanted to cuddle it) and an automaton minotaur (pictured above).  For certain live action scenes, the minotaur was played by Peter Mayhew.  He acted in this suit before he was fitted for Chewbacca. I'm an encyclopedia of film trivia you can find on IMDb.

In conclusion, I had fun watching Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger. As an added bonus, Zenobia (the bitch baddie) is the eidetic double of Rita Repulsa.  She even acts like her.  So that's kind of awesome.

Blood Capsule #7,034

I think it's a German brand.  That's weird, right?

The Soda Jerk Unbound Part 5 of 6

So his fingers won't grip.  He'll still be next to you when you wake up tomorrow morning.

SWAMP POP PRALINE CREAM SODA

Swamp pop is a musical genre.  It gurgled out of the Louisiana sphagnum bogs ("Sphagnum?  I nearly fucked him!  Uh.") in the 1950's, and when it came time to name their product, cousins Collin Cormier and John Petersen saw an opportunity to be clever.  I see those opportunities all of the time.  It's not so easy being brilliant, is it?  Guys?  I'm sure they will get back to me in due course.  More about their product, a soda (!) based out of New Orleans.  I was eager to try this stuff because I tend to dig raw materials processed from this part of the country.  Acid Bath, Goatwhore, Down (duh), Crowbar, Graveyard Rodeo, Exhorder, girls who flash strangers on floats...it's a nice place.  Plus, I'm an unabashed fan of cream soda. So what is my ruling?  Hand me a bottle opener!

That was stupid.  I started writing in past tense.  Hand me a bottle opener?  If you are reading this column, the bottle has clearly been opened.  Christ, have I chosen the wrong path in life?  Here's an idea.  Why don't you hand me a bottle of vodka and a fucking handgun?  That way, I can HEEEY!  And we're back!  Sorry, folks!  If you're not familiar with praline candies, they are described on Wikipedia as "confections made from nuts and sugar syrup."  They can have different ingredients depending on which continent you live on.  I live on Antarctica where pralines usually consist of seal blubber and an ice mountain.  My original joke was a Gorgoroth reference.

The aroma?  Notes of maple and brown sugar.  I was a bit surprised. I've never had pralines before, so I was expecting a basic cream soda bouquet.  The color - much like Flying Cauldron - is a beer amber.  Whoa, you might say that amber is the color of your energy (I'm sorry; I mean, I can't apologize enough).  The flavor!  Should I discuss the flavor?  Fine.  You win.  There is a lot going on here. Maple syrup, brown sugar, pecans, almonds, vanilla and finally, cream soda hit your tongue in a cannonry of holiday bursts.  For what it's worth, this would make a damn fine Christmas beverage for a family of white churchgoers.  I enjoy it, but I don't love it.  It certainly doesn't hold a candle to Flying Cauldron, which also revolved around nuts and cream.

Fact is, I have a spotty relationship with maple-imbued...anything. When I was 13 or 14 (give or take fifty years), I was eating maple sausage one morning when my body decided to open the chapters of my stomach and read them aloud onto the living room carpet. Ever since that fateful day, the shit has made me nauseous.  Simple as.  Ingesting Swamp Pop, maple was the first thing I tasted.  But that's my hang-up.  Most ladies and gentlemen don't have a problem with The Tree That Should Not Be that is grown for sap or timber (I totally ripped that part from a dictionary).  Ironically, my mother didn't care for this carbonated cola water.  She loves maple in all of its devious forms!  I don't know what that means other than the obvious - tastebuds are weird.

As a cream soda, Swamp Pop Praline Cream Soda rates as average.  It's heavy.  There are so many (almost too many) competing flavors, that lovely cream gets lost in the shuffle.  Again, I did enjoy it.  It's ridiculously smooth.  I will advocate for the Swamp Pop brand.  They have five other flavors, and some of them sound intergalactic.  Ponchatoula Pop Rouge is drenched in strawberry reverb.  Jean Lafitte Ginger Ale furthers the use of cucumbers and the marketability of WWF legend Jean Lafitte-Pierre.  Satsuma Fizz appears to be orange soda, but they don't come right out and say it. I appreciate that.  Click HERE to check out their website.  This was not a sponsored review.  Here is a giant clown in Hell.

The only visible DVDs are Hellraiser and Bill Maher's Religulous?  How perfect is this picture?

Album Cover of the Whatever

Hail!  That's the name of the band.  Sludgy black/death metal out of Finland circa 2003.  This is their only full-length release.  Is it worth checking out?  I...don't know.  I'm just now listening to it as I type. The production certainly gets "kvlt" points for being raw, but as I'm only midway through the first creation (which runs for fourteen minutes), I'll hold off on passing judgment.  Look at that cover, though!

Soda tomorrow.  Bring straws.

Two Paiges Stuck Together

Sweet merciful everything.

Let's be frank, shall we?  A.J. Lee saved the Diva's division.  There were great Divas (and Women) before her in the WWE/F, and there were sweeps of time interrupted by cycles of less exciting time that featured well-booked females.  Strong, capable females.  But even Lita and Trish were having terse, snip-snippety matches on television.  WrestleMania moments...what if I told you that neither Diva wrestled a match that lasted any longer than nine minutes on the grandest stage of them all?  That was Trish versus Mickie James.  Lita only wrestled once at a WrestleMania.  It was a triple threat that also involved Trish and Jazz.  Six minutes, if we're rounding down.

These patterns began to change when A.J. joined the main roster. Granted, it took awhile.  Her NXT was a world away from the NXT that exists at present.  But I watched it, and I knew she had what Chris Jericho is always yapping about.  It!  Man, she had "it" in spades.  She demanded your attention, and she demanded your respect in the same way.  Diva's matches were (very) slowly being given more time on pay-per-views.  Fast-forward!  After effacing the whole lot of the chicks at WrestleMania 30, A.J. lost her pink butterfly title to the debuting Paige.  Who was this alluring creature calling herself The Anti-Diva?

We know what happened from there.  This isn't a fucking recap.  As you (should) know by now, Paige is on her way out of the WWE. When she started banging Alberto Del Rio, I was puzzled.  I thought to myself, "Why would she start dating someone who probably won't be with the company before year's end?"  Then I looked back at her behavior.  She had spent the lion tamer's share of 2015 acting like a petulant teenager.  "Oh," I exclaimed.  Paige didn't care anymore. She renounced her sobriquet of Anti-Diva when she signed on for Total Divas.  It was there that fans were licensed access to her true form.  Heh, I don't mean to characterize her as a demon witch.  My phraseology is a tad on the dramatic side.  I know I sound harsh.

Here's the deal.  We were sold a goth chick who screams at the night sky and wins physical contests on the potency of her experience, as bequeathed to her by generations of grapplers.  We bought it because - for a few years at least - she played her character well. That's what professional wrestling is built upon.  Paige's truth is different.  She's a bratty punk who likes to party.  She's immature. "How do YOU know, Dom?"  Well, the latest is that she got Alberto's name tattooed on her ribs.  Remember, they have been together for three, maybe four months.  She is giving up cushy-as-fuck cash for this cat.  Hey, she may have left anyway.

Wrestling-wise, she'll be fine.  I have no doubt that she misses the creative autonomy of free agency.  Promotions such as Shine and Shimmer will welcome her with open arms.  Her and her mother worked as a successful tag team in Shimmer before she made the jump to WWE, so that wouldn't surprise me at all.  Of course, AAA and/or Lucha Underground wouldn't surprise me.  I might think she's making mistakes, but at the end of the day, I'm still a fan.  In my opinion, her matches outside of WWE - now that she's a big girl - will be superior to her matches inside of WWE.  I would expect less botches and more intriguing psychology.

PS - I do understand why she's "acting out."  She's never really had a chance to go to college, so to speak.  Plus, she's still so young.  If she's still wrestling in 8-9 years (and I suspect that she's a lifer), she will be the best women's wrestler on the planet.  Mark my words. She just needs a minute to grow up.

PS II: The Final Sacrifice - I opened this editorial by praising A.J. Lee for kickstarting the Diva's Revolution.  Without her, I firmly believe that we would still be insulting WWE's female athletes by calling them Divas.

PS III: In Da Hood - PLZ COME BACK, A.J.!  YOU RETIRED 2 YUNG, GURL!

Lord Mary almighty.