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.

The Neon Demon

NOTE: If you haven't seen this movie yet and you don't want it spoiled, read only the first three paragraphs.

I knew I was right not to perv out on Elle Fanning when the trailer for The Neon Demon hit the webnet.  She was only 16 when she shot this flick.  Her character, Jesse, does things a 16-year-old shouldn't do, man.  I'm sure that shit's legal in...I don't know, fucking Arkansas, but to me, she still looks like the adorable kid in Super 8.  Then again, Jesse is 16.  So it's supposed to be a pensive, well-nigh bereaved film.  That's the vibe I picked up on when I viewed The Neon Demon last night.  I've been wanting to see it for ages (legal ages, that is).  Ideally, I would have seen it during its theatrical run locally, and before you punctuate my sentence with your defensive interference (first down at the spot of the foul), I realize that this stylish bite of horror hasn't left theaters.  Hence the word "locally."

Unfortunately, I couldn't make it out in time.  Now that I've eyeballed The Neon Demon, I can safely say FUCK!  I should have tried harder!  This isn't a movie; it's a mural.  "Beautiful" doesn't begin to describe the visuals on display.  Director Nicolas Winding Refn frames his shots in such a fashion that they stain your cornea.  But I'll be damned if I buy a bottle of Clorox to remove these dazzling stains.  Plus, my mom told me not to spray Clorox directly into my eyes.  Again.  I could go blind, or color blind.  Speaking of which, I learned that Refn is color blind.  Yeah.  I didn't believe it either. Apparently, he goes by contrast because he doesn't notice the muted shades in between the loud pops of, say, red and purple.

Is this a case of style over substance?  Not so fast.  Refn may have been influenced by Argento, but he only cribbed the constructive habits.  There is a linear story here.  Jesse shows up in Los Angeles with "gullible" stamped on her forehead.  She wants to be a model (or rather, she feels that's all she has to offer the world), and she is told by an agent to lie about her age.  Naturally, everyone she meets tries to take advantage of her.  A petite guff, if I may be so bold. Early in the film, the photographer helping Jesse along the way becomes aware of her true age.  It was implied that they like-liked each other, but hey, he agrees to help her anyway.  What a swell trooper!  In the next goddamn scene, he endeavors to make out with her.

Ugh.  Up to that point, he was the sole likable character, aside from Jesse.  The film redeems him, acting as if the statutory effort never happened.  It's weird.  It's worth repeating that the rest of the characters - aside from the cherubic Jesse - are dickbags.  You know what else is worth repeating?  A great cast!  That would be more clever if I had acknowledged the cast once already.  My favorite soubrette (term used incorrectly) is Jena Malone, and it doesn't hurt that I've had a minor crush on her since 2001's Donnie Darko.  Her performance is the most transformative.  I can imagine Keanu Reeves being an asshole (not that he is), but I can't imagine Malone bonking a corpse.  Technically, she bonked herself while...eh, you get the picture.

In my special opinion, Abbey Lee is tremendous as Sarah, a peevish, yet diffident model.  She's hungry.  Did I specify that she's hungry?  Lee hasn't been acting long, but it doesn't show.  I had no idea that she played The Dag in Mad Max: Fury Road.  You go, ghoul!  I've read interpretations of The Neon Demon's metaphors (not to mention its ending), and I have my own.  There is room for analysis, but I didn't find the basic plot to be overly complicated. Having said that, I'm ready to rewind and play it from the first reel!  I recommend this carcass-screwing, Fanning-eating, menstruation-celebrating Suspiria homage to fans of exploitation filmmaking at its finest.

Geek Out #126

Dinosaurs operating a diner.  That was a cereal.  How did I not know about this?  Don't bring up my age.  My age is irrelevant.  I adore 1943's Return of the Vampire and your mother's vagina.  They are both older than I am.  Dinersaurs is actually younger than I am, so what sedition has kept the knowledge of its existence away from me? Is it the THE MEDIA?

Look at how colorful it is.  Dinosaurs are wicked.  Yes, I know that I used present tense.

The Car

1977's The Car is about a car.  You probably knew that.  Chances are, you've seen this whirlwind pushcart.  Me, I saw squares and wrecktangles of it aeons ago, but I was too young to form an opinion. I wasn't the highfalutin' film critic I am now.  While The Car wasn't the first of its kind (way to go, Spielberg...dick), I don't mind saying that it's still an extremely effective genre treat.  Reading up on the production, I'm muddle-headed at the time and effort that went into the construction of the titular car(s).  There were four roadsters upreared for the project.  I understand that special provisions had to be made to account for safety and aesthetics, but to my ignorant eyes, the car in The Car looks like a junker.  It was sleek for 1977, I suppose.

Now I'm afraid that an elder is going to yell at me.  I don't know jack fuck about cars!  I will say this much; the villainous black Sedan (it IS a Sedan, isn't it?) is creepy.  Director Elliot Silverstein captures terrific wide shots of the car motoring in the distance, surrounded only by capacious desert flats.  Maybe a few sand slopes here and there.  This is normally where I would stolidly slide into a synopsis, but I covered it, man.  It's about a fucking car.  There are some people walking around in front of the camera.  James Brolin is steady as Wade, a copper who becomes the slewfoot in charge after the sheriff is mowed down.

Kathleen Lloyd isn't terrible as the love interest, but there are scenes where her delivery is cringe-worthy.  Take her "argument" with the car, for example.  It's so awkward.  It may be the dialogue, so I'll give her the benefit of the doubt.  Ronny Cox is convincing as the recovering alcoholic who hides a bottle of rotgut in his desk drawer. He falls apart as his partners perish, but he doesn't go into Hollywood hysterics.  In other words, he doesn't need to be slapped by our strapping hero.  He reacts realistically.  I found Eddie Deezen to be a peculiar casting choice as the front left tire on the car (in The Car).  Distracting, to say the least.

I'm averse to spoiling significant plot details (not that it would matter to too many folks), but I dig how the picture handles a certain character's death.  You can't predict the order of the fatalities.  This one, in particular, caught me off-guard.  If you've seen The Car, you know to whom I'm referring.  Was that...was that correct grammar? Sounds alright, but it feels shitty.  I'm going to scoff at it.  Scoff! We'll see if that fixes it.  Anyway, this is a tense movie that consummates most of what it sets out to achieve.  I don't get the spousal abuse angle, considering it's dropped halfway through. That's a bad thing. But overall, The Car is good.  It's a good thing!

Fovea

Tomorrow, I'll be talking about a movie.  But movies are pretentious. Y'know?  Here, let me take a moment to discuss MY ART.  I created a separate Facebook page for scribblings.  Dark stuff.  Right now, I'm in the process of posting a short story as it's being written. I am also going to post poetry in the future.  But wrapped around the stories and the poems is a...well, a wrap-around story.  It's called Fovea, hence the name of the page itself.  Thus far, I've only revealed bits and pieces of it.  Slowly.  Vaguely.  It might be revealing itself to me.

Anyway, check it out HERE.  I need artists!  I would absolutely love to have original art for the cover photo, profile picture and who knows what else?  It would probably have to be a free gig, but think of it this way - you would be handing over your hard work and getting nothing in return!  Granted, that seems like a rotten deal.

Fuck Death

I had every intention of writing a short piece in memory of Mr. Fuji today, but then I was hit with the news of Gene Wilder's passing. Man, where do I start?  When I was 12 (or maybe 13), I was gifted Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory on VHS while I was in the hospital recovering from major hip surgery.  I've had several invasive operations, but I consider that to be the worst for a directory of reasons I won't recite here.  Gene Wilder's magical performance was one of the aspects of Willy Wonka that pulled me through the morass.  Upon being sent home, I watched it damn near every day. It wouldn't be long before I discovered Young Frankenstein.

Holy shit.  What a fucking movie.  Again, I was in tune with Wilder, and I almost have all of his dialogue committed to memory (that's a big deal for me; I never recall dialogue or lyrics).  He is pitch-perfect as "Dr. Fronkensteen."  He was basically great in everything.  His timing, his voice...dude, his voice!  A friend and I have around a half-dozen Wilder in-jokes, but they require a superb impersonation.  It nettles me that I don't possess his voice box.  His frenzied screams are legendary.  "Destiny!  Destiny!  No escaping that for me!"  You couldn't escape your fate, but you won't escape your place in the annals of Hollywood history either.  Your fans won't let that happen.

R.I.P.

Most wrestling adherents know Mr. Fuji as an evil manager with a voracity for table salt (I wonder if they thought he was just really, really superstitious).  I can't blame them.  I loved it when Demolition turned heel and took on Mr. Fuji as their guidance counselor of sorts. He also did fantastic work - perhaps the best of his career as a manager - with Yokozuna, acting as his proxy and polyglot.  Oh, and evil "advocate."  I won't pretend to have seen the bulk of his matches as a wrestler, but Mr. Fuji (a.k.a. Harry Fujiwara, his birth name) spent an ample percentage of his ring-active career under the employ of Vince McMahon Sr. and three years under Vince Jr.

He tended to stick to the tag team division where he found tremendous success.  Mr. Fuji was significant, as he was one of the first Asian-Americans to get over in the states and have a durable, scopious career.  Name any other Japanese star from the early 70's who managed to stay on American television into the mid-90's. Aside from Hulk Hogan.  Sorry, this eulogy (?) needed a fleck of levity. Hoping to see a respectful tribute to Mr. Fuji tonight on Raw.

R.I.P.

The Soda Jerk Unbound Part 4 of 6

FLYING CAULDRON BUTTERSCOTCH BEER

I did it!  I found one that I like!  Of course, I was going to grab a beaker of this bubbly based on the name alone.  The actual flavor was of very little consequence, but I'm cronies with butterscotch. Back to the gimmick.  The label features a witch's cauldron riding a broomstick.  Did I even have a choice?  The gold and purple coloration gives the flagon (or ewer, if you prefer, and I guarantee that you don't) the luxurious affectation of a bottle of champagne. Conversely, the poppity-pop itself is bronze.  Y'know, like beer.  Fair enough; brews and butterscotch are both sepia-toned, but it's a tad misleading.  Flying Cauldron's taste doesn't fall anywhere near root beer.  And I can't imagine someone seeing this in a store and expecting honest-to-Lucifer beer.

Mom took this photo.  The drink isn't trash, but this image sums up the site, no?

Obviously, I did my research on the review subject, as I do with all review subjects.  I found a disturbing bagatelle of information.  It seems that the motif of our non-alcoholic firewater was inspired by Harry Potter.  Look, I understand that the series has its zealots, so I won't incriminate it.  Buuuuut that's way less badass than plain-dealing occult soda.  I want to be able to summon demons with my sweet, refreshing beverage!  Phooey.  Let's talk about the wallop and viscosity of Flying Cauldron.  Or the general drippings.  Either/or. First up, the smell test.  Goddamn it, I'm going to start skipping this part because it simply smells...butterscotch-y.  Besides, I'm no good at describing fragrances.  This isn't going to make or break your purchasing decision, Keyshawn.

The elixir rates highly on the smoothness scale.  There is just enough carbonation to let you know that you are not drinking melted ice cream.  And therein lies the big revelation.  Flying Cauldron does smack of butterscotch, but in my tongue's opinion, it has more in common with butter pecan ecstasy.  You heard it here...er, unless you heard it somewhere else.  This shit tastes exactly like butter pecan ice cream, and it's amazing.  That's not even my favorite ice cream flavor (Neapolitan, baby), but it's fucking righteous in soda form.  You don't care for butter pecan?  Fine, it tastes like butterscotch.  If you're still not on board, there is nothing I can do for you.

Album Cover of the Whatever

A friend tipped me off onto Warlord, a traditional heavy metal band from a country called America.  They didn't release much in the way of long players, but they did kick ass in the early-to-mid 80's.  Thy Kingdom Come wasn't a studio album per se; it was a compilation. Obviously, I chose it for its sweet cover art.  There is a kingdom in the cosmos...and some rocks out front...covered in slime...hey, when it comes to metal album covers from the 80's, you don't ask questions!

I hope to get more writing done soon.  As of right row, my bathroom is being gutted/refucked and we are having a new air conditioner installed (that means we have no A/C for a few days), so I haven't been able to concentrate on anything.  I've been hearing a lot of drilling and a lot of banging.  Unfortunately, my head is aching and my dick is dry.  Later, nerds!

Blood Capsule #65

THE GOLDEN VOYAGE OF SINBAD (1973)

Harryhausen returned to make monsters for The Golden Voyage, a sequel that many say doesn't hold up to Sinbad's Seventh Voyage. I'm inclined to agree.  I'd still give it my emblem of endorsement (a giant "D").  It's easy to enjoy, what with it being the same movie. Plot-wise, there aren't scores of thunderbolt twists that took me aback and left me on the edge of my davenport.  You know the drill; Sinbad sails Eastern waters in search of an amulet, but it's never as simple as it sounds, is it?  He must engage in slugfests with an array of miscreants, all domineered by the nefarious Koura.  The pieces are there, and yet, everything feels scaled down.  I know I shouldn't compare this film to its predecessor, but here I am...comparing this film to its predecessor.

The six-armed Kali impresses in The Golden Voyage's best action sequence.  Apart from a ship's figurehead that stirs to life (creepy bugger), the rest of Harryhausen's creations are wasted.  They look neat, but part of the problem is the lack of human stakes.  Caroline Munro is sex appeal poured over a skeleton base.  I'm on board. Unfortunately, she wasn't given a character to play.  John Phillip Law is adequate at best as Sinbad.  I preferred Kerwin Mathews, but again, it's such a stock role.  Tom Baker gets to have all the fun as Koura, and you could actually call what he does "performing."  The Golden Voyage of Sinbad is absolutely worth checking out at your local library.  Or wherever.  I see it as a diluted rehash, but aren't we all diluted rehashes?  Hmm?

Geek Out #125

I watched an episode of this year's Ultraman Orb (this episode, as a matter of fact) the other day.  You should check it out, babe.  It's fun.  It's Ultraman!  Ultraman shows are always fun, and they are a clandestine wellspring of kaiju critters.  Remember, fellow kaiju creamers - we aren't limited to Godzilla's armory of opponents or Gamera's wacko foes.  Or Yog.  Or Gappa.  No, each episode of Ultraman over the decades has featured a different monster.  Isn't that fucking great???

PS ~ Directly after viewing Ultraman Orb, I took a gander at 1936's Things to Come, a grim H.G. Wells adaptation.  It was intriguing, but I mainly reference it to brag about my versatility as a genre film buff.  I'm incredibly humble when it comes to my blowhard habits.

The Crystal Jerk

Here's the thing; I'm not even sure if that advertisement is blazoning a tour from 1992 or a current tour called Summer of '92.  I think it's the latter.  That's nuts.  Hey, En Vogue and Lisa Loeb?  I'm down!  I remember 1992.  Surprisingly, a lot of people - people older than me - don't.  More specifically, they don't remember Crystal Pepsi.  My own mother couldn't recall one commercial, and I know baby boomers who have never heard of this limpid liquid.  How is that possible?  I know it was a flop, but you could still find it on shelves as late as 1994.  This is where I make my startling confession.  I might be coming across as a die-hard who still has original bottles (and cans, just clap your hands) of Crystal Pepsi in his basement.  Truth be told, I never had the stuff!

My God, I may have startled myself. Petunia, are you okay?  Petunia is the name I gave to my--wow, that's "TMI" territory, ol' buddy! Sorry.  I always do that when I'm talking about my penis. Right, I was never fortunate enough to try Crystal Pepsi (or Oh, That Clear Shit?, as it was known colloquially) as a kid.  As I plummeted into adulthood, I became a soda epicure.  An aficionado? Alright, a specialist at best.  Fuck, fine.  FINE!  I'm a soda junkie. I'm a burnout, a fuckin' space cadet.  Poor Petunia is covered in track marks.  What, my veins collapsed!  I have no clue how a review of Crystal Pepsi took a dark turn this abruptly.  What the fuck?  I'm going to try to focus on the beverage at hand without branching off and hounding a hideous tangent.

Okay, so I was injecting heroin into my cock and oopsy-daisy...boy, am I a goofball or what?  *audible laughter*  When I heard the news that Pepsi was bringing their unsung hero back, I was mortally excited.  I marked out, bro.  Alas, I couldn't find the product late last year, the quarter in which it was supposedly (re)introduced to consumers.  Since then, the lawless scuttlebutt has died down. That's probably a hyperbole, but there was serious buzz.  Now?  A reserved stillness.  I was afraid that I had missed the boat until I saw it.  "What did you see, Dom?  Dom???  God, what's wrong with your legs?!?!?  Oh, God!!!"  I saw a beautiful display of one-liter bottles containing beautiful Crystal Pepsi.

It tastes like shit.  Nah, just kidding.  It's glorious!  Obviously, I can't tell you if it tastes like the original Crystal Pepsi, but I can tell you that it smells of...Pepsi, basically.  But it's not straight Pepsi.  In my tongue, it's a smooth blend of Pepsi and Sprite.  And it totally works. It’s easy on the throat, so indefinite quantities of this nutrient can vanish at a moment’s notice.  Thank Satan it’s not alcoholic because sweet Lord, I would be in a state of rank crapulence.  I would be dead.  Fucking dead.  Don’t laugh, Malcolm.  It’s not funny.  Full-blown heroin addiction; now that is posh, virtuous clay for comedians. Was this a review?  I’m good at writing, right?  *audible laughter*

What a jerk; the condom broke!

I now understand unplanned pregnancies.  No, I didn't inoculate a birdie with my berry; I stammered upon a goddamn miracle at a grocery store.  My friends...oh, my friends.  I will be posting an edition of The Soda Jerk (late) tomorrow night.  It will not be a part of The Soda Jerk Unbound, which will continue after I get this soda out of my system.  Literally, as I'm sure it will pass through my urinary tract by then.

I'm super stoked.  I haven't actually tried it yet.  You can guess the identity of the wonder-working amrita if you want, but you'll probably be wrong.  It's not that one.  Nopers, not that one either.

Suicide Squad

Katana hasn't been getting enough love.  It's Harley this, Harley that. And with good reason!  I understand; it's just that Katana is a badass who Suicide Squad invariably glosses over in favor of more popular characters.  There are a lot of "bad guys" here, maybe too many.  I didn't give a fuck about Captain Boomerang or that dude he was with for two scenes.  Did he have a name?  If it's not readily apparent by this point, I'm not a DC comics freak.  However, I've always paid attention to Batman on a surface level.  I've been a fan of Harley Quinn since I was a kid and watching Batman: The Animated Series was a part of my after-school regimen.  Suicide spindrift has mizzled upon me from green-purple skies, so I'm certified to speak on the matter.

First, fuckin' Harley.  I was worried about her dialogue going in (thanks, trailer), but most of it's fine.  I ended up loving the kooky broad.  No, it wasn't just because Margot Robbie is dream candy - especially as Harley Quinn.  Her personality felt right.  The only performance tic that rubbed me the wrong way was her stop-and-go accent.  BUT I was thrilled to hear it at all, as I assumed it wouldn't be making an appearance.  The same applies to the jester suit. 'Twas a flashback, I grant you, but when Harley appeared in full "old school" toggery, I realized...that I was a Harley Quinn fanboy.  I mean, I nearly squeed in the theater.  To be honest, I haven't been handling this revelation well, nor has my mother.  We ask for privacy at this difficult time.

Deadshot!  I don't see why they had to cast Will Smith, but my fears that he would be distracting proved to be unfounded.  He was probably given the most depth.  Naturally, the guy has charisma to spare, but I couldn't see him as Deadshot.  I saw him as Will Smith.  I didn't have that problem with anyone else in Suicide Squad, including The Clown Prince of Fuck.  Yeah, I think of Leto's take on The Joker as Heath Ledger merged with Marilyn Manson.  That's not necessarily a bad consolidation.  Didn't love him; didn't hate him.  I've read complaints about the way he was used, but in my eyes, this wasn't his movie.  The Joker is a bit player.  This is Harley's breakout picture.  If DC is smart (...), they'll drop this universe shit as soon as possible and return to stand-alone franchises.  Harley Quinn is a goddamn star.

In the first half of Suicide Squad, Enchantress is hot.  She's a nifty, mysterious witch with nifty, mysterious powers.  Then her and her brother fuck the world up with CGI.  Seriously, the final 30 minutes smell like the Ghostbusters remake.  I haven't bothered to absorb the Ghostbusters remake, but you know what I mean.  Jeesh.  The effects are terrible, slow-motion is overused, oh, and the stinger!  It nearly fell out of my brain.  It's...fuck, I can't spoil it.  It's useless.  I'll leave it at that.  Would I recommend Suicide Squad?  If you haven't had a chance to see it yet, please do so.  I spent this block of text grousing (some might say pissing and/or moaning), but I had a blast with this flick.

It's definitely flawed, but pay no mind to the bounding brine of extreme opinions bearing down on the web.  Form your own opinion. If you're interested in seeing the film, that is.  Would you look at that? I had zero intentions of writing a full review.  Might as well include a rating.  Robert Z'Dar says, "Don't drag me into this.  And don't...just don't!"

Album Cover of the Whatever

I've only heard a couple of Uriah Heep songs, but if any cover deserves to be the Album Cover of the Whatever, it's the epic-as-Iliad artwork adorning UH's Innocent Victim.  Slap some corpsepaint on that snake sumbitch, and you could be looking at a potential Random Reviews mascot.  That gives me an idea...hmm...HMM...

The Slime People

It's worthy of note (not really) that I opted not to display a poster. That's a lobby card.  I think it looks neat.  Plus, this enables me to remind precious readers of my gasconading, power-bent ways.  I might be out of control, but at least I'm not a cannibalistic humanoid underg...wait, wrong movie.  These booger fuckers do hail from cloacae.  "Cloacae" is the plural form of "cloaca," which is defined as a sewer (it also has a gross medical meaning).  Look, I know I pull this crap from time to time, but what's so offensive about getting an education?  As I was saying, the titular creatures in 1963's The Slime People rise from the shit tubes beneath your shoes.  They. Are.  Awesome.  As a matter of factual opinion, they account for most of my rating.

Let me back up a step or two.  I dig how the story starts.  The Slime People begins with the city (we're never given many details on our setting) already demolished, and we see the mucus mutants full-frame, stomping in the vicinity of the camera with spears in clammy claw.  They even have cool weapons!  We follow a pilot, a professor and his two daughters as they survey the landscape.  It becomes clear that the slime people - as they are dubbed by the characters - have built an impenetrable dome over the city.  The rampart is made of fog stone.  I mean, it was fog that turned into stone.  You see, the teratoid monstrosities have their very own fog machine (!).  It's fucking magical.  Don't know how it works, don't know how...it works. Don't know how it works.

I love fog, especially in black-and-white horror productions, so it's ironic that fog hog-ties this cob roller.  Bob.  Job.  Slob.  Correct! Usually, mist is used as icing.  Here, it's the cake, and it's smeared on the lens like petroleum jelly.  The exterior shots (mainly in the second half) are hard to watch.  I viewed this bitch on DVD, but at certain points, I felt as if I was squinching askance at a YouTube clip. Fog must have crept inside the shutter...exposure...yeah, I don't know anything about cameras.  The goddamn fog ordeal is the film's biggest drawback.  It takes away from the climax, but by and large, The Slime People is entertaining stuff.  It's fun, goofy and...

...the creature effects rock hard!  You can trust me because I have statistics on my side.  Over half of the (meager) budget was earmarked for the slimer suits.  It shows, man.  They are covered in scales and ridges and dicks.  A-ha!  I have to keep you awake.  Did I mention that they carry huge, badass spears?  Their human co-stars are alright.  The hero is played by Robert Hutton, a man who also tried his hand at directing.  Which silver screen classic of the golden age did he helm?  This one!  My favorite cast member is Les Tremayne, a veteran of all genres.  I recognized him from The Angry Red Planet and The Monster From Piedras Blancas.  He is lively as ever as a boozer who doesn't give a fuck until he's nearly impaled.

I understand that the sequel, The Suicide Squad, is hitting theaters this weekend.  Let's hope it does the original justice.

Quick Update

Real quick - the lovely lass pictured is Anya Taylor-Joy of The Witch fame.  It has come to my attention that I am falling madly in love with her.  Yes, she IS legal.  She seems like a cool person, and what's more, her slate of upcoming projects is littered with sci-fi/horror refreshments.  Just thought I'd...throw that out there.  I'm sure that she has an Internet connection.  What???  It's not improbable.  She sees a blog post, she sees the handsome "master of ceremonies," she sees his cute doggy and maybe...I dunno...she sees a potential family?  Laugh all you want.  Satan will guide my way!

This was supposed to be a harmless site update.  I've already invoked The Accuser and probably precipitated the portage of a restraining order.  I merely wanted to say that my next "thing" will be another movie review, and then finally, I will bring the second half of The Soda Jerk Unbound to fruition.  Don't rush the stage all at once.

The Children

Scan courtesy of Paul over at VHS Collector, hence the watermark.

1980's The Children was distributed on DVD by Troma.  Before you grimace, Lloyd Kaufman and associates had nothing to do with the production of the film.  This was just an acquisition, similar to 1990's Luther the Geek.  My, what a coincidence!  The Children was co-written by Carlton Albright, writer/director of Luther the Geek.  It's almost as if I knew that or something.  The other co-writer's name was Edward Terry (I suppose it still is), and he also had a hand in bringing the metal-dentured Luther to life; he played him!  I'm getting ahead of myself.  This is one of those "small town" fright flicks where even the convenient store clerk knows every detail of the Stevenson girl's menstruation cycle or the friar's...er, menstruation cycle.

I had fun with it.  It's fucking stupid.  The plot has more holes in it than the stuffed animals in your reclusive cousin's closet.  There is a miasmatic gas leak emanating from a nuclear plant and it has created a crawling cloud of effluvia that consumes an isolated road. You gotta watch out for that effluvia.  Shit's nasty!  Anyway, it sneaks up on a school bus.  When Sheriff Hart discovers the transport vehicle sitting diagonally, he boards to investigate.  The children? Gone.  The driver?  Gone.  If I were in his shoes, my heart would sink, but I would remain professional enough to "call it in."  Heh, listen to me spout off official police terminology.  I'm a regular Barney Fife.  Where's my bullet?

So Hart doesn't call it in.  Doesn't.  Does not.  He drives to the home of a parent and asks if Kid A (overrated record, by the way) has arrived yet.  The Sheriff of the Year takes the aunt (the mother is ill, if I recall correctly) to the school bus to retrieve the child's supplies. She doesn't seem to be terribly worried.  None of the legal guardians panic over the fact that a bindle of neighborhood youngsters have disappeared into thin goddamn air.  The main mama that The Children chooses to focus on shows concern, but I wouldn't call it panic.  I don't know why I'm writing so much about the storyline.  Again, it's stupid.  The kids are radioactive zombies.  But fuck it; I dug what I was watching.  It has that inexplicable drive-in charm.

It's worth noting that The Children was probably the first genre clump to depict brute violence against children (on-screen, that is). Pretty cool, huh?  It's not quite as extreme as Beware! Children at Play, but there are plenty of gunshot wounds.  Oh, and severed hands.  On the acting front, I was pleasantly surprised.  There are no outright embarrassments.  The make-up effects range from gruesome to gardyloo.  That's to be expected, especially with cinematic scum.  I'm treating The Children unfairly.  Apparently, it hatched ducats at the box office, a feat atypical of scum (well, b-scum).  What's my favorite plot hole?  They never find or mention the bus driver.  Wouldn't he have been affected by the gas in the same way?  There should be another zombie lurking in Ravensback.

Stupid shit.  I recommend it!

Skull Island in the Sun

Um, holy fucking shit?  I will say, I'm surprised that Warner is willing to reveal so much of Kong in the trailer.  Could be a mistake.  I'm hoping that there's a whole bunch of kewl shit in the movie that we won't know about until opening night.  Regardless, how badass was that???  I'm totally on board.  The cast is also to my liking, as I expect Tom Hiddleston to ably serve as the protagonist underpinning, just as I expect Brie Larson to serve as my celebrity crush (read: obsession) for the first quarter of 2017.  And she's a great actress!  Plus, you've got Sam Jackson with a military-grade weapon of some sort.  Now all I have to do is wait for nine agonizing months...KILL MY BODY AND SOUL.

For the record, I adored Peter Jackson's loving update of King Kong.  I had a couple of issues with it, but I am certainly at variance with the carping reaction it draws these days.  It wasn't bad, you guys.  Jack Black?  Okay, he was out of place.  I'm not suggesting that it measures up to the original, which very few films do.  I believe, by the way, that the 1933 King Kong might be the best film ever made, horror or otherwise.  Obviously, it's up for debate.  That could be an editorial for another day.

KATATONIA - The Fall of Hearts

My apologies, members of the press.  I wanted to have this review up sooner, but I've had nagging stomach issues.  Shitting.  Shitting issues.  I haven't been resting well either, so physiologically, I've been wracked with spoilage.  Emotionally, I've been in a low place. It's almost as if my heart...has fallen--fuck, you'd think I could clef a better segue.  Yes, clef, CLIFF.  Obviously, I'm building up to a piece on moody alt-metal.  What else could I be talking about?  As it happens, I'm categorically connecting to Katatonia's latest LP.  The Fall of Hearts came out earlier this year, so yes, I'm fashionably late on recounting its splendor.  I'm a wee bit late on discovering Katatonia as well.  Someone please smack my forehead.

I knew of them.  I knew of their ties to Opeth, one of my favorite bands of all time.  I liked a song here and there.  But it wasn't until recently that I discovered them.  The difference (to me anyway)?  I actually took the initiative to comb through their back catalog and, y'know, learn the Katatonia gospel.  A device clicked within me.  I still haven't heard every set released by these sullen Swedes, so I can't definitively say that Hearts is their paramount work.  I can't even say it's their best since so-and-so.  I've developed a druthers for their post-2000 material, but it's too fresh to contrast/compare.  All I know is that if I had it, I'd screw a chimpanzee.  Wait, strike that from the record...all I know is that it's really, really good.  There.  Much better!

Hearts does extend the parameters of 2012's Dead End Kings. The songs are longer and more involved.  You could actually say that in comparison to most of the band's recorded output since the 90's. Hey, I compared!  I hate to meld musical ligaments, but Katatonia recall Tool more on this album than any other in their history (don't pretend they haven't been approximated to Tool, however unfairly). Hearts is progressive hard rock at its finest. Opener "Takeover" is rooted in a gibbous, irregular time signature that is beautifully countered by a blistering solo courtesy of Anders Nystrom.  Want to hear something crazy?  SUPER crazy? "Takeover" is one of my least favorite tracks.  As a matter of fuck, I skipped it the last time I popped my vinyl pressing into...um, Spotify.

Okay, YouTube.  Fine, I don't own a computer.  I'm in a library right now.  I'm homeless.  I had rats for lunch.  I pissed on a slut last night. Just because!  I don't mean to mock the homeless; it's just that I was looking for a spot to modulate the classic "pissed on a slut" joke. Pardon?  What could be considered the main singles?  Well, you have "Serein," a straight-ahead rock jaunt with a driving chorus.  "Old Heart Falls" would be the radio hit if that were a possibility.  It has grown on me.  Speaking of growths I should have looked at, the mid-chunk of Hearts has grown on me.  At first, tunes such as "Decima," "Sanction," "Last Song Before the Fade" and "Shifts" blended together into a samey nodule of the mopes.  Now, I dig all that shit. It doesn't ring as mopey; it rings as gorgeous gloom.

You'll have to excuse the excessive semi-colons.  I find them to be underrated punctuation marks.  Anyway, "'Passer."  It's the best song.  This isn't up for debate, Cindy.  It starts with a fucking rage, as Anders lets loose and shreds his balls off.  On a sidenote, the dude needs to be let loose more often (or he needs to let himself loose more often).  I love the vocal melodies.  The lyrics...Wally Christ, they hit me hard on multiple levels.  I haven't said enough about crooner Jonas Renkse and his truly unique voice.  Or the keyboards, which never overpower the other instruments.

Katatonia fans already own The Fall of Hardee's.  But if you're curious, I recommend it to devotees of gnarled riffs, washes of glossy atmospherics and drums that keep you on your toes.  Before breaking them.