Jack-On

I haven't done nearly enough writing this month.  I mean, it's October!  But that changes tomorrow.  To celebrate, I will...review a horror movie!  Maybe!

Will Fu--Erm, Write For Food

This post has been a long time coming.  And I hate the fact that I feel like I need to write this, but that's where I am.  Years ago, I announced the debut of a donate button.  Look to your right.  Yep, that's the one.  I wouldn't normally disclose personal financial business, but it does seem apropos to reveal the number of donations the site has received in the interim, given the nature of this block of text.  Zero.  That's the number.  Mind you, I'm not fishing for pity.  I'm also not including holiday gifts.  Just talkin' 'bout donations.

I will probably create a Patreon account in the near future.  Personally, I was bewildered to find that a YouTuber I dig not only had a Patreon account, but actual patr(e)ons.  I mean no disrespect to the guy, but he literally sits in front of a webcam and bullshits about music.  He's getting paid for services rendered.  I know exactly how much effort I put into my reviews (hint: it's a lot...it's probably too much).  At press time, I'm doing it for free.  That's fine, and I'm definitely not special.  I would, however, like to see something that justifies the hard work outside of simple pride.

Please consider donating, even it's a dollar.  You have no idea how much I appreciate the support.  I don't want to exploit Wikipedia-sized reader guilt, but it wouldn't be exaggerating to say that the future of Random Reviews Inc. hinges on renumeration of some sort.  In other words, give me your money!

CANIPE LIVES!

I've known Bobby Canipe Jr. for the better part of a decade.  A decade?  Wait, that can't be right.  Let's say 5-7 years.  He directed the two films that I'm about to dissect, so I cannot claim sincere neutrality.  I'm a teensy bit biased, which is also why I'm dodging a traditional review.  No ratings.  Just incoherent balderdash.

If you know Bobby, you know that he's prone to slipping into a nostalgic stupor, aided by benzodiazepines and Mtn Dew Code Red.  I can relate.  My daydreams are typically set in the mid-90's where I can be found loitering at a mom 'n' pop video store.  And wouldn't you know it?  Bobby has just finished tweaking an early cut of Mom 'n' Pop: The Indie Video Store Boom of the 80s/90s, a documentary that focuses on...well, the indie video store boom of the 80's and 90's.  First things first.  I wouldn't be a cavalier grammar Nazi if I didn't implore that son of a bitch to fine-tune his title with a pair of apostrophes.  This may end our friendship.

Anyway, the production values are superb.  I love the way each interview is lit and framed.  The interviews themselves...wowzers!  I don't know how he wrangled his way into conversations with b-movie luminaries such as Lloyd Kaufman, Tim Ritter, and James Rolfe, but I believe that he should be open to selling their contact information.  Moreover, I appreciate the fact that he didn't allow nostalgia to cloud prudence or hamstring the truth.  No, video stores were not always beacons of bliss.  Late fees did suck.  Hindsight has been kind to Blockbuster, but in reality, they played an integral role in the cessation of the independent video store.

So that's one hearty recommendation from both myself and Robert Z'Dar.  I was also sent Intinction, a 25-minute short that, if I'm not mistaken, will be spliced into an upcoming anthology.  I wasn't exactly blown away by this gonzo take on cannibal nuns.  On the upside, cannibal nuns!  Yay!  On the downside, the audio levels are inconsistent and the acting is sketchy.  Sorry, man.  I must keep it real, as the kids say.  If it's any consolation, I caught Z'Dar pulling his pud throughout the entire ordeal.

Geek Out #157

Man, who hasn't seen this beauty?  Thanks to Mr. Lake for the inspiration.  Aww...

"Who said date rape isn't kind?"

I haven't done a discography review since The Corpse Files, but I've entertained the notion of mounting a partial discography (or deformography, if you prefer) write-up for Marilyn Manson.  Is that something you might be interested in reading?  Here's the caveat; I'm only going up to The Golden Age of Grotesque.  I can explain why in a future piece, probably after I bring this thing to fruition.  If I hear orgasmic moans coming out of the peanut gallery, I'll get to work in...hmm, a week-ish?

Halloween Ends

I feel like I begin every review by recusing myself and asking the reader to pardon my flighty, rattlepated state of mind.  I'm belaboring the point, but at the same time, my temperament is going to affect the way I perceive a film.  Halloween Ends might be the exception to the rule.  No matter the conditions under which you see this redundant sequel, it's going to come off as a turgid, dispiriting drag.  Now, I have purposefully avoided the opinions of friends and strangers alike.  So I'll ask you.  Is anyone stumping for this jumble of derisory ideas?  Has it been sanctified by a hallowed member of the clergy?  Are there any copies available at Blockbuster?

Halloween Ends is a depressing movie on many levels.  God, where do I even start?  Laurie Strode has been given a complete overhaul.  Well-intentioned, I'm sure, but her permutation from gun-toting model of reprisal to apron-assuming coquette (imagine Laurie crowing about her "fucking tits" in 1978) is a little hard to swallow.  I digress!  Everything is dampened when her granddaughter moons over a bespectacled bad boy, a real blackguard established as the town pariah.  Okay, this motherfucker.  I despised him from the second he appeared on screen.

Not for nothing, but this flick volunteers a smattering of dating tips.  Looking to get laid?  Try dropkicking a child down a spiral staircase.  You'll be swimming in snatch fur in no time!  Why screenwriter Paul Brad Logan decided to focus on Corey, the threadbare muff diver in question, is anyone's best guess.  A great deal of the script's energy - a finite source - is funneled into a fuckwit who exhibits zero energy.  It's impermissible.  Seriously, I don't get it.  Rohan Campbell gives an adequate performance, but cadberry Christ, was he instructed to act like twice-baked cheddar potato casserole?

If Corey's specious coronation (I don't know what else to call it) isn't offensive enough, poor Mikey has been reduced to...remember Maniac Cop 2?  You know how Matt Cordell transiently teams up with a bum until he finally dispatches the dude?  That's what happens here, only it takes Mikey way too long to ice his short-lived accomplice.  There is one other difference between the two slashers; Maniac Cop 2 kicks ass!  Halloween Ends is stymied by a listless pace, a surplus of dull characters, and goddamn Corey.  I had another paragraph in me, but I became so preoccupied with you-know-who, that it has escaped my clutches.

Well, I lied.  Here is a brand new paragraph.  Fuck Halloween Ends.

Album Cover of the Whatever

I'm not much for noise rock, but I have been known to jam some Unsane in my day.  This is the beautifully barbaric cover of their eponymous debut album.  Apparently, it was reissued, perhaps as recently as this month.  Check it out if you are so inclined.

Blood Capsule #129

HELLRAISER (2022)

Pinhead was the last slasher icon that had successfully counteracted the remake bug.  A most honorable stonewall, that.  But not even Hell priests are immune to Hollywood dogma.  If you existed for a past generation, you must exist for the next generation.  No exemptions!  I wasn't sure what to expect out of David Bruckner's Hellraiser, as the reviews have been as mixed as the contents of my colon.  My only question is, how is this any different from a Hellraiser sequel?  A morally disharmonious character (in this case, a struggling alcoholic named Riley) runs afoul of the Lament Configuration.  Cenobites dismantle her loved ones, she is faced with grievous questions, certain friends are revealed to be reprobates, etc...

It's a Hellraiser movie alright.  I guess I was hoping to learn more about our pierced villains.  Actually, I was hoping to learn more about anything.  2022's Hellraiser is business as usual, and it doesn't have the visual flair of the original.  Where are the bold colors?  Where is the consummate shadow play?  Where is the everloving panache?  Jamie Clayton makes an adequate Pinhead, but I don't think the team behind this film was striving to be described as "adequate" in any department.  Meh.

Corpsepaint by Numbers

This editorial has been stewing in my paunch for several months now.  There are a couple of reasons why I've delayed the publication of my little article (aww).  For one, I'm broaching a touchy, controversial topic, so it's imperative that I choose my words carefully.  Secondly, I was chucked out of commission by a profusion of health problems, and I didn't have a nuanced "thinkpiece" in me.  It's very possible that I have no business approaching the proverbial bench as it relates to contentious black metal bands.  Wait, strike that.  I'm just an asshole on the Internet; I can say anything!

Let's get specific.  Obviously, I'm not here to discuss the merits (or lack thereof) of traditional black metal staples such as Mayhem or Emperor.  They court their own controversy, but roasting churches and committing murder are dowdy, antiquated transgressions.  I mean, it's so 1993.  I'm covering a deleterious trend that is alive and well in the metal community at press time.  You are probably familiar with National Socialist black metal (NSBM is the preferred shorthand).  If not, these are easy groups to spot.  NSBM is a genus of extreme music that espouses fascism and white supremacy, among other lovely tenets.

99.8% of metalheads are cool motherfuckers.  For instance, you won't find many racists at your average metal festival.  But of course, there are rapscallions poised to flutter on the fringes of every fandom.  A quick tangent, if I may...I've developed a habit of watching "collection update" videos on YouTube.  These are folks with monstrous album collections, though I suspect that similar videos exist of nerds (no judgment) with Star Wars collections or whatever the fuck.  The appeal is...well, rad records.  You also get to know the people themselves.

"Dom," you whisper in your vampish chicken suit.  "What does that have to do with NSBM?"  I can tell you that I didn't give you the key to my apartment, so I don't know how you are standing in my bedroom.  Additionally, I can tell you that these metal scavengers are divided into two camps, those who buy NSBM merch and those who don't.  Note that none of them are racists.  Some metalheads can look past the troubling lyrics; some can't.  Where do I stand on the issue?  That was the impetus behind scribbling this essay of sorts.

I look at things on a case-by-case basis.  I don't believe in blanket generalizations.  Each situation is different, and the two bands I've decided to spotlight couldn't be any more different from each other (both musically and, um, socially).  Inquisition!  Originally based in Colombia, Inquisition peddles a unique brand of black metal that favors atmosphere over curt, unceremonious aggression.  I've been a fan for years.  At one point, we learned that Dagon (lead vocalist/songwriter) was found guilty of an unlawful display of sexually explicit material.  Basically, he had underage porn on his computer.  This information made me take a serious step back and reevaluate my interest in Inquisition.

Since then, I've read into the case and I'm not convinced that the guy is a pedophile.  Certainly, you can draw your own conclusions.  But the details are not so black-and-white.  There were Neo-Nazi allegations thrown at Dagon as well.  It seemed to be based on hearsay, but what do I know?  Personally, I feel okay listening to Inquisition, especially considering that the lion's share of the lyrics deal with Satan in space.  What about Burzum?  Here's a clown dick who straight-up admitted to killing someone in "self-defense."  Here again, I did the research and I'm not sure that his argument holds any water.

Those are just two examples out of way, way too many.  The kicker?  I have yet to confront NSBM that I dig on a purely artistic level.  You'll read gushing reviews for Arghoslent and Grand Belial's Key, to name but two relevant outfits, but I'm not hearing it.  And no, Burzum doesn't do it for me.  Am I missing something?  Because there is better stuff out there that wasn't composed by human excrement.  Hey, listen to what you want.  Don't give someone a tablespoon of codswallop for avoiding NSBM on sheer principle alone, though.  That would be silly.  You don't want to be silly, do you?

The Vortex Void of Inhumanity

Man, it has been a week.  I'm not articulate enough to sum it up in 4,007 words or less, but suffice to say, I haven't had the time or motivation to write comprehensible sentences for this, my illustrious website.  However, my mind has settled into a more commodious living space.  I'm planning on drumming up an opinion piece later today, as a matter of fact.  What does Mayhem have to do with anything?  Well, bookmark this baby and find out!

Rassle Inn #33

I'll be perfectly honest.  I don't feel like writing.  I do feel like bitching.  So...eh?  My anxiety is being unreasonable about A) this hurricane and B) an upcoming surgical procedure.  The details are not important enough to mention.  Suffice to say, I'm going through some shit, but so is literally everyone on planet Earth.  To drag this editorial of sorts back into a realm of relevance, I watched last night's Dynamite to divert my attention.  For me, it was just there.

I have a couple of bones that I'm breathlessly zealous to pick with Tony Khan.  Okay, the card flaunted two matches featuring talents who have never drawn air on American television.  If you missed the show, I'm speaking of Juice Robinson (formerly NXT's C.J. Parker; he has done well for himself in Japan) and Bandido (pictured above).  From the very beginning, I have belabored the point that one of Khan's chief goals should have been cajoling the average viewer, baiting the common fan.  To most people, Juice is a goddamn nobody, whereas Bandido is a nobody wearing a cool mask.

Was there any build to these debuts?  Maybe an anticipatory vignette?  Nope.  What's worse, this isn't the first time that Khan has pulled this gambit.  Ask yourself, when was the last time you saw Jay White or Will O'Spreay on either Dynamite or Rampage?  And they are two of the best professional wrestlers active today!  It's no surprise that ratings dropped.  Currently, AEW is apprehending just under a million pairs of eyeballs on a weekly basis.  There are mild fluctuations, but folks, that number hasn't seen a significant increase since the first sighting of CM Punk.

My second grievance has less to do with Tony Khan and more to do with wrasslin' in general.  Every match is virtually the same.  Open with matwork, do a high spot (dive outside or it doesn't count; be sure the supposed opponent is stationary and waiting to catch unidentified flying assholes), do an unnecessarily dangerous apron spot, chop the shit out of each other, stage ten false finishes, hit your real finisher, and presto.  You've got yourself a modern wrestling match.  The chops, in particular, are old hat.  Am I desensitized?  Have I seen too much of this stuff?  Yes and yes.  But I'm a fan.  I'll probably tune in next week.

I need a sombrero.

The Great Yokai War

Over the past few weeks, I've posted reviews of all three films in the Yokai Monsters trilogy in the Random Reviews Incorporated Fan Club (join us, join us...!).  If you're not in the know, these ditties are Japanese folk tales bolstered by fanciful, quixotic special effects.  They are fun to watch on a Saturday afternoon.  I gave them a gander knowing that I would follow the original trilogy up by beaming at Takashi Miike's 2005 remake.  Miike is one of my favorite directors on the planet.  While I didn't expect The Great Yokai War to have the sinuous malignancy of Audition or Ichi the Killer, I did expect to see traces of Miike's oddball sense of humor and his uncanny ability to marry seemingly discordant genres.  Needless to squeal, my expectations were met.

I'll try to piece together a semi-lucid plot summary.  At a small festival, a little boy named Tadashi is chosen to be a "kirin warrior," a guardian and abettor of all things good.  Concurrently, a demon randomly appears "whose mystical powers are born of his rage at the annihilation of Japan's local tribes."  Or at least that's what IMDb claims.  I'm not proud of my sources, but this is an enormous ball of twine to unfuck.  Tadashi represents the heart of the story.  I was moved by his relationship with Sunekosuri, a furry critter akin to a hamster.  Without resorting to spoilers, that is one angle that takes a ballsy turn.

Simply put, this is an entertaining horror/fantasy/adventure.  I want to make my position plain because I'm about to contravene and grouse about it.  I dig Miike's Great Yokai War, but for 2005, the digital effects leave something...well, everything to be desired.  At times, I felt like I slipped a copy of 1998's Virus into my VCR.  NOTE TO SELF: Watch Virus.  Also, the narrative is riddled with craters.  Here are a number of questions that I asked during the climax: "Who is that guy?"  "How does he know the girl with green hands?"  "Why in the holy hell does that girl have green hands?"  "Is that one of the friendly monsters?"  "Why can't I piss Fanta Orange?"

The jury is still out on that last conundrum.  It's a real cryptogram.  The script tosses too many characters in the air for Miike to catch.  Admittedly, the titular war is a satisfying brouhaha.  I'm cool with the practical effects, and as I hinted at earlier, Ryonosuke Kamike (the timid, yet gallant Tadashi) is a compelling lead.  The Great Yokai War would be a sweet appetizer in a Miike double feature with, say, Dead or Alive.  I need to work more of the guy's filmography into my diet.  There are only 303,459 titles left to consume.  I'll get there sooner or later.

  

Blood Capsule #128

GRAVE ROBBERS (1989)

I've always maintained that I don't review every film that I see.  In order to ramble on a certain topic, I need to have something to say.  There are movies, however, that refuse to meet me halfway.  Take Grave Robbers, for instance.  It's a Mexican slasher that you'll often find paired with 1985's Cemetery of Horror, a zombie romp directed by Ruben Golindo Jr.  Ol' Ruben also conducted this diapason.*  And it's...decent.  See, that's the problem.  This diabolic diversion is the cinematic equivalent of Bunny bread.  I dig Bunny bread, but outside of being a slice of leavened dough, what does it offer?  It's just fucking bread.  Grave Robbers is just a cut-and-dried monster mash.  Make of that what you will.

After the occult-flavored prologue, we meet our cannon fodder.  It's a pitiable prospectus of faceless characters who are stalked by the sprightly corpse of an irritable Satanist, a necromancer of sorts bent on...um, ending the world or some shit.  The death sequences are charming.  And I suppose that the production values are sharp, considering the modest budget.  It's nothing innovative.  Honestly, I'm surprised that I've wrested this many words out of such a routine flick.  Two and a half Z'Dars.  Four Z'Dars for my alliteration.

*It's a musical term.  Yeah, I don't know.

A Band: Acid Witch

This website has already passed its 10-year anniversary without much fanfare.  For those curious, I started Random Reviews Incorporated in late 2009.  I mention it because it wasn't much later (early 2010) that I posted a random (natch) squib about Acid Witch.  Don't bother looking it up.  I'll probably repurpose some of the adjectives I used to describe this gnarly band.  You may be wondering why I'm choosing to spotlight their fiendish grooves when I've already yapped about them in the past.  Well, they're still hovering just below obscurity, and in my illustrious opinion, they are poised to become a group that every horror junkie spins at or around Halloween.  I'm calling it!

It's strange to think that Acid Witch - comprised of members appropriated from Shitfucker and Temple of Void, among others - has been active for nearly fifteen years now.  They came roaring out of the gate with 2008' Witchtanic Hallucinations, a killer record that I opined was "tailor-made to serve as a backdrop to spooky movie marathons and costume contests."  The isochronal samples seal it.  2017's Evil Sound Screamers uses a clip from Mister Rogers' Neighborhood to inaugurate the proceedings.  Of Course, the audio is distorted whenever our yellow-clad friend mentions candy laced with drugs (gotta watch out for those fentanyl lollipops) or apple cores harboring razor blades.

At their inception, Acid Watch didn't steer too far away from meat-and-potatoes hard rock, bestial growls notwithstanding.  Later albums weaponized heavier riffs, however, to the point where I would expect the next long player to traffic in rarefied death metal.  What else can I say?  Acid Witch is just fucking cool.  How cool?  2018's Midnight Movies EP features covers of tunes from 1986's Trick or Treat and 1988's Black Roses.  They are set to release a single in October (actually, it might already be available) and I've heard that a new album is in the works.

Let's hope that the mercury drops outside so that I can wear my badass Acid Witch hoodie.  They have a shit-ton of merch, by the way.  Buy all of it.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Just a quick little album cover (of the whatever) to tide you over until the next pamphlet I decide to write.  I know my fans, and I know that they are foaming for new content.  Heh.  Honestly, I know very little about Infernal other than they are a Colombian black metal band.  It's very likely that this record rips in addition to sporting snazzy artwork.  Listen to it.  Enjoy it.

WNUF Halloween Special

I love Halloween.  I know, I know...what else is new?  I don't understand why it can't be a year-round deal.  Goddamn it, I'm sick of--woah!  Sorry.  I'm passionate when it comes to our (yes, our...we might as well claim ownership) ghoulish celebrations, and as 2013's WNUF Halloween Special demonstrates, I'm not the only one.  You may have heard a faint clangor about it resounding throughout the web.  The makers of WNUF launched a rather brassy advertising campaign to call attention to their mockumentary, even going so far as to distribute copies onto random tables at genre-adjacent conventions, sans label.

The horror community responded in kind.  I referred to WNUF as a mockumentary, but truth be told, that classification requires some explaining.  It actually doubles as a "found footage" flick.  But wait!  Before I lose your interest altogether, this isn't your typical camcorder patchwork.  It purports to be a slice of local television, or to be specific, a Samhain-inspired special wherein WNUF (the ersatz channel in question) airs field pieces that cover topics such as trick-or-treating safety and the vociferous tantrums of faith-based groups who believe that All Hallow's Eve fosters the devil's deeds.  Shit, was that a run-on sentence?  My deepest apologies to those I've offended with my careless, inconsiderate grammar.  It ain't right.

I could sell you on the plot, but WNUF's crowning features have precious little to do with ghouls and broomsticks.  Sure, the Halloween appurtenances are gobs of fun, and I would be first in line to see Sarcophagus (a fictional mummy movie set to premiere on WNUF), but I'll remember other aspects of this spook-a-minute simulacrum above anything else.  Like the dead-center adverts.  Man, these commercials are scary accurate.  From promos for rug emporiums to werewolf hotlines to church bake sales.  It's all here to serve as breathers in between broadcasts of the news and reporter Frank Stewart's probe into a gravely haunted house.

Flanked by paranormal investigators and a circumspect priest, Frank (played by a game Paul Fahrenkopf) is keen on exorcising this spectral dwelling.  The whole situation leans on camp, but the circumstantial comedy works.  Sadly, the fabricated bits are dampened by stagy acting.  I wanted to believe that I was watching a 100% legitimate videotape from 1987, but a handful of lazy performances took me out of the atmosphere.  What's more, I felt that the ad breaks, while entertaining, arrived too frequently.  Eh, these are negligible annoyances.  Make no mistake, I'm recommending the hell out of WNUF Halloween Special.

PS-Be on the lookout for Out There Halloween Mega Tape.  Yep, there is a sequel!  I can't find a release date, but I know that it's currently surfing the festival circuit.

   

Book of Zoinks

How about some family-friendly spooks?  Actually, the video you see before you is pretty funny if you watch it with the right frame of mind.  Seemed appropriate for a clarion, yet thermogenic Friday afternoon (don't mind me...that's just a stupid way to say it's hot and sunny).

Rabid ('19)

Years ago, I was quick to profess my love for the Soska twins.  They were critical darlings in the independent horror scene, but more importantly (this could get me in trouble), they were hot.  I enjoyed See No Evil 2 for what it was.  As for American Mary, their breakout character study of a come-hither mortician (is there any other kind?), I haven't even seen it.  I'm not proud of this fact, but I met the girls through interviews.  They were spunky, sweet-tempered, and yes, violently voluptuous.  I'm lucky that they didn't pry into my feigned fandom when I met them at a convention.  It's not that I deplore their directorial resume.  From what I've discerned, they do have a knack for conjuring slick, shuddersome visuals.

But this isn't a review of the Soska twins as people; this is a review of their remake of 1977's Rabid, David Cronenberg's ode to contagion and armpit vaginas.  I didn't realize it before pressing play, but this was the first (and to date, only) movie that Sir David has allowed to be remodeled.  My choice of words is premeditated.  The Soskafied Rabid takes place in the world of fashion.  Rose, a fledgling, enterprising designer would kill for her sketches to be noticed by the eccentric Gunter (more on him later), but before she can make any headway, she is damn near splintered by the bumper of a wandering car.  The result is a hideous mouth wound.  Unwilling to wait for cosmetic surgery, Rose seeks the care of an experimental clinic.  I think you can see where this is heading.

The operation is a success, but the side effects involve harrowing hunger pangs, a stomach for human flesh, and random tentacle flare-ups (understatement of the century).  As you may have noticed, this is not a shot-for-shot retelling of the original.  I hate to use this term, but the modern day Rabid is basically a reimagining.  Laura Vandervoort gives a focused, broad-spectrum performance as Rose.  Credit the Soska-penned screenplay for proffering their lead a three-dimensional role to embody.  The rest of the cast is fine, but I'd be remiss if I didn't mention CM Punk.  He enjoys wrangling a throwaway part - a stewed sleazebag - and his wife joins in on the fun as a journalist.  That's right; A.J. Mendez has attained "call sheet" status.  If you include the Soska cameos, you've got yourself a threesome joke that I'm much too dignified to disclose.

The pacing is balanced.  Going further down the "body horror" checklist, I am happy to report that the gore reaches near-extravagant levels of butchery.  Apart from a singular instance of CGI, the special effects unit was clearly up to the task at hand.  Now for the mishaps, or to sound all objective about it, the trials and tribulations.  The storyline is easy to follow up to the icky finale, but the more our antagonist explains the particulars of Rabid's chief epidemic, the more convoluted everything becomes.  The guy creates plot holes out of thin air.  Plus, some of the characters come across as ridiculously exaggerated.  Case in point, Gunter.

Don't get me wrong; I love Gunter, but only because of his unintentional comedic value.  To give you an idea of his absurdity, one user review on IMDb (accurately) compared him to Will Ferrell in Zoolander.  I shouldn't be picking up those kinds of vibes from Rabid, whether it be this rendition or the 1977 version.  Due to the underwhelming resolution, I shuffled away from the film with a sour taste in my gallbladder.  The person I watched it with (Paul...you know Paul) felt that I was being too generous with my rating.  I thought I wasn't being generous enough.  If a Soska sister is reading this, I told Paul to go fuck himself.  You hear that, Paul???  Remind me to kick your ass!

  

Album Cover of the Whatever

While I stall until the next movie review, please enjoy the teal-soaked cover of Tideless's Adrift in Grief.  They're a death/doom band, and to be completely honest, I find them to be middling.  And I'm a sucker for dismal death/doom metal.  It is what it is.

Rassle Inn #32

Earlier today, I was listening to Smashing Pumpkins' Melon Collie and the Infinite Sadness.  Fucking great collection of songs.  "Jellybelly" careened into my neurotransmitter when I was reminded that Billy Corgan - of all people - was one of the better wrestling promoters in North America.  A large percentage of his fans probably don't know (or care) that he divides his time between recording studios and the squared circle.  Am I being audacious by proclaiming him to be a practiced promoter?  Maybe, but from my perspective, it's true.

Corgan has mastered the very thing that WWE and AEW often overlook.  Obviously, I'm talking about supernatural stables that cause unearthly, numinous blackouts in the arena.  I kid; no, I'm speaking of simplicity (gratuitous italics denote salience).  Everything featured on NWA Powerrr makes sense.  It's also fun.  I'll give you an example.  A recent episode pitted NWA World Junior Heavyweight Champion Homicide against a scrappy challenger in the form of Ricky Morton.  Yes, that Ricky Morton.  It was a short match, but it was quite enjoyable seeing the tested veteran sell for a contemporary wrestler.  Dude can hang.

You can watch NWA Powerrr on YouTube for free every week.  I promise that I'm not a paid sponsor.  I don't know that I could campaign for a show that calls Velvet Sky one of its commentators anyway.  Aww, she's not so bad.  Should I interpose my opinion on the whole CM Punk debacle?  Irony be damned, my sentiments are - say it with me - simple.  We don't know what happened behind closed doors.  In fact, we don't know why Punk and The Elite are at paradoxical odds with each other.  Give me specifics.  You can't!  That's precisely my point.

I'm dumbfounded by the amount of people who have designated Punk as the bad guy when they have never even grazed his shoulders at a convention or volleyed funnel cake at his gimmick table.  Um, I don't know why I chose funnel cake as a hypothetical concession weapon, but my point stands.  If you don't know, you don't know.  I will contend, however, that his injury-prone physique leaves a crater in Tony Khan's long-term plans.  It doesn't do much for the short term either.  And now I want funnel cake.  Shit.