Why was there a Jew at a Catholic school?
My immersion is ruined.
Night of the Demons 2
Night of the Demons 2. The mere mention of it’s name brings to mind films like The Godfather 2, The Bride of Frankenstein or even say Terminator 2. Sequels to classic American cinema that arguably pass there predecessor. None of this is true, but it seemed like a relatively amusing point to start off with. I have been informed none of this was funny. Hm. Oh Well, UNLEASH MY LION’S GATE DVD COPY OF NIGHT OF THE DEMONS…TWOOOOOOOOOOOOO. *plays wicked solos and fucks bitches*
That’s the Way I Am
I’ll go to the papers if I have to.
WWE’s telling me that bullyism is bad. That and homosexuality. At least Randy Orton still gives ultimatums.
Also, the main love interest is an 8th grade slut. Nonstop kisser.
Ed Harris doesn’t know what to make of the accusation towards his sexuality. He neither confirms nor denies it. Brilliant.
A Nightmare on Elm Street (2010)
Well, I did an obnoxiously long review of the original Nightmare, so let’s do a short lazy man’s review of it’s remake. This is all code for “I am not watching the 2010 Freddy ever again if I can help it.“
P.O.D
sucks.
The Macho Man, Randy Savage
is still dead. 🙁
The Hall of Fame
Jill Terashita was born on…some…date…in the past…in…America maybe. But possibly somewhere in greater Asia. I don’t know people and you coming here CLAMORING for Terashita facts is your own fault. (She was born in Toronto according to IMDB. TORONTO?!) This isn’t a damn…a damn fact summit. This is a celebration of all the things great in this world, the things that worm their way into our hearts and commence to rotting it. Today, on the 25th of May, The Pooke Hall of Fame opens it’s doors to it’s 2nd inducteee, the aforementioned…Jill Terashita! GIVE IT UP FOR HER PEOPLE.
I won’t shit you. Comparing Jill Terashita to Meryl Streep is a heinous crime that no man should ever commit. I base this mostly on the fact that Jill’s rack just embarrasses whatever lil miss Multi Time Oscar Winner brings to the table. Take your well crafted, intelligent moving pieces of cinema…I have Night of the Demons.
The year is whatever year Night of the Demons was released. A nation is neck deep in cold war paranoia and examining it’s interest in Rubik’s cubes and Hulkamania, wondering “Will I look back on this with an ironic sense of joy in 20 years?” Through all of this, out of the night came a shinning beacon of hope. A gorefest that made 10 tear old me go “Wow that’s a lot of cursing the fat guy’s doing!” and Chiky D exclaim “Look at that chick’s ass!” during roughly 4 different scenes. Ah magic. You were in us.
This all paled in comparison to the possibility of what might happen of course. There was a 110 pound elephant in the room and we are all hoping that metaphor would take it’s top off. Because Night of the Demons had one of the rarest of birds, an Asian girl in a slasher. A CHESTY Asian girl for that matter. Jill Terashita had entered our lives.
Chiky and myself were smart in our approach when first witnessing this girl come onto our screen. We both had the same thought (That Asian might whip them out!) but we were but children then and knew better. Better leave the speculation in one’s own head then let it spill out and proceed to have it go unfulfilled. The movie would share it‘s secrets with us. Just would take time.
(Author’s Note: Actually, Chikodemono and myself did not watch the film for the first time together as 10 year olds, or even meet till several years later. I also didn’t calmly wait for the movie to answer my question about whether or not Jill would go topless, I fast forwarded mercilessly till I found it)
Great things happen sometimes. The Berlin Wall comes down, a man walks on the moon, the 90’s set of Japanese Godzilla movies kind of kicks ass. Those are just specks of a fading past or something else equally meaningful sounding. Some things though, you can see them forever.
I of course am referencing Jill and some cannon fodder going at it in a coffin. And it burns into the collective memory of children and adult alike everywhere. You know there is a God then and you know that It loves you. This is how important that scene is to multiple generations. It is of course abruptly ended when possessed Stooge storms in and snaps her neck, but I was done with myself by then anyway.
Jill would go on to be nude in Sleepaway Camp 3 where she inexplicably played a tough girl named “Arab.” Her head got chopped off. And then she wasn’t really in anything else. Well that’s not fair, she was in other things as a stunt woman and occasional actress (Can you say QUANTUM LEAP?!), but I don’t care about that. All I know is that Jill Terashita still holds a special place in the perverted hellhole that is my polluted mind. Oh and that I can relive all of these moments in stunning quality through the advent of DVD. And what more can a Hall of Fame Inductee give you?
Mastodon – Crack In The Skye
Metal is one goofy ass genre of music. I’m far too lazy to get into the many sub genres it offers, but while I find myself so very comfortable pressed up against it’s mighty heaving chest, there’s no denying that one and all offer more than a few silly moments.
Mastodon is for the most part able to avoid this issue. Focused musicianship is wrapped around fairly experimental, prog influenced themes and lyrics that compliment the bands bursts of aggression. Let’s be honest though, I mostly respect them for their never ending need to grow beards and be kind of ponchy. They are an ugly band, something desperately needed in this time of girl pants and horrific clean singing choruses overlapped by bad death metal growls.
Mastodon is a necessary beast in the world, something that somehow stays pure and manages to possibly stink worse than any 1 bedroom apartment inhabited by yours truly. They drink a lot, probably use an unnecessary large amount of illegal drugs and continue to grow and change into something all their own. I for one need things like that, things that continue to provoke thought and allow me to write long rambling pretentious declarations of love like the one you are reading now. I kind of love Mastodon basically. So hey kids, lets review their most recent offering. 2009’s Crack In the Skye.
A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)
You know, I just don’t like Freddy flicks. Despite his strange power over women who grew up watching him, I was more of a Jason fan. The grunting, the hideous disfigurement, the need to wear baggy work pants at all time, me and Mrs. Voorhes baby boy just had more in common. Also, the Nightmare sequels featured Freddy turning into a poor man’s Dana Carvey and that was more horror than a thousand dull Saw sequels could ever provide.
I also throw Wes Craven under the bus rather regularly, mostly because I think he’s the most overrated horror director of all time. The Hills Have Eyes and Last House on the Left had great stories, horrible execution and then remakes that actually improve greatly upon the source. While I was being a douche and whining about the amount of remakes pouring out of Hollywood, these 2 I had high hopes for almost immediately solely based on the fact that Wes had crapped the bed during the originals. My expectations were met pretty nicely.
I am a fair man though and people love the first Nightmare. So let’s review. You shut your mouth and I’ll fucking review.
Macho Man, Randy Savage
Wrestling is an awful thing to love. Not only will you be mocked for the duration of your life for this interest, the guys you cheer for are usually a little less than Saints. The pinnacle of my blind adulation for the “sport” was of course those blissful early years of my life. My young eyes widened with excitement from let’s say 1988 to 1998 or so. After the fact, I still loved it, but not in the same way. That’s the thing about maturing, you change. The business was always in my blood though and I to this day cannot shake it completely. I tried to because after guys I legitimately considered heroes started dropping dead from suicide or drug abuse or God knows what else, it just wasn’t fun anymore. Chris Benoit is the most drastic example. Loved the guy. And then…yeah.
Just sitting back and reading a bit of what I typed is embarrassing on some level. Calling men in spandex who fake fight “heroes” is probably completely ridiculous to most people and I understand that, but just let me have it. It meant a lot to 8 year old me when the Big Bossman twirled the nightstick, it meant a lot to 8 year old me when the Ultimate Warrior tore like a bat out of hell down the entrance way and it meant a lot to 8 year old me when Jake the Snake DDTed someone suddenly and out of nowhere. That thing about maturing I said? It’s true, you do change. But the things you loved as a kid, the Perfect necksnaps, the Santana flying forearms, they linger. They won’t leave you alone even though all logic and social decency says you should put it away for good. You can’t though. Eventually you just don’t care if someone knows you thought the Road Warriors were the greatest thing in the world and you maybe even wear it like a badge of honor. “God dammit, look at these assholes with all their goofy tattoos and generic personalities. IN MY DAY, MEN WORE FACEPAINT, HAD MANAGERS AND SUCKED DOWN WHISKEY LIKE WATER. AND I LOVED IT. I FUCKING LOVED IT. CAPS…LOCK.
I still had a strong attachment to the Benoits and Eddys of the world as an adult, but that all went tragically to the deepest parts of hell. I just gave up. My thought process was basically this: These guys are all walking death sentences. Why even care? Why even try?
So yes, I was firmly in the “Nothing can shock me anymore” camp of jaded smarky older fans who think Randy Orton fucking sucks. And then you lose a guy of Randy Savage’s stature and my jaded gimmick falls apart like a Billy Gunn main event push. I’m not jaded when one of the guys, MY guys goes. I’m just sad.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not nearly as hurt as the people who knew and loved the Macho Man, but it definitely had me sitting and staring at the floor for a minute. He was never a huge favorite of mine as a kid, frankly, he scared the shit out of me. But like I said, he was one of mine. That group of characters from say 89 to 93 that were so vital to me and my bad little kid bowl cut. I hated Jim Duggan and never had a minute of fondness for ol’ Hacksaw, but when he goes, I will be sad. He is part of a special club that I watched endlessly on old Coliseum video tapes and they will always be special to me. The Macho Man is right at the front of that.
I could tell you about the classic Elizabeth-retirement angle, I could tell you about Wrestlemania 4, I could tell you about the Macho King growing on me like crazy as an avenging baby face and announcer when I realized deranged Ultimate Warrior attacking Randy Savage was fucking hilarious. I won’t though. You already know those stories if you’re reading this most likely.
I will just tell you the basic point of this entire thing: I try to not care about this ridiculous wrestling shit anymore. Then a guy like Savage goes and I remember vividly why I can never stop caring fully. I would never want to lose something that used to make me so happy.
Randy Savage played a huge part in that happiness. When I hated him as he dropped 5 fucking elbows on the Ultimate Warrior’s chest, even then I remember thinking “I will remember this forever.” When he held the ropes open (FUCKING FINALLY) for Miss Elizabeth, I remember thinking “The Macho Man is kind of a nice guy I think. Huh. ” When his number was drawn for the 1992 Royal Rumble and he made a god damn beeline for Jake The Snake Roberts (the man who had ruined his wedding), I remember thinking “THE MADNESS IS LOOSE OH MY GOD”. Hell, even when I got older and smartened up to the business, I remember watching Savage vs. Steamboat at WM 3 and saying to myself “Jesus…Randy is REALLY good. What the hell was wrong with 8 year old me?”
Those things I just listed, they are just a blur, a collection of memories. A collection of memories that makes me smile even now.
I have missed Randy for a long time now. He’s been essentially out of the business for a decade and yet sometimes I randomly flash to him DARTING to the top rope and driving that elbow home. Always after raising both arms above his head of course. Oh yeah, that sweet “grab the guy’s hair and jump over the top to the floor causing his neck to snap off the ropes” move. Oh and the way he’d point at a guy, talk some smack, and then extend both arms to his side, his fingers twiddling in the air. Oh God! His voice! How did I go so long without mentioning his voice?
I could sit and think of things all day that I remember about Savage. And that’s why you got to just let me love the goofy wrestling shit of my youth. It mattered and so did Randy Savage.