Overkill
I just saw Halloween 2. Wow. It was mostly what I expected.
I will start by reminding all of my affection for Rob Zombie films. I’ve seen every one in a theater, at least those shown in theaters. I go in with low expectations, but expect to be entertained. This film didn’t entertain me.
I will start with what I liked. My favorite part of the Zombie film series is the skewed sense of humor. (Pun intended.) Killer clowns, lusty busty babes, hillbilly humor and adrenaline-fueled rushes. I love to play ‘spot the has-been,’ where character actors from the past reappear in cameos. (This film has small parts played by Margot Kidder and Howard Hesseman. Howard is now a dead ringer for one of my cousins.) Glad to see he’s still making appearances.
I laughed exactly once, when Malcolm McDowell referred to Al Yankovich as “Mr Weird.” That’s how unfunny it was.
Did I go expecting to laugh? Maybe a little, says my morbid mind. I find humor in sick places, and Rob Zombie has a way of finding those places. This movie needed way more laughs.
It did not lack for intensity, action or pacing. The opening sequence went on for a bit, and when it ended I heard an audible gasp and a deep breath from the lady sitting behind me. I was curious to see if she’d make it to the end.
Most didn’t. Several couples left before half an hour went by, and when I departed there were two people left in the theater, including Gasping Lady behind me. With fifteen minutes to go, there was nothing to see that I hadn’t already seen, ad nauseum. If this film had focused on sex instead of gore and violence, it would be considered hardcore pornography. (Meant as a compliment.) Unfortunately, the film shoots its wad early on. It’s like trying to watch porno right after sex. Um, I’m ready to watch something else now. I was more interested in catching a prompt bus home than finding out who makes it and who gets it. I’m guessing they ALL get it.
I’m glad I can support Rob Zombie’s film career. I have no doubt his next feature, coming out on DVD in a month or so, will be more up my alley. It’s already number one in my Netflix queue.
The movie did evoke a lot of emotion. The excessive brutality left me feeling beaten up. On the way home I thought of loved ones, of friends, how I should be more tolerant of those I care about and less intolerant of those I’m not so fond of. Thinking how I should notch it back a little, be more compassionate and less in your face. Guess I’m feeling a little too out there this weekend. I need some smiles. I need some quiet.
I think I need a hug.
Thanks for the overkill, Rob Zombie.
A Roll With Honey
The Mystery Machine pulled up in front of my house. I met the lovely Ms Clairissa in the middle of the street for hugs. The six guys drinking beer and fixing their cars waved at us, nudging each other. Mornin’, boys!
We closed her van door and disappeared into the house. It had been a couple of months since we’d seen each other. Her hair was bleached white, with streaks of purple here and there. She looked her same spunky self, maybe a bit tired and stressed. After being mauled by the dog, we retreated to my room. She tossed the bag of hair-gear on the bed and laid down next to it.
“Mmm, your bed is so soft.”
“Used to be yours, remember?”
“Yeah, huh?” She closed her eyes.
“Want a beer? I also have brandy, or diet soda.”
She looked up at me. “Water would be fine. I’ve got a lot of driving to do.”
I fetched, then sat next to her. We began catching up, it seemed we had a lot to talk about. I told tales of chasing girls at work, and how I’d been after one in particular without much luck. She patted my hand and gave me the “Persevere, little pilgrim” speech. She cut loose with more of a rant than usual, then sighed a heavy sigh. “Wow. I feel ten pounds lighter!” We stepped out back so she could smoke, and in what seemed like moments, it was time for her to go.
Instead of saying goodbye, I piled into the van with her. She had a lunch date, a meeting with a client, then another haircut, all in the neighborhood she used to have the shop in. ‘You always came to my shop to hang out. It makes sense that you do the same with my van.” We hit the road, me riding shotgun and using an index finger like a redneck OnStar.
As we pulled up to a stoplight on the freeway offramp, she made eye contact with a sign-wielder. He approached the van, and before he could say anything, Clairissa asked, sweet as pie, “Got a cigarette?”
His brow furrowed ever so quickly, then he said, “Yeah, sure.” He handed her a Marlboro.
“Thanks, I’m kinda out of cigarettes.” She tore it in half and lit the filtered part.
“Well, I’m kinda outta money!” He eyeballed me, recognizing me from work. (I know a lot of bums.) I nodded at him, not moving toward my pockets.
“Gotcha, hon.” Clairissa pulled what to be by my trained eye about $1.50 in change and dumped it into his hand. He thanked her, still begrudging giving up the ciggy. We rolled on.
“Nice way to turn it around. I’d have told him to go fuck himself.” I paused, smiling at her. “You too. I hate it when people bum me. Go buy your own goddamn cigarettes!”
“He used to walk Daddy for me. I let him crash inside the shop one night during the ice storm. Friend for life.”
We rolled past the old Hot Box. I didn’t even look, since who I’d have been looking for was next to me. Her lunch date was a few blocks away, it was time to say goodbye. She pulled up next to the old bus stop.
The light was changing, so we shared an awkward cheek-kiss and I jumped. She got back into traffic, and waved as she rode off into the sunset.
I sat at the bus stop in front of the gas station, feeling the deja vu. Last year at this time I’d have been doing the same thing, hanging out with Clairissa in this neighborhood, killing time until it was time to pick up my paycheck, or go see a girlfriend, or go try to find a girlfriend. We don’t get to hang out like we used to, but when we do it’s always fun.
And soul-refreshing. We have a way of recharging each other’s batteries. It’s what friends do.
Disgruntled by the new bus system, I had to pay attention to make connections to get home. Last year at this time one bus would take me home, now it’s three transfers. Grr… On the upside? I got a sweet text message from a special someone, getting me all in adither about Saturday.
The bus ride home was a sweet one. It’s all your fault, Clairissa.
The Royal Flush
Clairissa came by today. It soon became obvious that we need to start catching up more often.
Nemo is No Mo’. She and Clairissa had a parting of the ways.
I was stunned by the news. I figured they’d be together forever, or at least for a long time. Living in a van takes its toll on even the most understanding. Clairissa is tolerant and long-suffering, and Nemo seemed a cool chick. I was rooting for them.
Clairissa, despite being an open book with me, can keep a secret. The best one? That Nemo actually found the nickname Nemo offensive. I had no idea. When coming up with a nickname, I looked at her MySpace page for clues. As I read through her bio, I saw that one of her favorite movies was Finding Nemo. When I first mentioned it, I asked Nemo if it was okay, and she gave a wry smile and said, “Yes, it’s fine.” That was good enough for me, and I ran with it. Come to find out…
Nemo (the girl) is a salt-water aquarium/fish expert. When the movie came out, much like with bunnies at Easter, people flocked to pet stores to get that exact combination of fish. In the real world, it’s an unlikely pairing. When you factor in the whole “fish” thing, and Ellen’s voice, uhh… Not fucking cool, dude. I was oblivious.
Sorry, (real name here.) I thought I was being clever and thoughtful. I meant nothing but kind thoughts and best wishes.
So, now, we will put Nemo to rest. Clairissa put it best. “I see a little tombstone out in the backyard, with daisies.”
Or, as Nemo herself would have put it, “Rest in pieces.”
Thanks to you for the photo.
The Bipolar Rollercoaster Ride
Up and down. Up and down.
Soaring highs and crashing lows.
My love life is definitely bipolar right now. Read the rest of this entry »
Back to Life, Back to Reality
If it looks too good to be true, it probably is.
What were you thinking?
At my age you’d think the schoolboy stuff would be over and done with. Guess I’m a poster child for arrested development.
Welcome back to the bipolar rollercoaster ride of love. I probably shouldn’t call it love yet, considering we’ve only had one date. Date number two didn’t go well. In fact, it didn’t go at all. Read the rest of this entry »
Cookies and Jesus Juice
Yes, it’s girl bait. I’m chasing after a young girl. Shameless, aren’t I?
Okay, before you start dialing Dateline NBC and John Walsh, let me explain. She’s only two years younger than my stepdaughter, and yes, she knows how old I am. (I’ll work the step-daughter into the conversation, I promise.) On our first date we met at a bar, and one of the old guys from the avenue was chatting her up. “Thank god you got here when you did. The chickenhawks were circling!”
I looked at the “duffer” and grinned inward. I’ve probably got five years on him. But I took the opening. “Speaking of chickenhawks, how old do you think I am?”
Angel smiled, “Dunno, hadn’t thought much about it.”
“How old is your dad? “I asked.
“Dunno that either. Never met him.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I braced myself and asked, “How old do you think I am?”
“Thirty-eight?” She was sipping ice water through the straw in my glass.
“Add ten to that.”
Her eyes bugged, and she set my glass down. “Get the fuck outta here.”
It was a statement of surprise, not an order to depart.
“But I feel fifteen here,” I said, pointing to my head and heart. “Well, maybe twenty. I’ve matured a little, but I’ve got a long way to go.” Read the rest of this entry »
Deviant Misfit Action Figures
The kids in the house have always provided me with oddball action figures from happy meals, etc…
Over the years the collection has grown. While I only keep the quirkier ones, they still add up. This batch just happened to catch my eye.
All right, Yoda and Jar Jar. How long has this been going on?
Au revoir, mon Cherie
I’ve been dreading this week. For the last year I’ve known it was coming, so it’s not like I haven’t had time to prepare. That doesn’t make it any easier.
The time has come for my buddy Mizelle to move to France. She’s selling her stuff and packing the rest to haul to California. She bought a Chevy van to live in while she’s stateside. (I’m loving the fact that my favorite women are buying exactly the kind of van their daddies warned them to stay out of. Clairissa’s looks like the Mystery Machine. Haven’t seen Mizelle’s yet.)
I met Mizelle in 1997, when she was a fresh-faced young’un arriving from Salt Lake City with a posse of girlfriends. One by one the girlfriends moved away, but Mizelle liked it here. We became fast if not unlikely friends. In late 1999 she married a young man and disappeared for several years, leaving me crushed. Crush being the operative word. I don’t think I’ve ever been so smitten. Being a realist, I accepted things. It still felt like I’d lost a body part.
When fate reunited us in 2003, we quickly made up for lost time. Suddenly we were talking on the phone every day, hitting every buffet in town, spending full days hopping movie theaters. While not a physical relationship, it was intimate. We shared secrets we’d tell no others. It was like being each other’s psychiatrist. We explored, experimented. We’d make trips to the Goodwill dump, not to get rid of things but to scavenge. (She hated buying clothes that cost more than $1.29 a pound.) With her as arm candy, I looked like the luckiest guy in the world.
Eventually she met a young man who captured her fancy, the Frenchman. I resented the hell out of him at first, until I met him. Instead of being jealous, I was happy for her. I’d seen the boyfriends come and go, but could tell this was different. There are communication difficulties: He speaks minimum English, and I’m going to have to Google the title of this to make sure I’m not saying something offensive. (Without the visual help, talking on the phone with him is nearly impossible. ) We do have one thing in common. We both worship his lovely wife, and we’re both okay with it.
It sounds like a girl’s dream. Meet her dream man in Australia, he follows her around the world, they marry and make a beautiful baby, then they move to the French countryside to make wine and raise their little girl. (Who, by the way, has more passport stamps already than I’ll ever see in a lifetime.) I can’t think of a girl more deserving of a storybook ending.
This isn’t goodbye. She will have flight benefits for the next couple of years, and I’m guessing, hoping, that she’ll coast-hop up from mom’s to see me once in a while. It’ll be a day of buffets, movies and long drives. We’re good at those things.
We are supposed to meet up this week, before she heads down the coast to Cali. I haven’t cried yet, but I feel a storm brewing. I haven’t cried over her in a long, long time, so I guess I’m due. I’ll try to keep it together until they’re driving away. I promise I’ll try.
Mizelle, I love you. I have since I met you. There’s a big ol’ soft spot in my heart and head for you. You’ve been a cherished friend, a constant in my life, and you will be missed, terribly missed. But the time has come for me to share you with the rest of the world. (It’s more like I’m sending you off to terrorize France, and show them a thing or two about fashion, but I digress.) I’ll be here when you come back. You know, in case you need to borrow a sleeping bag and a burned-out car to sleep in for a night.
Travel safe, and write when you get there.
Always,
C
Pork and Beans
I’ve addressed the subject of earworms before. You get a song stuck in your head, and sometimes it goes on for months. Singing (internally, please) the theme to Gilligan’s Island helps, but only for a while.
This summer’s earworm is a Shinedown song, played to death on KUFO. I believe it’s called “The Sound of Madness.” It truly is in my case. The opening notes send me rushing to the radio, but the damage is done. I hear it for the rest of the day, and the chorus is still playing in my head when I wake up the next morning.
The sad part is, my brain tends to rework the lyrics. The part where the guy sings “Take your medicine!” has been overdubbed with “Shave your genitals!” Imagine how maddening it would be to walk around all day having a big little voice in your head shouting “Shave your genitals!” It wouldn’t be funny if it were happening to you…
There have been other major earworms, songs that have been embraced over time. Kid Rock’s Bawitaba (or however the fuck you spell it)
was like that ten years ago. (Ten years? Jesus.) The opening notes would send me running for the radio. Alas, the rest of the day I’d be bopping along, “Ta dang ta dang diggy diggy…” It wasn’t until I heard the live Woodstock version that the song became credible to me. Now I enjoy it when I hear it. I envision burning Honey Buckets and mudbog fights involving Red Hot Chili Peppers.
This isn’t a new phenomenon. It dates back to the mid-’70s, when Manfred Mann’s cover of Blinded by the Light was in heavy rotation. At first I hated, but came to embrace it when I discovered the word “Deuce” sounded like “douche”, thereby sending my mother into censorship mode. After I showed her the printed lyrics she relented, but it was a small victory. I’m the same kid who, using her logic, decided the classic Londonderry Aire was about a British girl’s ass. I got slapped, but she took the point.
Yesterday, I decided to officially name my earworm of the summer. It’s a song that gets stuck in my head, but it is such a pleasant ditty that I don’t mind. Weezer’s Pork and Beans.
I’d much rather be internally humming “I don’t care. I don’t care, I don’t care.” It sounds much nicer than “Shave your genitals!”
We Gotta Stick Together
Working at a store downtown has its perks and drawbacks. I write about the drawbacks frequently, but there are a lot of upsides. I interact with a small army of service workers on a daily basis; we are brothers and sisters in arms. (As in “Hook your arm in mine as we walk through this patch of beggars.”) I interact with security officers, police, waitstaff, hotel people. We are the grease that keeps the wheels rolling. Read the rest of this entry »
Dingleberry Gazette 