An online journal from perhaps the biggest, stupidest Tommy on all the internet.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Yeah, there's original material forthcoming, including a story of my Dad getting bored with Cloverfield, and turning it off and watching MASH reruns. And when I started asking about the monster, he was completely floored, and playing some bullshit game with him.
Well...I guess I told you the story just then....
In his defense, it was the episode of MASH where Radar gives Col. Potter a horse.
Anyway, here's a video. I like it. Even when you know what's going to happen, the payoff is still so worth it...
This does nothing to lessen my personal belief that I am right on the verge of major celebrity/infamy.
Actually, Shyam was getting a picture of local food for a brochure she was putting together. When she told me why she was bringing the camera, I was very, very tempted to order four fried bologna sandwiches.
But everybody knows fried bologna is for breakfast. Usually while suffering from a hangover, or perhaps moon lunacy.
For the record...roast beef, mashed potatoes, macaroni & cheese and broccoli casserole. And a roll. And tea to drink.
Dang...did I do anything on vacation but eat and drink?
You're Young, You Got Your Health...What do you want with a job?"
You're Young, You Got Your Health...What do you want with a job?
That's my favorite line from Raising Arizona.
This is my favorite scene in Raising Arizona, which I ended up watching twice this past week, while on vacation. It's a fine flick, and every time I see it, I always bump it up high on my list whenever I watch it....yet somehow, I tend to make it a year or two between viewings. Maybe it's for the best...there's always something I don't remember every time I see it...
I bring it up, though, because I gotsta return to the job today, after a week off. Trying to keep in the best frame of mind about it, considering I gotta do a turn & burn (leave tonight around 12:30, return tomorrow around 6:30), it's hard to keep a frame of mind anywhere above Dark Lord of the Sith....
I sit here this Sunday, watching the rain fall outside. It's my last day of vacation, and I'll be thankful that I had nine days of sun and warm weather. And there were, initially, plans to head over to historic South Pittsburg, Tennessee to partake of the International Cornbread Festival...and while I was right on the verge of ecstacy at the thought of driving 75 minutes for a corndog and a funnel cake, I think I'll be alright to while my last day of vacation in relative quiet. Maybe I'll catch a movie...
Wandered up above Knoxville last night for my first Tennessee Smokies game of the year. I was really pleased last year when the Cubs joined up with them to make them a minor league affiliate. Sadly, I only made a couple games all last season. Work schedule and real life being what they are, I've already hit a couple games in Chattanooga and this one in Kodak. Wanted to use this vacation to try and get out and do a few of the social things I feel like I put off from time to time.
Cool at the game? The Smokies had Old Style on tap. My couple of previous experiences had been less than pleasant, but the novelty of it led me to grab the first I'd ever had on draft. Not a bad beer. Had a couple more during my time at the game.
As for the game itself? The smokies played the Diamond Jaxx, now the AA affiliate of the Mariners. Sat a couple rows behind the visiting dugout, and got to hear Phil Plantier credit his continuing good looks to lots of beer and standing out in the sun. Donnie Veal pitched shutout ball, but the Smokies bullpen gave up seven between the eighth and ninth innings, and lost it 7-2.
Hit a Starbucks after the game, and learned that the barista...brace yourself...have heard the "I want my coffee as black as my soul" line once or twice before....still, she seemed to like the line "strong enough to best me in an arm wrestling match." I couldn't find a hint of spit in my coffee afterwards, so it seemed all to the good.
Ah well. Y'all take her easy. We'll holler at you tomorrow, when I'm a little more mopey about having to return to work...
Blaghity blahg. A few weeks ago, my brother-in-law recommended a b-gem he found, that he figured would be right up my alley.
The film is Wrestlemaniac. This is the film's Myspace page. If I had a Myspace, I'd befriend this film. But alas, I find myself amongst the First Estate that is Facebook.
The flick's trailer:
You know...I love horror movies. I love bad horror movies even more. But the slasher thing, that wears me out. So, if I get bored of the flick midway through the blog, I hope my sevens of readers will understand:
Anyway....Commence de la Live Blog of "El Mascarado Massacre"
10:28: As I wrote the above, the title screen of the DVD (entitled Wrestlemaniac for the American, British and Vulcan releases) plays a nice little mariachi tune, with a picture of a masked wrestler (presumably Rey Misterio Sr, since he plays the flick's baddie) with his back to the camera. Given this portrait, without knowing that I've received a b-slasher flick from the nice folks at Netflix, I might assume I've rented a light-hearted look at the world of Luche Libre. Alas...it is not the case...as I hope we all find out soon enough....
10:30: I grab a Rogue Dead Guy Ale from the fridge, and I push "Play"
The opening shot has the camera tracking up to a church, presumably an old Spanish church out in a desert.
The difference between this church and any that I have ever visited? The screaming, half naked bloody girl that comes sprinting out the front door.
The flick then moves to the opening credits, with footage of black and white Luche Libre...given the trailer's revelation, I'm guessing the baddie is a former wrassler in the Mexican circuit. Which is cool by me...a relief that he had something to fall back on after his career in the squared circle came to a close.
The same music that played over the DVD's menu screen plays here. If choice of music were the sole factor in choosing a home country, Mexico would come in close to last, on my list
10:38: I'm going to be honest with you. I end up rooting for the bad guy in most horror/slasher flicks. It's not because I agree so much with the baddie, it's that I end up in such an ill state with most of the "protagonista."
I called them protagonista because they're in Mexico.
In the desert, presumably, driving a van, miles from anywhere. However, in the wilderness, the reflections of windshields on a highway in the very near distance.
10:40: Okay, I'm the asshole. You could argue that it was that highway that they missed, per a conversation a couple minutes later....
10:43: Two Questions: Should you ever trust somebody in a gas station?
Second: This movie, I guess, is dependent upon you the viewer believing that the characters within the movie think professional wrestling is real.
I can make the leap. It makes the movie at least as good as that episode of Baywatch where Hulk Hogan fights Vader.
10:46: I want to live in this world. Apparently, pro wrestling is in the Olympics in this world. I would give a major damn about the Olympics.
So, for exposition, we have the fat guy explaining who the bad guy is. Apparently, he's wrestler created in the 60's for the purpose of beating the Russians in wrestling at the Olympics. Possibly from the body parts of 3 other wrestlers. Mexican science can create FrankenWrassler, but can't put gas stations in easy reach of anybody, anywhere....
Does any filmmaker anywhere actually do the shot framing technique using the thumb and forefingers to make a rectangle? Just curious
10:50: There's a building with the word "Voorhees" written on it.
Okay, so these six people have gone into the wilderness of Mexico to shoot porn. Got that? Good. The 14-year-old me is kinda jealous right now. And, at 22 minutes in, there is nudity.
In other news, I've been watching this movie for 22 minutes. Proud?
So, they're shooting some "porn," and one the girls gets sick. Presumably from the idea of porning it up with the lead character, who is something of a cross between Mickey Rourke and Frankie Muniz, if you can wrap your brains around that one....
Anyway, the chick runs to vomit, and wanders several hundred yards from the porn location.
Now, I've never had to run, vomiting, from a porn set. Yet. But I figure around the corner would suffice.
Just saying. Not saying there's no monsters creeping around the corner. Just saying the likelihood is muchly decreased.
10:58: So, the porn director wanted to be the next Scorcese, but figured there was more money in porn. It's nice to have that kind of confidence when making your choice in your career path...especially by a guy who's cracked a couple of dick jokes already.
I somehow don't think Martin Scorcese cracks a lot of dick jokes. Might be wrong. But if I were a betting man.
11:02: Okay...somebody just threw something out of a dark building, and it hits the guy in the chest. You're in a creepy, deserted town. Whaddaya do? I'd give the room a health berth, at the very least. That is a move designed mostly around the prevention of Luchadores picking me up by the neck, and killing me. Mother didn't raise many fools. And at any rate, even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
11:05: Awful fresh paint for a town that's been deserted for 40 years. The greens are fresh, the whites are clean. Though I will admit that the town is out of the way, and he doesn't get many visitors to kill. Probably keeps the town tidy, while he's waiting. Even Maniac Luchadore Killers gotta have a hobby. Do you think the people at the Home Depot have a nickname for the guy?
I ask because I nickname most of my customers. Especially the Maniac Luchadore Killers. I call one of them "Oliver" because he wears a mask, and a hood, and kills people with Arrows.
11:09: Suddenly I like the director of the porn a lot.
Trapped in the small room with the maniacal killer trying to bust through....he asks another, much smaller character to "Hold the Door!" And promptly uses that time to jump through a window to escape.
Then, he locks the other two surviving characters out.
This Scorcese Wannabe rocks.
11:12: This movie is 40 minutes old, and already two of the six who came to town are dead, and a third is getting the crap beaten out of him. These Luchadores are very fast paced. An American movie would have dragged this action out over several Monday Nights.
Ouch. Make that three of six, with the third getting his face pulled off while he was still alive.
To think I bitched about getting stung by a bumblebee. At least Mexican wrestlers aren't pulling my face off while I'm still alive....
Okay....so, two of our heroes have wandered into the Lair of El Mascarado. And instead of devising a plan to get to safety, he decides to load up the reel-to-reel in search of exposition, taking time and making noise....
Also...couldn't you just have one Lobotomy? Doesn't the Lobotomy remove the frontal lobe? Or are there other Brain Lobes you could have removed?
I think I'm buying into the movie a little too much...
11:17: I have been watching this movie for 46 minutes. There hasn't been nearly enough nudity, to be honest with you. If I weren't blogging this sumbitch, I'd have turned this booger off already. Good thing I find running off at the mouth so entertaining.
Did this movie come out before, or after Kane's film feature debut in See No Evil?
Okay. So the fat guy and the blonde chick run into his lair, where he has the faces he's ripped off affixed to his walls. And while it's not the decorating choice I'd have made, I wonder how they're affixed.
Tape? Glue? Does he buy staples at Home Depot when he's buying paint?
11:23: Hey! El Mascarado just used a back breaker. Literally. The only other person I saw that work on was Batman, back in the day. Stupid Bane. Did you hear they're killing Bruce Wayne in the comics, by the way. Ain't that some shit?
So, the Fat Guy decides to don his luchadore's mask, that he's been carrying with him, conveniently. Gets his ass kicked once. Gets up, gets beat again. What's he thinking? I'm in better shape than this guy is, and I pulled a muscle in my chest, putting stuff into my loft (a small open space above one of my closets, to answer a question from a post ago....)
You know, the first time I find a corpse of a friend with their face pulled off, I run for the hills, looking for Proper Authorities.
I don't know who that is, precisely. Maybe the police. Maybe the Army. Maybe Bob Barker and the Barker's Beauties. All I know is that in the course of investigating my friends getting their faces torn off, I am not "a proper authority."
11:30: I've been watching this flick for 59 minutes. Huzzah.
This is must me thinking out loud. But, I'm running from a maniac, whether it be a wrestlemaniac or some other type, and I'd like ot think I have presence of mind to go somewhere where I have at least two exits, if not more. Point is, I'd like to not be trapped someplace.
Also, I think I'd carry a gun.
In the eternal battle of Gun vs. Wrestler, Gun wins every time.
Just ask Dino Bravo.
11:34: I gotta wonder. Does El Mascarado wear his wrestling tights and mask all the time? Or does he keep them hung up, wearing them only when porn crews come into his town? I ask because the paint is fresh, but there is not a drop of paint on his tights. Nor is there blood from previous victims.
I'd guess El Mascarado is a blue jeans and t-shirt type of fellow, when he's not killing maniacally.
11:36: Okay. I've paused the movie. We're at 1:03:05 in the movie, and all but one of the original six pornsters is dead. She has successfully eluded El Mascarado to this point. She jumps in the van (which she fixed) to drive away, but forgets that she used the keys to stab the baddie moments earlier. She turns on the headlamps, to find El Mascarado standing in front of the van.
She attempts to run, but gets her denim shorts caught on the seat belt buckle. They rip off, conveniently.
I've paused it, because I don't want this thought to elude me. I've ripped many a pair of pants in my life. It's just a hazzard of being a somewhat klutzy big guy. Never once have I had a pair of pants rip so conveniently.
Now, I'm not grotesquely stupid. I understand that we need some excuse for our "heroine" to run around a bit more in her panties. And I'm all for that. But I think I might have dug the movie a touch more if she'd just announced to the world "I'll be able to run faster without these pants!"
Also, I tend to avoid the Short-shorts. It's just not a look that would work. Also, it's hard enough to find a girlfriend. And it's just not a conversation I want to have with my Dad. "I wear them because they're comfortable, Dad. No other reason!"
Okay. It weren't a good thought. But I wanted to get it out.
Also, I wanted to text my brother-in-law that this movie rules.
11:42: I hate when I slip in somebody else's blood.
How do you think El Mascarado cleans up his wrestling ring/abattoir? I think a spigot and a water hose (available at your neighborhood Home Depot) would do the job nicely. Also, a heavy duty squeegee.
11:47: Okay...our heroine has escaped from El Mascarado, though she has not followed our fat friend's advice to remove his mask. Mascarado, meanwhile, has been impaled, and is standing like a tri-pod, using the lead pipe as the third leg.
And we are now back to our open shot of the movie.
She runs to the van. With the lights left on.
Holy Shit! He stabbled her with the same pole she stabbed him with!
That's Just Not Sanitary!!!!
The Mexico State Boxing and Wrestling Commission should hear about that.
Okay, so El Mascarado wins.
Plus, he score a badass van.
All the more to carry home from Home Depot.
Good for him.
I leave this movie with a twofold good feeling in my heart.
A.) It makes me want to make a movie. Because I think I could do better.
B.) None of the characters exhibited any positive personality traits (with the possible exception of the one guy, who knew loads about wrasslin....). And they didn't win. Good. More food and beer for me.
I don't want to alarm any of my sevens of readers, but there is a small possibility that I am falling apart at the seams. Part of me believes that my corporeal form is just not strong enough to contain the awesomeness held within. Although, I grant you, I'm probably just a klutz.
Starting about two weeks ago...my bathroom door sticks, especially when the room's gotten steamed up from a shower. I wasn't thinking, and opened the door across the big toe of my right foot. Pulled a sizable fraction of that toe's toenail clean off. Not only has it been a test in courage and tenacity pulling a sock on each of these last couple of weeks, but I've seemed to bump that foot, and that toe specifically, approximately 30 times a day.
Then, one day last week, while at work, I'm putting stuff on a bulletin board. To free up hands, I put a piece of paper I'm holding in my mouth. I leave it there long enough to dry and set stronger than most commercial glues. When I pull the piece of paper out of my mouth, I pull a hunk of mouth flesh out with it. Honestly, if I'd had somebody walk up to me and stab me in the neck, I don't know that I'd have bled as much. I guess I'd prefer that nobody stab me on the inside of my mouth.
Then, yesterday, I'm walking out to my truck. It's a nice day--don't know that I could have picked a better week to take a vacation. It being a nice day, and braving fear of ridicule for my messed up big toe, I'm wearing sandals. Well, I'm picking stuff up out of the passenger seat of my truck. I turn, take a step, and a searing pain hits me on the top of my foot, about a quarter of an inch from my second and third toes. A bumblebee was apparently scouting the clover out, and found its way lodged under the webbing of my sandals. That sucked.
Lastly, I've pulled a muscle in my chest. Don't know how, though if I had to guess it came putting stuff up onto my loft yesterday. All I know it's like a frog punch in the chest from Jesus every time I sneeze. Which is a lot.
Let me be the first to welcome you to April the 20th, 2008.
Not much going on, two minutes in.
Had a couple beers late this evening. Am currently watching Big Lebowski, just to make sure they haven't changed anything since the last time. Currently, I'm at the part where the Dude has just gotten picked up after getting doped by Jackie Treehorn, and the police chief is about to throw his coffee mug at him.
There. It just happened.
Live blogging the Dude.
Anyway, just a warning involving the 20th of April:
It apparently involves a lot of urination.
If it's anything like the 19th.
Anyway. Y'all have a good night. And if anybody asks you about the dead iguana on the railing of the federal buildings, tell'em Willie did it, and you tried to talk him out of it.
If you think about it, that's basically the truth.
I leave you with one last thought: That little widget of pork that everybody throws away out of the can of pork and beans would feed an entire African nation for weeks. And they'd be happy to have it.
Which tells me the fine folks from General Mills aren't doing enough to help those people's plights.
Damn. Wouldn't it be nice to know that those three, wise and benevolent chefs on the front of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch Box saved an entire continent from world hunger?
Maybe then I'd stop yelling at them about using up all the damn toilet paper.
The cheap stuff is for cereal cartoon characters. The Cottonelle is for the guy what pays the rent.
It's not just Trix that the rabbit can't have.
I'll black a cartoon's eye quicker than Crisco'd Owlshit if he steals my buttwipe again.
ATHENS, Tenn. (AP) -- Athens police say two men walking to get gas for their empty car started fighting over who should pay for it and ended up in jail, one with minor stab wounds.
Police said both David A. Lundsford of Sweetwater and Roger Gifford of Athens remain in custody pending a court appearance Friday.
A police report shows Lundsford suffered a minor stab wound in the abdomen, apparently inflicted with a pocket knife early Wednesday. A witness told police that she saw Lundsford punching Gifford.
Lundsford told officers that he and Gifford were walking north on Congress Parkway after running out of gas and they started arguing about who should pay when they got to the pump.
Both men are charged with public intoxication.
This happened in my hometown. Just up the road, in fact.
Sometimes, I shake my head at this world we live in, and the fact that the small town I live in is not the same one I grew up in.
But then, I'm not grotesquely naive. This sort of shit happens all the time all over the world, all throughout history. If we weren't stabbing each other over gasoline, we'd find something else to stab each other about. People all over the world, but especially in Athens. We're the stabbingest bunch of people I've ever met. They call us "The Friendly City," and I suppose that's true, if "Friendly" means "Stabbed in the Eye."
But, I digress a bit.
I can't find a lot of fault in the stabber. Gas is expensive. Very expensive. Steven's probably my best friend in the world, and I'd stab him if I thought it was his turn to pay for gas, and he was shirking his responsibility.
It started well enough. Hit our first Lookouts game of the season. The Looks won on some good batwork, though they exhibited the same problems of the Lookouts of the last few seasons (and the Reds of today)...sloppy defense and even sloppier baserunning. They ran themselves out of innings twice. That kind of stupid will fit in well with Dusty Baker up there in Cincy. Still, they put the bat on the ball pretty consistently, this outing, and managed to slug their way to victory.
Wandered out to lunch Friday with Eric, from Straight White Guy. There, we both ran across our first fellow named "Catlin" that either of us had met in our lives. Despite his apologies that it was early in his Applebee's career, he did us both well. We both consumed a hog's pile of food.
And the rest of the weekend?
There was work, work and more work.
I've said it before that if you should ever have opportunity to take part in a grocery inventory...indeed, a retail inventory of any kind, I'd skip it. It is during these times that I call into question whether or not I'm speaking English.
One of my favorite sayings is this one: Do not write to be understood...write so that you are not misunderstood. I like that one...and I think it can be extended to communications verbal.
However, I can't tell you how many times these past 36 hours I explained something to somebody, had them explain it back to me correctly, and then had them do it incorrectly. Sometimes I wonder if there is a disconnect between the hands and brains of those I work with.
Or I wonder if my life is simply the focus of a Truman Show/Candid Camera hybrid...and here in a few months, just after I've beaten somebody to death when they can't figure out what I mean when I say "fill the milk case" they'll reveal that it's all been an experiment, and I was 12 minutes away from walking away with 50 million dollars, and a life time of celebrity.....
Anyway. I-Day is tomorrow. Then we move on toward vacation. Where I get to sleep my ass off.
Luckily, Tennessee is several feet long, and by my reckoning, those storms won't reach us until 2011. By which time Bill will have his orbiting laser platform flying and functional, and we'll have nothing to fear from these "storms."
Or, as I like to call them: Nature's Cowardly Assholes.
Y'all think on it.
Also: it bugs me when somebody says "I'm gonna take a piss" and I say "don't take one of mine!" and they don't get it. Because I don't have time to explain to them that my pisses are valuable, and that it's what I use instead of gasoline in my truck.
Like everything I say is some manner of gobbledygook.
That ratio is rising, I grant you, like the floodwaters of distant, wild West Tennessee. But there is a grain of truth to everything I say.
Except for that last sentence. So much bullshit I had to punch myself in the eye.
Used to hit the wrasslin' at the Tennessee Fairgrounds every Wednesday, for the NWA-TNA weekly PPV. This was, of course, before they migrated to Orlando, took up the six-sided ring, and installed Kurt Angle as their Triple H.
The NWA-TNA is why I can't look at Dusty Rhodes without hearing the words "a midget beating off in a trash can..."
I realized, after I read news of Charlton Heston's death, that I could not remember Charlton Heston himself. I remember his work. I can list you any number of roles he played, and great lines he made famous by uttering them.
However, when my mental file opens to recall what Charlton Heston looked and sounded like, I can remember only Phil Hartman's portrayal of him from SNL.
I have the same problem with Frank Sinatra, actually. First things that pops to mind is Phil's parody...
Then I remembered that Phil Hartman was also dead.
Yeah, it's a little bit of a depressing morning, here at Casa de Big Stupid Tommy....
The picture is blurry, and I apologize, because I am maybe the worst photographer ever. However, it does nothing to lessen the impact of what a horrible, perversion of a wonderful food this is.
During a trip to the World Market for interesting beers, I ran across this on the candy aisle. Being a fan of the licorice, the idea of a tasty snack with decreased potential for tooth rottage was something exciting.
They look like gummy bears. Only made of licorice. Not a bad proposition at all, I thought.
They smelled fine.
But that was where the goodness ended.
I can't describe the taste well, although it's like the mixed Mr. Clean and the sawdusty dry-em stuff they put on vomit in grade school
I managed to down 4.
They are from Holland. Which, to me, is reason enough to wipe that heaven forsaken country off the face of the Earth, for having such a perversion enter into the mart of international commerce. Honestly, as if it weren't obnoxious enough to throw your two names for your country, you have to foist this pseudo licorice upon the rest of western civilization?
If I were King of the World, I'd revoke your first world status.
How's that, Amsterdam? Destroy an infrastructure, break down a couple of dikes. Maybe throw a little ebola into the mix. You'd have Bono and John Mayer singing songs for you on Labor Day in no time.
Don't mess with my licorice.
Even more disconcerting was this: I cannot photograph it, because I suck. But written on the lid of this disgusting treat are these words: "Excessive Consumption May Produce a Laxative Effect."
I hope that I am in no danger of such side-effects. However, "excessive" is a relative term. I ate four. And given the horrible taste, I would daresay Four is excessive.
Wouldn't that be just the day? I eat four of a horrible piece-of-shit candy, shun the rest, and still get the hershey squirts for my trouble.
Probably be a good thing I'm just some dude on a computer watching "Meet the Robinsons" in East Tennessee, and not President of the U.S....otherwise, there might be a smoking crater where the Red Light District once was.