He is a god amongst men. A titan amongst mere mortals. He is the first World Air Guitar Champion from the U.S. of A. He is C-Diddy.
I strongly, strongly, STRONGLY suggest that you rent/watch Air Guitar Nation completely spoiler free (I think it's the only way you'll get the full force of its impact), but if you must get a taste of the pudding before you eat the pie, then witness C-Diddy in all his glorious splendor.
The beauty of the internets is that someone, somewhere has already written something that corresponds exactly with what you think, and probably better. This is especially true about reviews.
I didn't read any reviews of Transformers before we went on Tuesday night; I thought I'd try and maintain some element of suspense. I've only read two so far - Harry's and Quint's on AICN - and I think I can stop reading now. Quint says it all, and with far greater detail than I ever would've used.
I can't remember the last time I saw a movie that left me this befuddled that it actually existed. Now I know how your parents felt when they took you to see TRANSFORMERS THE MOVIE. "Well, I guess this is what kids like now. Huh." ...
I know it's not fair to drop the B&R bomb, it's like comparing people to Hitler in political discussion. But TRANSFORMERS is honestly approaching BATMAN AND ROBIN proportions of horribleness. You can't say it's as bad, because the lighting is nice and nobody's wearing rubber fetish costumes or pink gorilla suits, but it's a similar type of minding-numbing machine gun barrage of moronic, inept garbage. And it goes on for almost 2 1/2 hours, longer than some interrogations...
I can't see enjoying this on anything other than an ironic or anthropological "human beings really made this!" type level. No matter how it plays this summer, this movie is so full of bad taste and "what the fuck?" moments that I do believe it will live on. Ten or fifteen years from now, when some theater in a college town plays it as a double feature with ROADHOUSE, it will absolutely kill.
The only way I differ from him is that I thought many of the jokes in the movie were actually funny, and I did find myself laughing out loud and having a good ol' time during about the entire first half of the movie. Especially during the masturbation joke. Maybe I was delirious because it was so late at night, or maybe I still have the maturity of a 13 year old. Probably both. Regardless, read on, if you so wish to be spoiled, because Quint nails it.
P.S. Megan Fox is unfuckingbelievably hot in this movie. If Tito wouldn't have been sitting next to me, I probably would've rubbed one out. Several times.
P.S.S. Two other ways I disagree with Quint, but that don't have to do with this movie: I was entertained by Bad Boys 2, and I loved Armageddon. And I'm talking LOVED. As in, I fucking cried when Bruce Willis took Ben Afflek's spot on the suicide run.
Star Wars quietly turned 30 last week (at least it seemed quiet by media coverage standards). All week long, the fanboy internet experienced a collective circle jerk (I was stuck between a fat, balding thirty-five year old who lives with his mother, and Kevin Smith), the climax of which was Olivia Munn donning slave-girl Leia garb for a very special episode of Attack of the Show.
Good grief, she is fit. Her Wonder Woman always did a little something for me, but holy bejeezus. Nerdgasm, indeed.
Forgot to share this yesterday. I had read that Lucas was the scheduled guest for Late Night this past Tuesday, so of course, I had to watch it. Conan opened up the show with this bit, inside ILM(!), which was golden.
Before you sit down to view it, make sure no one can see you, because I guarantee you will get a nerd chubby.
And the actual Lucas interview, also required viewing:
You're deep into a self-love session and have no fewer than 30 tabs open in Firefox, each with a different stimulating medium (why choose between Keeley and Pinder when you can have both, simultaneously? God bless the internets!). Just before you reach that 8 seconds of bliss, however, your machine slows to a snail's pace. You pull out your hair and rend your garments in anguish; your masturbatory rythm is ruined, thanks to the 15 second delay in just switching between tabs.
Two possible pre-emptive measures could solve your problems: 1) buy a new computer, or at least upgrade your memory, or 2) go here and find different ways to reduce the 'fox's memory usage. Some of the suggestions are obvious (clear your history), but others are very clever (assign a memory cache).
Recently, but very belatedly, I chose the former; now I tab away, without fear:
As you're all aware, not only is Grindhouse going to be presented as a double feature, but it will be shown complete with faux trailers for fictional films. Eli Roth (Hostel), Edgar Wright (Sean of the Dead), and Rob Zombie (uhhh) are each directing one.
Head over to IGN to see Roth's work on Thanksgiving. It's got all kinds of nudity, so you'll need to verify your age.
Hooray, IGN!
This comes out on Friday... but go see it on Monday!
Well, friends, I won't lie. The reason I've not posted in a couple days is that every last free second I've had lately I've spent trying to learn all I can about the Mac and Tiger. I even bought David Pogue's 900 page "Missing Manual" (information overload.)
I'm terribly self-conscious of my current n00b status, especially after spending my life thus far a weathered and battleweary, yet prideful, Windows veteran. I'm trying to alleviate the situation as quickly as possible - total immersion is the ticket!
Update on hard drive recovery: It seems that no one I know owns a desktop (!), which places a hold on any forward progress with respect to recovering my multiple GBs of sloppy gay porn. Oh wait - Mango! Last time I was at his house, he had about 12 computers plugged in all over the place. Yes, yes, Mango...
First, Richard's. Indy 4 has a release date! Shooting starts in June, with a worldwide premier of May 22, 2008. Hip hip.
A funny rumor: Supposedly Harrison Ford threatened to quit the show because the powers that be weren't going to let him use a real whip. The whip was going to be CG fucking I'ed in later (thank you George Lucas)! Of course, Ford wouldn't let Indy become pussy trash like that, so he put his foot down, and now he's got his real whip. Legendary!
Next, Giz's. In case you haven't been keeping up, the Angry Nintendo Nerd has slowly been expanding his sphere of interest. There for a couple months he was the Angry Video Game Nerd, now he's the Angry Movie Nerd. And guess what his first movie rant is? Giz? You guessed it! TMNT 3! God bless it.
Now, I'm uncertain why this is my favorite onomatopoeia, but I can hypothesize several varyingly perverse reasons:
1. It refers to masturbation. Masturbation is both ubiquitous and funny in my demographic. 2. It's accurate. 3. I first discovered it on the very funny but now defunct webcomic, Sexy Losers. I imagine a few of our readers will appreciate the comedy and references to classic nerd-love of Japanese culture.
Now, I know it's no slackening-your-cheek-and-rapidly-pulling-it-away-from-your-teeth-and-releasing, but it communicates the essential hilarity of masturbation in printed form. We can all agree that such important ideas need be communicable in multiple media.
I heard about this on the radio the other day, but blew it off. I mean, come on, Diamond Dave and Eddie reu-fucking-nited, at long last? I've had wet dreams about that unholy [re]union since the sixth grade, but it's never been more than fantasy.
That is, UNTIL NOW. "A source" says a tour kickoff in late April is "99 percent" likely. God bless it.
Before the supposed European "takeover" of the NBA of the last few years, international players were few and far between. Still, it seems like they used to be much more memorable as individuals than the prototypical guys you get in the league now. These were my favorites:
Toni Kukoc. Croatia.
When I think about the Bulls in the 90's for more then 3 seconds, I spontaneously orgasm. Whoops, there I went. Toni Kukoc was the 6th Man par excellence there during the second three-peat, 1996-1998. You know your team is going to be damn near unstoppable when you can rely on a powerhouse like him coming off the bench.
Detlef Schrempf. Germany.
Before Dirk, there was only Detlef. Another great sixth man, he could nail the three like nobody's business as well as post up. Though he established himself as a power player with the Pacers, it wasn't until he was traded to the Sonics that really thrived. If not for the juggernaut Bulls (cream) of 1996, he and the stacked Sonics (Shawn Kemp, Gary Payton, Hersey Hawkins, et al) would've been a gimme for the championship.
Rik "The Flying Dutchman" Smits. Holland.
Ohhhh, the sky hook. Remember it? Remember the big, lanky white guy with the little blonde moustache sky hooking in Patrick Ewing's face? It was a thing of beauty. I never even knew Rick Smits was foreign until I heard him speak in a postgame interview after a playoff series against the Bulls (cream). I always figured he was just a big Larry Bird.
Sarunas Marciulionis. Lithuania (former USSR).
What I remember most about Sarunas is the power drive. As clutch as he was in the NBA though, His greatest accomplishment was probably singlehandedly resurrecting the Lithuanian national team. In 1995, he led them to the European Championship, which they lost Yugoslavia, a team led by...
Vlade Divac. Yugoslavia.
Oh, Vlade. So big. So Slavic. So smooth with the passes. I always like to think of Vlade as a young Laker, when he played with Magic, James Worthy, and Byron Scott. He and the 1990-1991 Lakers made it to the Finals where they became the first victims of (cream cream) Michael Jordan's Bulls. Of course, as we all remember, he was later traded to Charlotte for the draft rights to one Kobe Bryant, the future lifeblood of the L.A. squad.
Watch this one, for sure.
And then, there's the greatest, EVER:
He's not MY-vydas, he's not YOUR-vydas, he's Arvydas!
Ok, ok. I know I'm not the ear for talent of our multi-ethnic band of buggery, but I was physically excited upon hearing Wet and Rusting by Menomena. Yes, I know, Friend and Foe is already on Pitchfork's ever-influential list of Best New Music. Also, it's a track from the third release of a band I had yet heard of, but of course, the the excitement stems from discovery.
Anyway, the band's creation of production software to suit their own style of composition is surely interesting, most likely superfluous, but decidedly fucking fine with me if it consistenly churns out the, at first blush, maddeningly sporadic melodic stabs and diverse rhythm textures. But, fap fap, when those drums crash in and pull out. I think Sigur Ros in a blender with no cover, but that's most likely an analogy that could be improved upon by someone with a broader musical catalog.
So, having been accepted into the prestigious, private, but eminently affordable (relatively of course) medical school of my choice, I decided to tap into medical culture via several of Times' people of the year: medical bloggers. Luckily, bloggers participate in the same sort of year-end mutually masturbatory award-granting as everyone else, and I was able to find several succint lists from which to cull about 20 blogs to add to my beloved Google Reader (fap fap fap Google Reader fap *splurt*), along with a few foodie blogs.
Anyway, amongst the varied practicing physician blogs (most notably critical care), was the ever-present fear of litigation. Obviously this didn't create posts with craven subjects lines like, oh, "I'm Afraid of Litigation," but the sentiment was there, generally expressed as anger. Now, I don't know just how bad of a doctor I'll be, but I think we can all reasonably assume doctoring on the defensive won't help. I recognize the relative infancy of my understanding of the healthcare system, but I am inclined to agree with this guy.
From relatively few panel discussions with my peers (read: drunken rambling ranting in the courtyard), I have gleaned that people don't like doctors. Fine. I think doctors end up not really liking people much more quickly than their application essays would let on. But, with most of my friends reaching ages where they'll need to avail themselves of the American healthcare system (with liver trouble and elevated cholesterol levels), I feel a responsibility to renew/reinforce our readers' understanding of what the holy hell is going on with physicians and, well, fucking me. So, consider this another one of those ellipsis-preceding posts promising more useful future content. With no school, my excuse pool is essentially empty.
Go to TVGasm for the back story, or go straight to the Conan-produced goofest that is HornyManatee.com. Check both the "Tour" and "Fan Art" for the goods.
Day 9: In which Freddy the Phallus comes... for you!
Just about all of the movies I am doing I have seen several times each, but mostly during childhood or high school. I'm amazed at how much my perception has changed, and the different things I am picking up on now as I re-visit them. Witness: Nightmare.
A Nightmare on Elm Street. Wes Craven's intention was for this to be a self-contained horror film; he did not foresee any sequels. As such, we shouldn't lump this one into the same category of movies that we do its campy, self-aware, future brethren. Its thematic content should actually be taken seriously. Snicker, snicker.
Here's the lowdown. Fred the child molestor-murderer is dead, burned to death at the hands of vengeful parents. No longer able to physically rape children in the conventional manner, he must now force himself upon them in their subconscious (the dream state) in order to "penetrate" the real world (and their flesh).
Okay, so maybe this Freudian mess shouldn't be taken too seriously. The film ends up being a smorgasbord of phallic imagery, made to look almost silly in its overtness. Take Freddy's clawed glove, for instance. With it, his ability to subdue his prey is stronger, and he can penetrate to deathly painful depths. As he says in reference to it, "THIS is god!" But the most overt sexual reference made to it comes during the bathtub scene, in which it is literally erected between Nancy's legs, claws fully extended. One, two, Freddy's coming for you... indeed.
Other imagery: A dream with dead and bloody Tina wrapped in a body condom. Her boyfriend being lynched with a dick-shaped sheet. Johnny Depp's death "coming" as a geyser-like eruption of blood as he sinks into a womb-like hole in his bed. Freddy cutting off his own fingers and watching them ejaculate. Father/mother tension and relationship disorders.
Contrast Freddy to Jason here. Jason can be seen as the conduit of moral justice: sleep around, and you will die. Fred is more the demon of anti-sex. In life, he raped (removing all pleasure from the act), and in his current undead state he is able to attack the subconscious, the root of all sexual desire. Now, I don't know what the fuck all that's supposed to mean or signify, I'm just throwing it out there as what I picked up on. Who's a psych major around here?
All the psychobabble aside, Nightmare really isn't even that scary. The story is so far out there that it's almost impossible to relate to, or take to heart. Oh fuck, I better not sleep tonight, or Freddy might kill me in my dreams. Give me a fucking break. Of course, this in no way minimizes its cultural impact, as this is the film in which Wes Craven officially gave Freddy Krueger to the world.
He is a god amongst men. A titan amongst mere mortals. He is the first World Air Guitar Champion from the U.S. of A. He is C-Diddy.
