Ugly Kids Die Too

I don't remember where I was when I heard that JonBenet Ramsey had died. It was 1996, and as I recall I was pretty drunk that year. I feel guilty about this now, because I should certainly remember where I was when such an unfathomably important person was taken from us. I deduced that this little girl was so important because her murder was all I heard about for years afterwards. Every newspaper, TV newscast, radio talkshow and internet news site would fall all over the smallest, most minute detail of the investigation. Every news outlet in the world wanted to be the first to report that JonBenet had eaten seven Wheat Chex and half a slice of rye toast with the crust cut off (she was watching her weight for the next big pageant) that fateful morning. And then, out of nowhere, it stopped. The lurid accusations against the brother, the parents, the gardener, the butler (an odds on favorite as I recall) and anyone else who happened to have moseyed through the life of this heavily made up 6-year old, all ran into dead-ends. The murder of the moment would never be solved. The tabloids, the cut-rate news programs and the water-cooler Kojaks all over the country would have to move on to the next big mystery. Which I believe had something to do with how Bill Clinton's underpants ended up in Janet Reno's glove box. But I'm not sure because that was 1998, which found me fairly inebriated as well. The biggest effect the whole sordid JonBenet story had on me was that it turned me off of news in any of its forms for almost a decade. I still have not watched the evening news since that story broke. I just recently started getting a daily newspaper again. Old wounds had started to heal. Then it happened.

JonBenet's mother, Patsy Ramsey died of cancer. When I first ran across her picture on an internet news site, I thought to myself, "Man, that dead broad looks familiar. Who the hell is..." Then it hit me. Good Jesus help me, it's JonBenet's mother! And she's been buried with her umbrella of suspicion! This will invigorate the gossipwhores and set off a whole new flurry of JonBenet inspired pseudo-news. It's all starting again! We'll have to endure stories about the things JonBenet would be doing now had she not been so rudely stolen from us before her prime! Why, she'd be sixteen by now! She would have had her first boyfriend! She would be threatening to throw herself from the roof of the servants' quarters if daddy refused to buy her a Maserati before she even got her driver's license! As a budding model/beauty pageant contestant, she most surely would have bulimia and an addiction to amphetamines by now! She might even be doing her first stint in rehab, for the Lord's sake!

I laid low, and would only turn to the sections of the paper that I was sure would bear me no JonBenews. Like the Sports section, and...the Sports section. And, lo and behold, none came. There were box scores, and NASCAR standings, and stories about Bill Clinton's underpants ending up in Annika Sorenstam's glove box, but I did not run across one single story about JonBenet Ramsey in the Sports section. Which I counted as a miracle. Then I began to scan the other sections of the paper... carefully. Nothing on the front page. Nothing in the classifieds or job finder. Then, the real test. I turned to the most dangerous section of the paper. The section in which you could be subjected to interminable, cruel stories like the piece about the sounds that Ben and Jennifer make at their newborn demonchild to make it sleep, or Brad and Angelina's disgust when the help changes their satanspawn's diapers. That's right. The Life and Arts section. My hands shook as a separated the offending section from the rest of the paper. The front page had stories about how Madonna balances her home life with her onstage blasphemy and how sick Paris Hilton's hamster is. But nothing on the Ramseys. I turned the page. More crap about totally irrelevant, inane people whose talents for performing have completely over-inflated their sense of self-importance to the point that they actually believe people gave a good flying f*#k what they think about the state of world affairs. But nothing on the Ramseys. Liz Smith reporting on the state of Lindsay Lohan's virginity, Lance Bass and his empty closet, and more news on the world's most useless person, Paris Hilton. But, nothing on the Ramseys.

I was being paranoid, I decided. JonBenet is yesterday's news. Maybe the world had come to its collective senses. There were so many things wrong with America's obsession with the JonBenet story, I'm not sure I can get into all of them. Or that I should get into all of them. But I'll hit a couple of points. First of all, the sick bastard that came up with the idea to enter six-year old girls in beauty pageants should be castrated. Beauty pageants are what they are, and if you parade a child around in make-up and clothes that makes them look like they're twenty-four in a contest that awards the most attractive pre-pubescent, you may as well advertise it in "Pedophiles Quarterly." Is this the most loathsome and disgusting socially accepted practice going on in this country today? There are many contenders, but this has got to crack the list's top five.

After weeks turned into months into years of hearing about this story, it occurred to me that ugly, poor kids die all the time. And their families were probably just as devastated as the Ramseys most certainly were. We don't hear much about them, and for the most part, we shouldn't. They probably don't want you to know what their names are, and they certainly don't want drooling, rabid packs of bloodthirsty "journalists" hounding them to their dying day. But their stories are just as important as JonBenet Ramsey's. In some cases, more so. But they were in no way as interesting as the Ramseys. Is it decency that stops us from hounding the couple in our community that loses a child in this manner? Hell, no. Our disinterest in normal folks masquerades as decency. But at least it looks like decency. Something we never found it in ourselves to show the Ramseys by just leaving them the hell alone.

And now, this. Unless you've been hermetically sealed in a tupperware room with silly putty crammed in your ear-holes and a roll of duct-tape wrapped around the rest of your head, you know what I'm talking about. Even if you have been sealed in tupperware, you probably know what I'm talking about. Some mental case in Thailand confessed. John Mark Carr (these high-profile killers love the three name thing, don't they?) claimed that "I was with JonBenet when she died." That's an interesting confession. It's like a shoplifter saying, "The DVD's were in my pants when they were stolen." Now I'm hearing all kinds of crap about how this guy just confessed to stay out of a Thai prison, and that there's no physical evidence, and that his ex-wife is saying that she was with him when the murder was committed and blah, blah, blah, blah. So, you're back on the case, Kojak. Let's see if we can't wrap this thing up.

The Florida Alligator Massacre

My wife mentioned to me the other day how she might want to move to Florida. I assume that's because she is seeking to increase her exposure to 15 foot pythons, man-eating lizards, fatal hurricanes, bird-eating spiders and the sort of body odor that can only be coaxed from a human in +90 degree, 100% humidity type of weather. I got to thinking after hearing of the Florida Alligator Massacre that claimed the lives of three people down in the godforsaken jungles of the Sunshine State that living right here in Western New York ain't such a bad thing. We've been branded losers because of our sports franchises and bad weather, but as of last check, we don't have dinosaurs shooting out of Lake Erie or the Niagara River scooping up joggers for lunch. We haven't had anything resembling a real blizzard since that measly 10 feet of snow that fell a few years ago, and my house was still standing after that, unlike a lot of joints after those hurricanes blew through the southern states over the last few seasons. And now, according to the news, FLA is being overrun by enormous pythons that are eating the alligators and exploding, making a godawful mess of those lovely swamps down there. How did we get such an inferiority complex here in the Buffalo/Niagara Falls area? Why are people leaving this area as if the Ebola virus were running rampant and forcing our precious bodily fluids out any available orifice? There are immediate reasons.

Problem # 1: When I was in college a great many years ago, if you asked just about any student, they would tell you that the good jobs were all somewhere else. Of course, they would also tell you that they had drunk 22 beers and done a half a dozen bong hits at the "Save the Rain Forest" rally the night before. Unfortunately, that giant sucking sound you're hearing is not a night on the town for Hugh Grant, but a Ross Perot metaphor coming true. Our jobs are migrating down to the Carolinas and parts south. There are many, many Democrats in power here, and one great big drain on our State resources we like to call the Big Apple. Its the tax black hole so nice they named it twice. And its not that Democrats are always the problem. There are Democrats in power in many of the Southern states where all our jobs are going, but here in New York we have the worst kind of high-tax, politically correct Democrats. Both of our idiot Senators actually voted against making English the official language of the United States. Hillary worked hard to make our Federal Government (which has a hard enough time delivering the mail) responsible for controlling the entire health care system. Charlie Schumer would love to confiscate all our guns, abolish the death penalty and make life easier for all New Yorkers who have broken or are thinking about breaking the law. You may say, "But don't you guys have a Republican Governor up there?" Yeah, we do, but our Republicans up here run just to the left of Democrats in most other states. But, we keep on electing the same cast of baboons, so we get exactly what we deserve: high energy costs (although we have Niagara Falls, the greatest source of natural power and Indian gambling on the face of the planet,) high taxes and a fantastic abundance of economic malaise. So, on the political front, we're basically screwed. And I don't see that getting fixed anytime soon.

Problem #2: It gets kinda cold here. Of course, it gets kinda cold in a lot of places, so I guess I should revise the previous statement. It gets real goldang cold here. People who live down south probably don't know what it feels like to walk out of the house in the morning and have the mucous freeze solid in their noses. This is what we here in Western New York cleverly refer to as "snot-freezin' cold." You then proceed to your car and commence scraping. This can take anywhere from 30 seconds to 10 minutes, depending on how much glass your vehicle has, the temperature, and how much time you have to get to work. If I'm running late, I do a quick scrape job on the area immediately in front of where I will be looking through the windshield, and then kind of rub that spot as I'm driving to keep it clear. As far as looking through the side windows to take turns, I normally just pray and go. This may make it sound like harsh life here, but this normally goes on for only about a month, and then the slush season starts. Which goes on just into baseball season. It's still better than hurricanes, tornadoes and earthquakes.

Problem #3: Sports failures. Yeah, we lost 4 straight Super Bowls. How many teams even made it to 4 straight Super Bowls? None, that's how many. Everyone in this area, to a man, will tell you how difficult it is to make it to 4 straight Super Bowls. And every single one of them would most certainly give up the three blow-outs for that one 40+ yard field goal in XXV. And we went to 2 Stanley Cup finals and lost both of them (although one of those losses came via a goal that shouldn't have counted in 1999.) Oh, and we lost our basketball team back in 1978. And we got passed over for a Major League Baseball team during the expansion back in the 80's. There's other disappointments, but I don't have time to go into more detail.

Problem # 4: Low self-esteem. (See problems 1-3)

The bottom line is that this is still a great place to live. Niagara Falls is an awesome spectacle, and the Falls would be a bigger asset if we didn't have to share it with Canada. Those dang Canadians went ahead and made a tourist attraction of their side of the Falls instead of building countless landfills, ghetto style housing and allowing it to become a Mafia stronghold. What else would any responsible community do with one of the seven wonders of the world? Well, the Canadians built up scores of wax museums, souvenir stands, and one big mother casino worthy of Vegas. Sneaky, sneaky Canadians. So, after spending approximately 4 minutes on the U.S. side, Joe Tourist normally says something to himself that goes kinda like this: "Wow, all these landfills are really nice this time of year. I think I'll pack up the wife and kids and go to Canada now."

Buffalo is full of beautiful old buildings, many designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, a fantastic downtown AAA ballpark, and the HSBC Center, a state of the art arena which is home to the Buffalo Sabres. The Sabres and Bisons are a tad lonely down there, and surrounded by a great number of empty, crappy looking buildings. The beginnings of something great are here. Unfortunately, they've been here for quite a while. And beginning is as far as we've gotten.

So, in conclusion, I would like to make a suggestion. We, as citizens/voters, should immediately un-elect literally every person who is holding office right now. If a retarded pedophile is running against an incumbent, vote for him. Convince your friends and family to vote for him too. He can't do any worse than the guys that are in there now. If you feel you can do a better job than the retarded pedophiles who are already in office and you have the constitution to be a public official, run. I'll vote for you. And I'll talk all my friends and relatives into voting for you too. As far as the weather is concerned, there's not much we can do unless you listen to these environmentalists and their global warming theory. If you believe that whole thing, you may want to drive your car more and do some serious polluting. We also need to win a Stanley Cup, and we're pretty dang close right now, but knowing us, we'll probably screw it up. We're playing the Carolina Hurricanes in the Conference Finals, so Carolina (that great Hockey town)won't be happy with stealing all our jobs, they want the Cup too.

You know what to do. Now get to work.

The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle

I was 18 years old, nearing the end of my high school career and the beginning of the six year blur that was to end with a four year college degree, and this pretty Italian girl I was dating had huge brown eyes, full lips and that real cool 1980's hair thing where the top of her hair was roughly three feet above her nose. She was artistic, a little strange, and I was sure I was in love, until a blonde with her own car happened along, and as they say, that was that. But, before that whole sordid string of events unfolded, that pretty Italian girl turned me on to the Sex Pistols.

She had a documentary movie on VHS about 70's punk bands that featured concert footage of "God Save the Queen," Anarchy in the UK," and "Pretty Vacant." I was hooked. I immediately shot down to the local record store and picked up a copy of "Never Mind the Bullocks, Here's the Sex Pistols." This was in 1985, 7 years after Sid killed Nancy, and then died. I was never a big fan of Sid's. It seemed like all the idolatry was misplaced. I never thought hero-worship was due a guy who played bass poorly, became infatuated with a none-too-attractive groupie, knifed her to death, then, even after vast experience with heroin, ended up having too much and overdosing himself to death with it. By saying "too much heroin," it might sound as if I'm implying there is a correct amount of heroin. "The Snake Pit" does not condone the use of smack in any way, shape or form. I am all on the "Just Say NO to Horse" bandwagon. But yet still, Sid took too much horse. And died.

On a fairly regular basis I still pull out the CD with which I replaced the vinyl version of the Pistols' only studio offering and give it a spin. It's one of those albums that came around at the right time in my life and made a huge impression. (And since lists are so much dang fun to put together, a list of other albums that fall into this category will follow.)

The reason I bring all this up is because I recently, for the first time, saw The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle. The reason it took so long for me to finally take in this historic film is that it was nearly impossible to find back in the day. None of our local rental places offered the epic. And as I remember, I found a place where you could send away for it on VHS, but it cost about $100, which at the time, seemed a bit pricey. And, man, am I glad I didn't pony up the scratch. This film was obviously a last gasp attempt by manager Malcom McLaren, guitarist Steve Jones and drummer Paul Cook to cash in on a waning phenomenon. Johnny Rotten was already out of the picture. Whether he was booted from the band or took a walk is a matter of some conjecture, but the Pistols were a ghost of their former selves without him. An attempt was made to replace him with an actor who couldn't sing a lick named Tenpole Tudor, who is featured in the movie. Sid was obviously interested in little outside of Nancy and the demon horse, and is not prominently featured here until he turns in a memorable rendition of the Sinatra staple "My Way," in which he ends up turning a handgun on an audience that looks like it belongs in an opera house. Bloodshed ensues. In a move that can only be seen as "padding the running time," exisiting members Jones and Cook make a trip to South America to jam with Ronnie Biggs, the fugitive mastermind of the "Great Train Robbery." Poor music ensues. But the boys were able to make a few bucks before passing into obscurity until the inevitable reunion tour was to take place just a few years ago.

As a huge fan of the Pistols, I found The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle to be an interesting flick especially for some of the concert footage of the best known line-up of the band. We get to hear Johnny asking the San Francisco crowd at their last show, "Ever feel like you've been cheated?" I would lump this film into a bin that would include Kiss' Phantom of the Park, rather than with Zeppelin's The Song Remains the Same, or AC/DC's Let There Be Rock. If you're at all interested in the Pistols, grab The Filth and the Fury, an excellent documentary, or Sid and Nancy, that takes some dramatic license, but , like director Alex Cox' Repo Man, captures nicely the spirit of the punk movement that changed the jaded arena rock music scene for the better way back in the 1970's.

I was in Toronto in the late 1987, drinking my way down Yonge Street with a bunch of reprobates that I still call friends, and came upon a head shop in which I purchased a black t-shirt with a black and white picture of Johnny glaring that demented sneer that has become his trademark. Beneath the picture, in simple bold letters, it read simply, "Johnny Rotten." I have no idea whatever happened to that shirt, but I wore it for ten years before it disappeared. I've been looking for another one ever since. The music, the sneer and the attitude summed up my late teens and early twenties pretty nicely. We grow old, but with any luck, we don't grow up.

And now...

The Most Important Albums in the History of the World (to me.)

1) Destroyer- Kiss. I was 9 years old and this was the first album I saved up my allowance to buy. I had a bunch of 45's by the likes of Pablo Cruise, Boston and ELO, but this was the first album. From the opening intro of a dude preparing for a evening of partying that would end in disaster, to the fading strains of "Do You Love Me," this is a classic. The cover art is currently the wallpaper on both of my computers. Kiss' greatest opus and a heavy metal landmark.

2.) Welcome to my Nightmare- Alice Cooper- Although Billion Dollar Babies would become my favorite AC album, this was the one that got it started for me. Having always been fascinated by horror films and comic books, Alice filled the niche perfectly in music. And he's still doing it after all these years.

3.) Welcome to Hell- Venom- - Satanism was never quite so much fun as it was with the godfathers of true devil music. I'm not sure if this album was recorded in a shoe box or a phone booth, but the spirit and enthusiasm shines through in all its demonic glory.

4.) Never Mind the Bullocks, Here's the Sex Pistols- Sex Pistols- See above.

5.) Metallica- Ride the Lightning- "Creeping Death," "For Whom the Bell Tolls," and the title track set the pace for the speed metal that was to come. Before the crappy post "And Justice For All" tripe that made the airwaves, this is what real metal is all about.

6.) Hell Awaits- Slayer- Maybe not as important as "Reign in Blood," but this was the album that attracted me to this band. Still making uncompromising metal in their twilight years.

7.) Highway to Hell- AC/DC- Bon Scott was the greatest rock and roll singer of all time and Angus and Malcom are firing on all cylinders here. I listened to this album so much my mother knows the words to all these tunes.

8.) Double Live Gonzo- Ted Nugent- Ted introduced to me the concept of the guitar as a weapon. At one point on this live album, he reveals to the adoring crowd that his guitar could "take down a charging rhino at 30 paces, yes indeed." And then unleashes a couple of power chords, and you believe it.

9.) Nevermind- Nirvana- Reawakened that punk spirit that the Pistols birthed many moons before. Short-lived, however, and breeded the unfortunate "pop-punk" movement that is yielding crap like Green Day, Blink 182 and other heavily tattooed idiots lazily spewing the modern day musical equivalent of the Banana Splits.

10.) Piece of Mind- Iron Maiden- Arguably the greatest metal band of all time. This album is amazingly complex and melodic. Still in heavy rotation 20+ years later.

Growing up AAA- Bisons Opening Day

Buffalo is a AAA city and that is nothing to be ashamed of. I read somewhere that in 1950 the population of the Queen City was somewhere around 1,000,000 people. Last I saw it was right around 300,000. Not too shocking considering the plight of the cities in New York that are not New York City. Our "representatives" in Albany do little to dispel the notion that there are actually other cities in this state, but that's a whole different ball of worms we're opening up there. We're a triple A city, and dammit, I'm proud to sort of live here. I actually live in a town about a half an hour north of Buffalo in a completely different county, but I was a season ticket holder of the Buffalo Bills for 10 years before my daughter was born, and am an avid fan of the Sabres, so I kinda consider myself a pseudo-quasi citizen, and I don't even have to really live there. Sort of.

At one time, not that long ago, Buffalo was a three sport city. We have the aforementioned Bills and Sabres, and the departed NBA Buffalo Braves, who pulled up stakes in 1978 for San Diego and eventually landed in Los Angeles to become the laughing stock of the league in the form of the Clippers. And now, the owner of the Bills is holding press conferences claiming he can't keep the team here unless changes are made to the way the NFL splits up its incomprehensible amount of cash. So that's not good. The Bills will probably end up in LA as well. It would only be fitting. The Sabres are back in the playoffs after taking the last 5 years off, and will win the Cup this year. Bet the farm.

If you're looking for a family event, the Sabres games are fairly tame unless they are playing a Canadian team. Especially the Leafs. Leaf games in Toronto are sold out well into the 3012 season, so every reprobate Canadian who either can't get tickets or has been banned from ever again attending games at Air Canada Center shows up in Buffalo when the Leafs are in town. And they drink. A lot. They refuse to stand and take off their hats during the National Anthem; they drink gallons of beer and swear at the home fans; and they drive poorly on their way back to the Peace Bridge. Unpleasant creatures here and back in Canada. Again, another subject.

The Bills games, on the other hand, more closely resemble one of Caligula's Roman orgies than a family event. The NFL gets all family-values when Janet Jackson's boob pops out for a nanosecond, but chooses to look elsewhere when the colossally drunk moron behind me throws up for the fourth time, screams something in which only the obscenities are understandable, smokes a joint and then passes out in the aforementioned vomit. Don't get me wrong. I love the Bills games. I was that drunk on a number of occasions. But don't give me the crap about caring how our children's delicate sensibilities were assaulted on that fateful Superbowl Sunday. On one particular football Sunday here in Buffalo, a couple was arrested for having sex in the seats. A number of years ago, a guy got hit in the head with a beer bottle and died. Babies are conceived there, and people die there. The porta-johns in the parking lot are routinely covered with blood and puke. This is NOT family entertainment. Stop pretending. By the way, I'll be queuing up for tickets as soon as they go on sale. But I'll be leaving the family unit at home.

Opening Day for our AAA Buffalo Bisons was last Friday. Good Friday. My wife, my sister, my four-year old daughter Jessie and I geared up in our Bisons jerseys and hats and made the trip to downtown Buffalo. We ate a ton of ice-cream, popcorn, peanuts and crackerjacks, had a couple beers, stood up, removed our hats and sang the National Anthem then stood again in the seventh inning stretch and sang "God Bless America" and "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," and watched the home team whup the visiting Columbus Clippers 9-1. All this and no shrieking obscenities, vomit or public humping. Earlier today, I called in sick to work, called my daughter's pre-school and called her in sick, and we went to the ballpark to watch the Bisons beat the Richmond Braves 4-2. On the way home, Jessie looked at me and said, "Thank you for taking me to the ballgame." This from a kid who has to be prompted to thank people for birthday presents. I'm thankful as well. Thankful we have a AAA baseball team. Take me out to the ballgame.

Escalofrio! Sacrificial Virgin vs. The Blood of Satan

I first became aware of Satan's Blood via an ad in the "Phantom of the Movies' Videoscope" fanzine. This particular edition of the film is distributed by Mondo Macabro (who released another hard-to-find 70's classic, the excellent Alucarda) and is touted as being the "uncut Euro edition." I was overjoyed to find that Netflix offered the film, and quickly put it on the fast track to the top of the queue. When it arrived, I cracked a Bud, popped up a bag of the "sopping wet with butter" microwave corn, pulled that big, red envelope open and and immediately checked the running time. My theory is that very few films can survive a running time exceeding 90 minutes. At first I thought this was a personal attention span issue, but I've revised that hypothesis. If an unworthy movie starts to stray over the ninety minute mark, I get to thinking about all the other things I could be doing like reading a good book, playing hockey on the Playstation 2, making obscene phone calls to local daycare centers, torturing small animals, those sorts of things.

I've got two good examples of recent films that shattered the ninety minute mark and were completely unworthy of their epic running times. The first is Wedding Crashers, a movie with two very funny guys, Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn. It starts off as a nice premise for a Saturday Night Live sketch, and is actually laugh out loud funny for about 40 minutes. Unfortunately, the movie doesn't end after 40 minutes. As the movie soared past the 90 minute mark and seemed no closer to any kind of resolution than it did shortly after the credit sequence, I wandered over to the DVD player, and checked the running time of the film. Two hours and 10 minutes. My thoughts immediately wandered to the box of hamsters in the basement whose eyes I'd been thinking about spraying with Tilex. The same goes for The 40 Year-Old Virgin. Starts out funny, but after riding around on this one-joke pony for 2 hours and 13 minutes, I was ready to dismount and beat the animal to death purely out of boredom and meanness. To be fair, I did subject myself to the "unrated, director's cut" of both of these movies, and in hindsight that seems like a poor decision. I'm personally looking forward to the release of the unrated 2 hour and 35 minute director's cut of Porky's 2: The Next Day, and the 3 hour re-imagining of Ski School.

But, back to Satan's Blood. Director Carlos Puerto's 1977 Satan worhip flick clocks in at just over an hour and twenty minutes. And that's the "uncut Euro edition." Now we're talking. And there's a full frontal nude sacrifice to Satan before the credits roll which seems to have absolutely nothing to do with any of the events that take place after the credits roll. My kind of flick already. Since this is the uncut Euro edition, there must be versions of this where all the gore and nudity is cut out, and that version is probably around eight and a half minutes long. Here's a run-on sentence plot synopsis: An idiotic couple and their dog go for a car ride; get lured to the isolated home of a pair of Satan worshippers by a ridiculous ruse; play around with a real cool Ouija board that tells the chick that she's still in love with her husband's brother; are given drugged Kool aid in wine glasses that makes them extremely horny and forgetful; have an oiled up orgy inside a big pentagram painted on the living room floor; find out their dog has been butchered; miss literally dozens of chances to get the hell out; end up sort of killing the Devil worshippers; go back to their apartment; find out that even their dog is a Satanist; and get stabbed to death and resurrected just in time for a predictable twist ending. All this in a very manageable 82 minutes. Highly recommended, and you can watch the whole thing, go back and check out the lengthy orgy scene and pop a salisbury steak Hungry Man in the microwave and eat it, all in less time than it takes to watch The 40 Year-Old Virgin, which has exactly zero oiled up Satanic orgy scenes. The decision is yours.

Immigration Problem: Solved!

Who the hell is in charge of rounding up illegal aliens and sending them back from whence they came? If I'm the Chief, or Commissioner, or Captain of whatever government organization that's responsible, I would gather the boys together and sit them in front of the evening news. Then I would say something like, "OK, guys. See that enormous gathering of criminals marching through the streets, demanding to have their criminal actions decriminalized? GET YOUR LAZY, DUMB ASSES OUT THERE AND ROUND 'EM UP, FOR THE LOVE OF JESUS!" Then I would put together rallies for the legalization of murder and rape and armed robbery and things like that, wait to see who showed up for them, and arrest all of them too. This whole thing seems like it's a godsend for law enforcement.

Look Ma! I'm on "Cops!"

NASCAR. I'm new to the sport. I never would have even thought about becoming involved with a 5th sport, but a couple of years ago I was talked into throwing in $2 a week for a NASCAR office pool. The pool itself is a veritable chess match, filled with strategy, in which the most cunning player triumphs. We draw two random numbers which correspond to the starting positions of drivers. And that's it. But at least you have somebody to root for. Now I find myself actually tuning in to watch the damn thing.

I believe my distaste for NASCAR is rooted in a trip to a local stock car race when I was eight years old. A neighbor dad rounded up a bunch of us kids and we trekked out to Lancaster Raceway. I found the races to be unbearably loud and inhumanly boring. I found myself hating everyone around me, and plotting ways in which I might be able to murder all of them and get away with it. Then after about an hour, I decided that getting away with it wasn't all that important.

I hate to return to the Olympics here in this blog, but again they raise their ugly friggin' head. The Olympics seem to be largely made up of racing. Olympians race on skis, on foot, in water, and on skates. And damn, that's boring. I watch one horse race a year, and that's mainly for an excuse to drink mint juleps and wear a funny hat. Racing is the basest of sports. Just run, skate, swim or ski faster than everyone else, and you win. It falls into the same class of sport with weight lifting and javelin/discus. Bowling and dodgeball look like rocket science.

And finally, and maybe most importantly, NASCAR is a redneck thang. A white trash joint. No shirt or shoes wearing, domestic disturbance causing, pickup truck with the big old Confederate flag sticker driving rednecks watch this sport. Of course, they probably watch a lot of things. They probably watch the evening news now and again. They might even check out re-runs of "The Twilight Zone" or tune into a late night creature feature or Sunday football. They probably watch all kinds of stuff I watch. Does this fact inch me one step closer to the local trailer park? Am I destined for an appearance on "Cops" with my pasty white chest beared for the world to see, standing on the front porch amidst a sea of empty Natural Light cans, with my fat, angry, black and blue wife screaming obscenities at me through a busted screen door? Fact is, a bajillion people are watching NASCAR and they can't all be taking weekly trips to the holding center waiting for their spouse to sober up and drop the charges. And, I find myself enjoying the races, God help me. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna pour myself a snifter of brandy, pop in a Fellini film, and then head upstairs and smack the old lady. Gentlemen, start your engines.

And in this corner....Potato Face Vargas!

I just got done watching the Vargas/Mosley fight on HBO. This fight was not live, by the way. It happened last weekend. Boxing decided long ago, that in order to attract viewers to a largely attraction-free sport, that they should charge $50 a pop to see any fight that is even vaguely interesting. Don't get me wrong. I love boxing. I'll watch two white guys boxing on MSG in the middle of the night. But I am not going to give up gas and beer money for a week to see a fight. Not gonna happen. Here in the Buffalo area, we had Baby Joe Mesi rise up from the rank and file recently, and it looked as if he might actually get a chance to fight for the title. Until his brain started bleeding, and that just doesn't sound like a good thing. Yet, Baby Joe still wants to fight. He's willing to drag his bleeding brain into the ring and take on some guy who's only goal in life is to make Joe's brain bleed even more. He is actually taking legal action so he can have a chance to jump over the ropes so Jim Lampley can have a chance to say something like, "Oh man, Joe is taking a lot of shots out there, and his brain is losing a massive amount of blood right now." I have a number of questions about brain bleeds. First on the list would be, "Where does the blood go?" Does it pool up in your ears or shoot out your nose or something? My brother in law is a doctor, and next time I see him, I'll ask and let you know because I know this is a burning unanswered question. But anyway, back to the Vargas/Mosley thing. Fairly early in the fight, Mosley caught Vargas with a vicious right to the head and Vargas' eye starts swelling up real good. And I mean real good. So, Mosley makes it his goal in life to keep hitting his opponent in his bad eye, again and again and again, until finally Vargas' eye and half of the side of his head are swollen to roughly the size of a small pumpkin. By the 10th round, it looks like some sick bastard plastic surgeon has implanted a large baked potato just under the skin on the left side of Vargas' face. So, Mosley smacks the potato again, and the ref wisely calls the fight. And Vargas is pissed. Lampley sends the old and nearly incomprehensible Larry Merchant into the ring to interview Mr. Vargas, and Vargas can't believe the ref has called the fight so quickly. These guys are a whole different breed of human, if they are truly human at all. I don't know about you, but I have devoted my life to the pursuit of preventing my brain from bleeding and to making sure parts of my face don't make someone want to slather sour cream on them. Maybe that's just me.

Oscar says, "I detest you, idiot."

Dick Cheney should have saved his birdshot for whoever decided that the Academy Awards Show was an actual event. I know that a bajillion people watch the Oscars, but I'm not sure who they are. Actually, my sister watches them. Because she runs a pool. I bet on the Oscars, but I don't watch them. I have never seen 90% of the movies that have been nominated for Oscars in the last twenty years, and have no immediate plans of doing so. I look at the ballot, and immediately realize that the only nominated films that I have seen are nominated in categories like "Animated Feature," "Makeup," "Sound Editing," "Sound Mixing" and "Visual Effects." And what exactly is the difference between "Sound Editing" and "Sound Mixing?" There are different films nominated in these two categories so there must be a difference, but I have no idea what that might be. This year we have gay cowboys, so I'm assuming that that film will walk with a whole lotta Oscar. And good for them. Gay cowboys have been a repressed minority in this country for far too long. Rise up, gay cowboys! Claim your awards! The popular arts seem to be big on awards as if these people need reassurance that they are wanted. I feel for them in a way. I know a great plumber, a terrific carpenter and the guy who picks up my garbage is really good too, yet these people have no way of validating their existence. Poor saps. Instead of working like hell until they die in a middle class suburb with no golden hardware to place on their wood burning stoves, they should have taken up being pampered like little girls and making millions of dollars by being pretty and acting in the movies. Then they could opine about how stupid plumbers, carpenters and garbagemen are, and how their votes shouldn't count in this evil country. And, by the way, George Clooney, Joaquin Phoenix, Jake Gyllenhaal, Frances McDormand, and Jennifer Anniston are going to take a break from being shuffled about in limos and private jets to show up at this heinous event in green hybrid vehicles to demonstrate how you are destroying the environment with your SUV's. I'm sure their bevy of bodyguards will leave their firearms in the glove compartments as well.

Kill Hollywood. Don't watch the Oscars. Hollywood pays little attention to your interests. The top box office attractions of 2005 are "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire," "The Chronicles of Narnia," (which has the audacity to pander to the Christians out there) "King Kong" and "Chicken Little." The box office of these 4 film adds up to over $926 million dollars. The box office of the 5 nominated films adds up to $229 million. But Hollywood insists that they know better than you which movies are artistically relevant. You are but ignoramuses when it comes to judging the value of film. Which is fine. Even if this were true, it begs the question, "Why do we watch the Oscars?" If the awards have nothing to do with our opinion, why do we care? Ask yourself this when you are about to tune into this masturbatory exercise in vanity. And pop in an independent film that's actually entertaining. You'll feel better for it in the morning. And God knows you'll know who the winners are by the time you get to work on Monday morning.

I haven't had much time to write as of late, mainly because work has again been requiring nearly all of my precious, invaluable time. I was thinking of all the things I could have been doing with the time I have been so selflessly dedicating to the job, and quickly became depressed. Outside of the blog, I have been unable to spend time on the following: 1) Hitman 2- I've had this PS2 game for a year, but have not been able to kill anyone that mattered. I've found that when you spend eight hours or more a day in front of a computer screen tracking numbers for the man, it's important to lead a fantasy existence in which you travel the world icing baddies for the CIA. I can't even do this particularly well. 2) Booze- I've hardly had time to drink. I get home after 8 hours at the office, do 30 minutes on Satan's treadmill, get dinner ready, eat, do some family time, put Jessie to bed, and go right back to work on the laptop at the kitchen table. I checked my bottle of Jameson's and found to my chagrin that it contains nearly the same amount of life-giving elixir that it had almost a month ago. 3) Netflix- I watched "Red Eye" on Sunday and "The Short Films of David Lynch" on Monday, and wished I'd spent my time doing something more artistically stimulating like shaving the cat. 4) Sleeping- Strange how doing the same thing over and over again for 14 straight hours can stimulate you just enough so that when you go to bed your brain refuses to give up the events of the day. I haven't had a full 4 hours sleep in 2 months. Hang on, I'm grabbing a Jameson's. 5) That's better. One more and I'll sleep tonight. 6) There she is. That's smooth.

Motorhead's "Orgasmatron" is slamming away from the boombox behind me and I've got a rocks glass with a lonely ice cube floating in the golden glow of Irish whiskey with a Yuengling back, and all is right with the world. The busy season is almost over. I'm taking a long weekend for St. Patty's day, and am planning on spending it in a bar with my NCAA brackets and one yellow and one orange highlighter. God bless the USA. Screw Oscar!

I decided locking myself in this room until the Olympics were over was just a plain old bad idea, so I got up this morning and went to work. In my travels, I pulled up to a red light behind one of those multi-colored panel mini-vans that first set tires to pavement when Duran Duran still mattered. I quickly noticed that the rear of the vehicle was slathered with bumper stickers that proudly proclaimed intelligent things like "Hell is full, so I came back," and "Caution: Driver doesn't give a s%*t." I took a look through the back window of this luxury ride, and noticed a handicapped parking permit hanging from the rearview window. As the light turned green and the van slowly turned left, cutting off people coming from the other direction, I saw that the driver was a woman weighing approximately four thousand pounds. For some reason, I was consumed with rage and it took every bit of my will power to refrain from chasing her down, running her off the road, pulling her from the vehicle (if this were even possible) and beating her to death with a tire iron. I sit here now, wondering not only why I became so angry with this pathetic creature, but also why I did not follow through. Probably because I only had fifteen minutes to get back to the office and I really wanted to grab a Tim Horton's coffee beforehand. The drivethrough at that time of the morning is a bear.

I actually broke down and checked out the big stories in the Olympics. And things seem to be going just dandy for the US over in Italy. Let's see... the men's hockey team, which is loaded with NHL players, can't even make the medal round, that figure skating broad falls on her butt twice and somehow still gets the Silver (explain that to me), our drunk skiier dude gets so hammered he can't even keep himself from "straddling the gate," which sounds like some sort of weird sex act, and now it looks like it may take some sort of miracle for us to catch frigging Germany in the medal count. Germany! If you can't beat Germany, you may as well pack it in. Now that's the last I mention the Olympics in this blog. Ever.

Oh, and my top ten list of TV shows, on which I could only come up with 8, I forgot to mention CSI, which is still a hella cool hour, and still surprisingly mean spirited and gruesome. Long Live Gil Grissum!

For Christmas last year, my sister Heidi got me 2 sets of 12 double sided DVD's containing 50 horror movies per set. So I got 100 horror films for Christmas, which is a beautiful thing. These sets contain everything from true classics, like Night of the Living Dead and Bad Taste, to utter horsecrap like The Legend of Big Foot and Track of the Moon Beast. So, when nothing's on TV and the boys at Netflix are a little slow in coming with the next gem, I've been taking in one of these babies. For the most part, they've been fairly entertaining, but tonight I was subjected to a little film called The Beast of Yucca Flats. Tor Johnson "stars" as a brilliant scientist (we know this because the narrator geek tells us) who is transformed into the titular murderous monster (we know this because they slap some oatmeal on his face) after he's exposed to radiation from an atomic bomb blast. Apparently, sound was dubbed after this lovely thing was shot, because you never actually see anyone talking. During the sparse dialogue scenes the camera either cuts to the listener, or we see the back of people's heads while they speak, or the frame does not even include their heads. Tor grunts and howls a few times whilst chasing two lost kids around a military missile testing site, but is so fat he can never seriously be considered as a threat to them. Tor could most certainly have never caught them even if they were lugging sacks of cement along on two broken legs. Truly awful, but has to be seen to be believed. Just not by me. Never again.

The Olympics seem to still be going on, so I have locked myself in this room with three thirty-packs of beer (that's 90 beers, and that's the second time I've had to do math in this post,) a fistful of Arturo Fuentes, a grocery bag full of beef jerky, and a ten pack of Pez refills for Boba Fett, and I'm not coming out until someone tells me the Olympics are over. I have 7 vacation days coming that I have to use up by May, so I'm covered. And that's all I'm going to say about the frigging Olympics. Until next time anyway, because I've got a take on that drunk skiier guy.

All Time Great Song Titles:
1.) Snap Your Fingers, Snap Your Neck- Prong
2.) Look At You Over There, Ripping the Sawdust From My Teddybear- Alice Cooper
3.) Takin' Retards to the Zoo- Dead Milkmen
4.) Mommy, Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight?- Misfits
5.) Dr. Suess is Dead- Acidbath

Those of us who grew up in the 70's took a number of hits this past week. I already mentioned Peter Benchley, but I was remiss in not mentioning the passing of one of the icons of 70's cinema. Phil Brown died of pneumonia on February 9th. Many people may not recognize the name (even those of you weaned on 70's flicks.) But you'll remember the character and the film. Phil Brown was Uncle Owen in the original "Star Wars." This movie became such a huge part of my life at 10 years old that any character, no matter how insignificant, was scarred into my psyche. Right now I'm looking at plastic effigies of Darth Vader, Chewbacca, R2-D2, Threepio, a Stormtrooper and Greedo. And that's just from the first movie. No, maybe Uncle Owen was not worthy of a plastic figurine (atleast not at my house,) but that doesn't mean he wasn't just as important to the success of the film as say, Han Solo or Luke Skywalker. Who could forget Uncle Owen getting all cheesed off when that lazy Luke wanted to run off and join the alliance before the harvest, or when he got the better of those cheatin', thievin' Jawas by swapping up that crappy R4 unit for our beloved R2? Oh, and of course, the whole story pivots on the scene in which he bitch-slaps that back-talking Aunt Beru when she insinuates that she might want to go down to Mos Eisley for a few drinks with the girls. The whole film swings on the actions of Uncle Owen. Think about it.

And, for a final shot in the groin to the seventies generation, Franklin Cover, the jive-talking honky who had the gall to marry Lenny Kravitz's dead, black mother, died at the ripe old age of 77. That's right. Tom Willis of "The Jeffersons" died on February 10th, completing the 70's death triumvirate. Cover, another guy whose name might have escaped you, also appeared in "All in the Family," "Who's the Boss," and "The Stepford Wives."

Daytona gets running this weekend and NASCAR is on, my brother. Rednecks everywhere have already got a 30 pack of brew on ice, a couple packs of smokes, and the radio set up to broadcast all over the property, so no matter where you may have to roam, you can still hear the race. I'm no redneck, by any stretch, but I love 'em, and I'm ready for this pig. Especially with no hockey and nothing else to watch but the Olympics. From what I understand, "American Idol," "Survivor," "Dancing with the Retarded Stars," and C-Span's coverage of a "Save the Spotted Prairie Dog" rally somewhere in the Arizona desert have been throttling the Olympics in the ratings.

Winter weather has finally returned to Western New York. In other words, here come the pain. Right now the temp is hovering somewhere just below 10 degrees, and I don't even want to get started on the wind chill. It's snot-freezin' cold out there, kids, just as it should be this time of year.

In new movie news (at least new to me,) the good folks at Netflix just sent me "Skeleton Key," which was a sweet little thriller about the attractive offspring of a movie star and some guy who used to be in a jokey, lame rock band back before electricity, who gets a job in a big, creepy southern mansion taking care of the Elephant Man. Voodoo ensues. There's a lot of cool creaking doors, thunderstorms, scratchy blues music and all around scary goings-on in this flick. Recommended. I read a user review on the Netflix website by some idiot who said that he figured out the ending 15 minutes into the flick. I find this hard to believe. But then again, I didn't see the end of "The Passion of the Christ" coming either.

Since I wrote about "Dancing with the Celebrity Nitwits" in a not-so-complimentary way, I've had people asking me if I was a TV snob; you know, one of these idiots who say stupid crap like, "I only watch PBS, CNN and the Discovery Channel. Television is drivel." I want to clear this up right now. I am NOT one of those pompous scumbags. I watch a lot of TV. I watch sports: baseball, football, hockey, basketball, NASCAR, golf, just about everything except the Olympics and soccer. I watch the Sci-Fi channel: the most insipid bullstuff you will ever run across outside the Lifetime channel airs on Si-Fi. Sci-Fi is the Lifetime Movie Channel for geeks. I watch insipid original programming, idiotic and painfully bad original creature features that actually have the gall to call themselves things like "Boa vs. Python" and "Spring Break Shark Attack," and even, God help me, a reality show in which a bunch of idiots tried to live in a house with a witch, a vampire, a guy who hung from the ceiling from his nipple rings, a nude weirdo and a voodoo priestess. I watch movies. Lots of 'em. Ask anybody. So I hope I have dispelled any notions that I am a TV snob. So, to drive that point home, I was trying to come up with ten TV shows I actually watch that are still on the air (don't look for the word "Dancing" in any of the titles.)
Here we go:

1. The Shield- When I started watching this thing I never would have guessed that bad ass Vic Mackie was the Commish. The most riveting hour of television you will see.
2. The Sopranos- Feels like a feature movie every week. HBO does it right.
3. Deadwood- HBO strikes again. Terrific acting, writing and direction. Feels like Shakespeare in the old west. With profanity.
   
4. 24- I look forward to this show as much as I dread it. I thought I would love last season most of all because of the absence of uber-annoying daughter Kim, who could find trouble and abduction at Sunday mass. And yet there was something missing. We'll see how this season goes.
5. Nip/Tuck- Gross. Not one character on this show is worth the powder to blow them to h-e-double hockeysticks. My wife loves this show. It's "Melrose Place" without the scruples.
6. Lost- Very much into this one. We need more of that whooley mammoth or whatever the hell it is though.
   
7. Invasion- I hope this show makes it. Judging by how much I'm enjoying it, I doubt it will. You gotta love a body-snatching alien story. Keep it coming, ABC!
8. Alias- I am watching this show under protest, and am loathe to even include it on this list because of the B-Fleck factor. I would have given up on this if the characters weren't so good and this was not the last season. But, it's still fast-paced and the new additions have not subtracted. Still a top ten show.

All right, I said it was a top ten list, but I could only come up with 8. If I think of any more, I'll post them ASAP. Viva Television!!

Upon hearing of the death of Peter Benchley, I was overcome with nostalgia for the good old 1970's. Then, I remembered disco music, leisure suits and Jimmy Carter, and I quickly became un-nostalgic. This soured my mood, and I realized that I have never been past my ankles in salt water, and, unless I'm being dragged by some large, wild animal (like Oprah) I never will. The fact that I will never be able to enjoy the ocean is largely, if not entirely, the fault of Peter Benchley. Yes, that Peter Benchley. The dead one. So, I have decided to sue the estate of one Mr. Peter Benchley for...oh, let's say $400 for the loss of a shot at a real Elvis style clambake, and for never having the chance to have jellyfish stings soothed by the urine of a passing female track team. If any particularly bloodthirsty lawyer happens to read this, please give me a shout. I'm not picky. Any low rent ambulance chaser who requires no money down will do.

After three tortuous, grueling days, the Olympics are still not over.

God knows I understand that George Hamilton was kicked off that dancing show recently. Seven different people (three of whom I have never met in my life) felt it was very important that I was privy to this major news item and then, of all things, I saw a story on the noon news shortly before I swore that I would never watch the news on that channel again. What I don't understand is why anyone gives a good flying fugg. Are these the depths to which we have descended? Watching has-been and never-was pseudo-celebrity non-dancers strap on the dancing boots to boogie it out in competition with one another? Here's the players as I know them: an ESPN Sports Desk anchor, an ex-football player, an unknown rapper, an actor who is known more for how well he tans than any of his work, and Tia Carrere, who is very attractive but has shown no other reason to be seen onscreen. Watching people who dance really well is boring as hell. Watching this bunch of talentless hoofers dance has got to be akin to having water drained off a knee with a really long needle. What will the archeaologists think when they dig up that video? Does anyone care? Apparently not, because as far as I can tell, I'm the only idiot on the face of the planet who is not watching this thing. All the other idiots are watching. Anyway, it's on the same time as Survivor, and Jesus knows I can't miss that.

Saturdays were created for beer and working on projects that you can pass off as being actual work (i.e. burning sensitive docs in the burn barrel, barbecuing, riding the lawn mower, etc.) Not this Saturday. It was straight out of the hangover and into the car to make the trek to the Buffalo Auto Show this morning. We had lunch at the utterly brilliant Pearl Street Bar and Grill (beef on weck with 2 Canal Street Stouts,) then we headed on over to the show. My daughter Jessie was very much looking forward to seeing Curious George, but when we arrived at the "kidszone," there was not a simian in sight. Just posters of a monkey being handed out to people who were required to fill out paperwork, which I do all goddang week long. I wasn't about to sit around filling out a credit card application (or whatever the hell it was) for a cheap knockoff movie poster with a monkey on it (although they were kinda cool.) As it turned out, when we did stumble upon a man in an animal suit with a large, fake head (Sabretooth, the Buffalo Sabres mascot,) Jessie reacted predictably: she cried as if someone had just shot the dog. So, the missing monkey turned out to be not such a big deal. Jess was tired by the time we got home, and meaner than a rattlesnake on Texas asphalt, so off to bed she went as soon as we got the boots off. As far as cars are concerned, the Jags are nice and the Corvettes are cool and the car Tony Stewart placed 7th in some race in CA last NASCAR season was there too. Which was cool. I guess.

It turned out that all the snow we were supposed to get didn't quite make it. There were a few flurries, but nothing that warranted firing up the Toro. I never made it out to the Jerry O burn barrel either, so all those super-sensitive, top-fuggin-secret docs sitting in the bed of my pickup will have to wait 'til at least tomorrow for their destruction. The Gods of Fire will have to wait for their sacrifice. There's no football tomorrow (and, yes, I know the Pro Bowl is happening,) and hockey is about to take a 17 day break for the frigging Olympics, so I may as well bundle up, pack up a few beers, and start burning. The Olympics will be the source of little or no fodder for this blog, so don't come looking for it here. Although, from time to time, I my curse the games for postponing the NHL. But I can't even guarantee that. We'll see.

The Sabres are playing Florida (who have beaten the crap out of us so far this season,) so I'm gonna sign off and watch the next to last game for the next 2 and 1/2 weeks. DAMN YOU, OLYMPICS!

Man it's been a long day. I've been working 12 hour days for a little over two weeks now, and I think I'm ready for a break. The end of the week is nigh, my brothers. I'm gonna work the obligatory 8 tomorrow, stop off on the way home and knock back a couple, then pick up an 18 pack of Bud and settle in for a long winter's evening. Very much looking forward to the week's end.

The snow is lightly falling here in Western New York, and we are getting off real fuggin' easy this year. The temp never really dipped much below 40 for any kind of stretch in January and I've had the snowblower out of the barn exactly once this season. But it looks like a second visit will likely be forthcoming in the next 48 hours or so. That'll be a nice Saturday afternoon project. Light up a cigar, fire up the Toro, and throw some snow around. This weekend is gonna be sweet. Maybe fire up the memorial Jerry Ostroski burn barrel out back. I've got two boxes full of "sensitive" documents from work that need to be destroyed. 7000 pages just waiting to feed the Fire God. Maybe I can talk 'em into giving me some more over time. Huzzah!

Well, I just scored "Serenity" from Netflix after sending my Alain Delon films back, so I think I'll pop that thing and crash on the couch. I'll be checking in again soon.

On a tip from a full page glossy ad in the otherwise pulp fanzine, "The Phantom of the Movies' Videoscope," (an excellent read to which I suggest the rest of the world should subscribe) I tossed a couple of films starring French legend Alain Delon on to my bloated Netflix queue. After catching "Le Cercle Rouge," I was hooked. This dude is cool. Even the goofy, fake looking moustache didn't deter from an onscreen presence that recalls Alan Ladd or even Bogart. The story seems fairly standard nowadays, but I have a feeling this might have been ground zero for the modern day heist film. A recently escaped convict (Gian Maria Volonte) hides out in recently paroled Delon's car trunk trying to escape the hounds, and a professional relationship is formed. The two men proceed to plan a jewelry heist with the help of an ex-cop marksman (Yves Montand) and the game is on. The sparse use of dialogue is striking. I didn't put a timer on it, but I would guess there are a couple of 10 to 15 minute gaps where director Jean-Pierre Melville lets the action do the talking. Melville also directed "Le Samourai," another Delon vehicle. Delon thankfully loses the 'stache but not the cool as a lone wolf hitman who gets pinched after he greases a night club owner in front of a number of witnesses, one of whom (a pianist at the club) comes face to face with him, but refuses to finger him in a line-up. An obsessed cop is determined to bring him down and the fun begins. If you're looking for something out of the Hollywood mainstream and aren't afraid to read subtitles, grab these movies and enjoy. I've got a couple more of Delon's movies up in the top ten on my Netflix list, and I'll give you the score after I've seen them.

Although I still haven't had a chance to watch that Danger Mouse DVD, "Bad Motor Scooter" by Montrose is cranking on the XM behind me, I've knocked back a six of Bud, and the day is winding down. That'll do. I'll check back in tomorrow.

No couch. No ginger ale. No Danger Mouse. Just one long ass day behind a desk, sweating a Grade-A, nearly fatal hangover. You guessed it. I chickened out. I drank enough alcoholic swill to float a bass boat yesterday, and woke up feeling as though someone had been trying to repeatedly bash two very large and heavy rocks together but couldn't because my head was in between them. But, I dragged my dumb self out of bed, showered, packed up my briefcase and my daughter, and made my way out into the big, bad world, armed with nothing but a handful of Tylenol, a stick of Burt's Bees and a newly loaded Boba Fett Pez Dispenser. It'll get you through the day. At least until I get a chance to start drinking again.

I successfully navigated through the day, and am now sitting comfortably at the Dell, and enjoying a Jameson's on ice. Tomorrow's another day. Hopefully I'll smell a little better then.

So it's off to update the old Ghoul Pool PBWiki before hitting the sack for the evening. If you're thinking about getting a Wiki going, this a great place to start, and I'm not just saying that because of the extra space they're offering. Check it Out: http://www.pbwiki.com.

I wanted to post something truly earth shattering here in my first ever entry to The Snake Pit blog, but I guess I'll settle on this. It's Super Bowl Sunday, a national holiday for all intents and purposes, and I'm planning on drinking enough so that I'll be forced to call in sick tomorrow. Wish me luck. I just poured my second beer, and it's almost 3:30 PM. Not a good start. But I plan on picking up the pace and driving this pig home even if it means busting out that bottle of bright blue schnapps type stuff that I got for Christmas a couple of years back. I will, in true Broadway Joe fashion, guarantee the mother of all hangovers for tomorrow morning. I'll let you know how it turns out.

The problem with calling in sick the day after the Super Bowl or the day after St. Patrick's Day or the day after the Kiss concert is that everybody and their great auntie knows that you done got f*@%ed up, and couldn't drag your irresponsible, lazy butt outta bed in time to take an industrial grade shower to wash off the smell of smoke, booze, sweat and whatever else you got yourself into during the course of the previous evening. But, if you can take the ribbing, and your job is secure enough to survive whatever lame story you're able to come up with in that sorry state, it's well worth it. Sleep in, hang out, drink gallons of ginger ale and watch the entire first season of Danger Mouse on DVD. That's my plan for tomorrow. That is, if I can find a way to drink enough tonight. I have a good feeling about this thing. We'll talk again.