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.